Then, pinioned with their hands behind, appear The unhappy captives, marching in the rear, Appointed offerings in the victor's name, To sprinkle with their blood the funeral flame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne; Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn; And fair inscriptions fixed, and titles read Of Latian leaders conquered by the dead. Acœtes on his pupil's corpse attends, With feeble steps, supported by his friends. Pausing at every pace, in sorrow drowned, Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground; Where grovelling while he lies in deep despair, He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair. The champion's chariot next is seen to roll, Besmeared with hostile blood, and honourably foul. To close the pomp, Æthon, the steed of state, Is led, the funerals of his lord to wait. Stripped of his trappings, with a sullen pace He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face. The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, Are borne behind:--the victor seized the rest. The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound; The pikes and lances trail along the ground. Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse To Pallantean towers direct their course, In long procession ranked; the pious chief Stopped in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:-- "The public care," he said, "which war attends, Diverts our present woes, at least suspends. Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell! Hail, holy reliques! and a last farewell!" He said no more, but, inly though he mourned, Restrained his tears, and to the camp returned. Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand A truce, with olive-branches in their hand; Obtest his clemency, and from the plain Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain. They plead, that none those common rites deny To conquered foes, that in fair battle die. All cause of hate was ended in their death; Nor could he war with bodies void of breath. A king, they hoped, would hear a king's request, Whose son he once was called, and once his guest. Their suit, which was too just to be denied, The hero grants, and farther thus replied:-- "O Latian princes! how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involved your state, And armed against an unoffending man, Who sought your friendship ere the war began! You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live. I came not hither but by heaven's command, And sent by fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied My proffered friendship, and my promised bride; Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try His cause in arms, to conquer or to die. My right and his are in dispute: the slain Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain. In equal arms let us alone contend;