And now the very Wingèd Fame, with that great grief she bears, Filleth Evander's town and house, filleth Evander's ears; 140 Yea, Fame, who erst of Pallas' deeds in conquered Latium told: Rush the Arcadians to the gates, and as they used of old, Snatch up the torches of the dead, and with the long array Of flames the acre-cleaving road gleams litten far away: Then meeteth them the Phrygian crowd, and swells the wailing band; And when the mothers saw them come amid the house-built land, The woeful town they set afire with clamour of their ill. But naught there is hath any might to hold Evander still; He comes amidst, and on the bier where Pallas lies alow He grovels, and with weeping sore and groaning clings thereto; 150 And scarce from sorrow at the last his speech might win a way: "Pallas, this holdeth not the word thou gavest me that day, That thou wouldst ward thee warily in game of bitter Mars: Though sooth I knew how strong it is, that first fame of the wars; How strong is that o'er-sweet delight of earliest battle won. O wretched schooling of my child! O seeds of war begun, How bitter hard! O prayers of mine, O vows that none would hear Of all the Gods! O holiest wife, thy death at least was dear, And thou art happy to be gone, not kept for such a tide. But I--my life hath conquered Fate, that here I might abide 160 A lonely father. Ah, had I gone with the Trojan host, To fall amid Rutulian spears! were mine the life-days lost; If me, not Pallas, this sad pomp were bringing home today!-- Yet, Teucrians, on your troth and you no blaming would I lay, Nor on our hands in friendship joined: 'twas a foreordered load For mine old age: and if my son untimely death abode, 'Tis sweet to think he fell amidst the thousand Volscians slain, And leading on the men of Troy the Latin lands to gain. Pallas, no better funeral rites mine heart to thee awards Than good Æneas giveth thee, and these great Phrygian lords, 170 The Tyrrhene dukes, the Tyrrhene host, a mighty company; While they whom thine own hand hath slain great trophies bear for thee. Yea, Turnus, thou wert standing there, a huge trunk weapon-clad, If equal age, if equal strength from lapse of years ye had. --But out!--why should a hapless man thus stay the Teucrian swords? Go, and be mindful to your king to carry these my words: If here by loathèd life I bide, with Pallas dead and gone, Thy right hand is the cause thereof, which unto sire and son Owes Turnus, as thou wottest well: no other place there is Thy worth and fate may fill. God wot I seek no life-days' bliss, 180 But might I bear my son this tale amid the ghosts of earth!"