Now rose the ruddy morn from Tithon's bed, And with the dawn of day the skies o'erspread: Nor long the sun his daily course with-held, But added colours to the world revealed: When early Turnus, wakening with the light, All clad in armour, calls his troops to fight. His martial men with fierce harangues he fired, And his own ardour in their souls inspired. This done--to give new terror to his foes, The heads of Nisus and his friend he shows, Raised high on pointed spears--a ghastly sight! Loud peals of shouts ensue, and barbarous delight. Meantime the Trojans run, where danger calls: They line their trenches, and they man their walls. In front extended to the left they stood: Safe was the right, surrounded by the flood. But, casting from their towers a frightful view, They saw the faces, which too well they knew, Though then disguised in death, and smeared all o'er With filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore. Soon hasty fame through the sad city bears The mournful message to the mother's ears. An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes; Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes. She runs the rampires round amidst the war, } Nor fears the flying darts: she rends her hair, } And fills with loud laments the liquid air. } "Thus, then, my loved Euryalus appears! Thus looks the prop of my declining years! Was't on this face my famished eyes I fed? Ah! how unlike the living is the dead! And could'st thou leave me, cruel, thus alone? Not one kind kiss from a departing son! No look, no last adieu before he went, In an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent! Cold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay, To Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey! Nor was I near to close his dying eyes, To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies, To call about his corpse his crying friends, Or spread the mantle (made for other ends) On his dear body, which I wove with care, Nor did my daily pains or nightly labour spare. Where shall I find his corpse? what earth sustains His trunk dismembered, and his cold remains? For this, alas! I left my needful ease, Exposed my life to winds, and winter seas! If any pity touch Rutulian hearts, Here empty all your quivers, all your darts: Or, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe, And send me thunder-struck to shades below!" Her shrieks and clamours pierce the Trojans' ears, Unman their courage, and augment their fears: Nor young Ascanius could the sight sustain, Nor old Ilioneus his tears restrain, But Actor and Idæus jointly sent, To bear the madding mother to her tent. And now the trumpets terribly, from far, With rattling clangour, rouse the sleepy war. The soldiers' shouts succeed the brazen sounds; And heaven, from pole to pole, the noise rebounds.