"O boy bewept, despite the gifts my happy Fortune bears Doth she still grudge it thee to see my kingdom glorious, Or come a victor back again unto thy father's house? Not such the promise that I gave on that departing day Unto thy father, whose embrace then sped me on my way To mighty lordship, while his fear gave forth the warning word That with fierce folk I had to do, hard people of the sword. Now he, deceived by empty hope, belike pours forth the prayer, And pileth up the gifts for nought upon the altars fair, 50 While we--in woe with honours vain--about his son we stand, Dead now, and no more owing aught to any heavenly hand. Unhappy, thou shalt look upon thy dead unhappy son! Is this the coming back again? is this the triumph won? Is this my solemn troth?--Yet thee, Evander, bides no sight Of craven beat with shameful wounds, nor for the saved from fight Shalt thou but long for dreadful death.--Woe's me, Ausonian land! Woe's me, Iulus, what a shield is perished from thine hand!" Such wise he wept him, and bade raise the hapless body dead, And therewithal a thousand men, his war-hosts' flower, he sped 60 To wait upon him on the way with that last help of all, And be between his father's tears: forsooth a solace small Of mighty grief; a debt no less to that sad father due. But others speed a pliant bier weaving a wattle through, Of limber twigs of berry-bush and boughs of oaken-tree, And shadow o'er the piled-up bed with leafy canopy. So there upon the wild-wood couch adown the youth is laid; E'en as a blossom dropped to earth from fingers of a maid-- The gilliflower's bloom maybe, or jacinth's hanging head, Whose lovely colour is not gone, nor shapely fashion fled, 70 Although its mother feedeth not, nor earth its life doth hold.