Meanwhile the loveliness of light Aurora brought to birth For heartsick men, and brought aback the toil of heart and hand: Father Æneas therewithal down on the hollow strand, And Tarchon with him, rear the bales; and each man thither bears His dead friend in the ancient guise: beneath the black flame flares, The heaven aloft for reek thereof with night is overlaid: Three times about the litten bales in glittering arms arrayed They run the course; three times on steed they beat the earth about Those woeful candles of the dead and sing their wailing out; 190 The earth is strewn with tears of men, and arms of men forlorn, And heavenward goes the shout of men and blaring of the horn: But some upon the bale-fires cast gear stripped from Latins slain: War-helms, and well-adornèd swords, and harness of the rein, And glowing wheels: but overwell some knew the gifts they brought, The very shields of their dead friends and weapons sped for nought. Then oxen manifold to Death all round about they slay, And bristled boars, and sheep they snatch from meadows wide away, And hew them down upon the flame; then all the shore about They gaze upon their burning friends, and watch the bale-fires out. 200 Nor may they tear themselves away until the dewy night Hath turned the heavens about again with gleaming stars bedight. Nor less the unhappy Latins build upon another stead The bale-fires numberless of tale: but of their warriors dead, A many bodies there they dig into the earth adown, And bear them into neighbouring lands, or back into the town: The rest, a mighty heap of death piled up confusedly, Untold, unhonoured, there they burn: then that wide-lying lea Glareth with fires that thick and fast keep rising high and high. But when the third dawn drew away cold shadows from the sky, 210 Weeping, great heaps of ashes there and blended bones they made, And over them the weight of earth yet warm with fire they laid. But in the houses, in the town of that rich Latin king More heavy was the wail, more sore the long-drawn sorrowing: Here mothers, wretched fosterers here, here sisters loved and lorn, And sorrowing sore, and lads whose lives from fathers' care were torn, Were cursing of the cruel war, and Turnus and his bride, "He, he, in arms, he with the sword should play it out," they cried, "Who claims the realm of Italy and foremost lordship there." And bitter Drances weights the scale, and witnessing doth bear 220 That Turnus only is called forth, the battle-bidden man. But divers words of many folk on Turnus' side yet ran, And he was cloaked about withal by great Amata's name, And plenteous signs of battle won upheld his fair-won fame.