Helms, bitts embossed, and swords of shining steel; One casts a target, one a chariot-wheel; Some to their fellows their own arms restore-- The faulchions which in luckless fight they bore, Their bucklers pierced, their darts bestowed in vain, And shivered lances gathered from the plain. Whole herds of offered bulls, about the fire, And bristled boars, and woolly sheep, expire. Around the piles a careful troop attends, To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends-- Lingering along the shore, till dewy night New decks the face of heaven with starry light. The conquered Latians, with like pious care, Piles without number for their dead prepare. Part, in the places where they fell, are laid; And part are to the neighbouring fields conveyed. The corps of kings, and captains of renown, Borne off in state, are buried in the town; The rest, unhonoured, and without a name, Are cast a common heap to feed the flame. Trojans and Latians vie with like desires } To make the field of battle shine with fires, } And the promiscuous blaze to heaven aspires. } Now had the morning thrice renewed the light, And thrice dispelled the shadows of the night, When those who round the wasted fires remain, Perform the last sad office to the slain. They rake the yet warm ashes from below; These, and the bones unburned, in earth bestow: These reliques with their country rites they grace, And raise a mount of turf to mark the place. But, in the palace of the king, appears A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears. Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans; Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons. All in that universal sorrow share, And curse the cause of this unhappy war-- A broken league, a bride unjustly sought, A crown usurped, which with their blood is bought! These are the crimes, with which they load the name Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:-- "Let him, who lords it o'er the Ausonian land, Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand: His is the gain; our lot is but to serve; 'Tis just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve." This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite, His foe expects, and dares him to the fight. Nor Turnus wants a party, to support His cause and credit in the Latian court. His former acts secure his present fame, And the queen shades him with her mighty name. While thus their factious minds with fury burn, The legates from the Ætolian prince return: Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost And care employed, their embassy is lost; That Diomede refused his aid in war, Unmoved with presents, and as deaf to prayer. Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought, Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought. Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,