_Æneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Æneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalises herself, is killed; and the Latine troops are entirely defeated._ Scarce had the rosy morning raised her head Above the waves, and left her watery bed; The pious chief, whom double cares attend For his unburied soldiers and his friend, Yet first to heaven performed a victor's vows: He bared an ancient oak of all her boughs; Then on a rising ground the trunk he placed, Which with the spoils of his dead foe he graced. The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn, Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, Was hung on high, and glittered from afar, A trophy sacred to the god of war. Above his arms, fixed on the leafless wood, Appeared his plumy crest, besmeared with blood: His brazen buckler on the left was seen; Trunchions of shivered lances hung between; And on the right was placed his corslet, bored; And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword. A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man, Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:-- "Our toils, my friends, are crowned with sure success; The greater part performed, achieve the less. Now follow cheerful to the trembling town; Press but an entrance, and presume it won. Fear is no more: For fierce Mezentius lies, As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice. Turnus shall fall extended on the plain, And, in this omen, is already slain. Prepared in arms, pursue your happy chance; That none unwarned may plead his ignorance, And I, at heaven's appointed hour, may find Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind. Meantime the rites and funeral pomps prepare, Due to your dead companions of the war-- The last respect the living can bestow, To shield their shadows from contempt below. That conquered earth be theirs, for which they fought, And which for us with their own blood they bought. But first the corpse of our unhappy friend To the sad city of Evander send, Who, not inglorious, in his age's bloom Was hurried hence by too severe a doom." Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. Acœtes watched the corpse; whose youth deserved The father's trust; and now the son he served With equal faith, but less suspicious care. The attendants of the slain his sorrow share. A troop of Trojans mixed with these appear, And mourning matrons with dishevelled hair. Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry; All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.