“Rolling his eyes, Æneas stood, And checked his sword, athirst for blood. Now faltering more and more he felt The human heart within him melt, When round the shoulder wreathed in pride The belt of Pallas he espied, And sudden flashed upon his view Those golden studs so well he knew, Which Turnus in his hour of joy Stripped from the newly-slaughtered boy, And on his bosom bore, to show The triumph of a satiate foe. Soon as his eyes at one fell draught Remembrance and revenge had quaffed, Live fury kindling every vein, He cries with terrible disdain: ‘What! in my friend’s dear spoils arrayed, To me for mercy sue? ’Tis Pallas, Pallas guides the blade; From your cursed blood his injured shade Thus takes the atonement due.’ Thus as he spoke, his sword he drave With fierce and fiery blow Through the broad breast before him spread; The stalwart limbs grow cold and dead; One groan the indignant spirit gave, Then sought the shades below.” * * * * * So closes the Æneid. Does any reader complain that the poet has not carried the story further? With the death of Turnus the catastrophe is complete. The princess of Latium is the prize of the victor; and the loves of Æneas and Lavinia are certainly not of that romantic character that we need care to follow them. The Trojans are settled in Italy--two races under one name. For so has Jupiter promised, as some indulgence to the feelings of his queen, that the old Latin name shall at least not be merged in the detested name of Trojan, and on such terms has the goddess reluctantly acquiesced in the settlement of the wanderers on Italian ground. Latins, not Trojans, are to rule the world. Thus has the poet combined the indigenous glories of his country with the grand descent of its rulers from the old mythical heroes of Troy. Yet there is a singular vein of melancholy to be traced in the words of Æneas, when he parts with his son before he goes to his last victory. They are perhaps the noblest words which the poet has put into his mouth, and they have something of the sadness which more or less affects all true nobility:-- “In his mailed arms his child he pressed, Kissed through his helm, and thus addressed: ‘Learn of your father to be great, Of others to be fortunate.’”