They rear his drooping forehead from the ground; But, when Æneas viewed the grisly wound Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore, And the fair flesh distained with purple gore; First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplored so sad a sight, then thus began:-- "Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, she refused the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to bless My longing eyes, and share in my success: She grudged thy safe return, the triumphs due To prosperous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promised, when thy father lent Thy needless succour with a sad consent; Embraced me, parting for the Etrurian land, And sent me to possess a large command. He warned, and from his own experience told, Our foes were warlike, disciplined, and bold. And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return, Rich odours on his loaded altars burn, While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare To send him back his portion of the war, A bloody breathless body, which can owe No farther debt, but to the powers below. The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the funeral honours of his son! These are my triumphs of the Latian war, Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care! And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see A son, whose death disgraced his ancestry: Thou shall not blush, old man, however grieved: Thy Pallas no dishonest wound received. He died no death to make thee wish, too late, Thou hadst not lived to see his shameful fate. But what a champion has the Ausonian coast, And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!" Thus having mourned, he gave the word around, To raise the breathless body from the ground; And chose a thousand horse, the flower of all His warlike troops, to wait the funeral, To bear him back, and share Evander's grief-- A well-becoming, but a weak relief. Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier, Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear. The body on this rural hearse is borne: Strewed leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn. All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flower, New cropt by virgin hands, to dress the bower: Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, No more to mother earth or the green stem shall owe. Then two fair vests, of wonderous work and cost, Of purple woven, and with gold embossed, For ornament the Trojan hero brought, Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought. One vest arrayed the corpse; and one they spread O'er his closed eyes, and wrapped around his head, That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall, The catching fire might burn the golden caul. Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain, When he descended on the Latian plain-- Arms, trappings, horses--by the hearse are led In long array--the achievements of the dead.