XXII. "Proud trophies those who perish by thy hand Bear thee, and slaughtered foemen speak thy fame. Thou, Turnus, too, an effigy should'st stand, Hung round with arms, and Pallas' praise proclaim, Had but thine age and Pallas' been the same, Like thine the vigour of his years. But O! Why, Teucrians, do I keep you? wherefore claim An old man's privilege of empty woe? This message bear your king, and con it as ye go. XXIII. "If yet I linger on, with Pallas slain, Loathing the light, and longing to expire, 'Tis thy right hand that tempts me to remain, That hand from which--thou see'st it--son and sire The penalty of Turnus' blood require. This niche of fame,--'tis all the Fates bestow-- Awaits thee still. For me, all life's desire-- 'Twere vain--hath fled; but gladly would I go, And bear the welcome news to Pallas' shade below." XXIV. Meanwhile to weary mortals fresh and fair Upsprings the Dawn, and reawakes the land To toil and labour. Reared with pious care By Tarchon and the good AEneas, stand The funeral pyres along the winding strand. Here brings each warrior, as in days gone by, His comrade's corpse, and holds the lighted brand. The dusk flames burn beneath them, and on high The clouds of smoke roll up, and shroud the lofty sky. XXV. Three times the Trojans, sheathed in shining mail, Pace round the piles; three times they ride around The funeral fire, and raise the warrior's wail. Tears bathe their arms, and tears bedew the ground, And, mixt with clamour, comes the clarion's sound. Spoils of dead Latins on the flames are thrown, Bits, bridles, glowing wheels and helmets crown'd With glittering plumes, and, last, the gifts well-known, The luckless spear and shield, the weapons of their own. XXVI. Oxen in numbers round the pyres are slain To Death's dread power, and herds of bristly swine; And cattle, snatched from all the neighbouring plain, And sheep they slaughter for the flames divine. Far down the sea-coast, where the bale-fires shine, They guard and gaze upon the pyres, where lie Their burning comrades, nor their watch resign, Nor leave the spot, till dewy night on high Rolls round the circling heavens, and starlight gilds the sky. XXVII. Nor less the sorrowing Latins build elsewhere Their countless piles. These burying they bemoan; Those to the town or neighbouring fields they bear. The rest, untold, unhonoured and unknown, A mass of carnage, on the flames are thrown. Thick blaze the fires, and light the plains around, And on the third dawn, when the mists have flown, The bones and dust, still smouldering on the ground, Mourning, they rake in heaps, and cover with a mound.