Aeneas heard and made exulting vow: “Now may the Father of the gods on high, and great Apollo hear! Begin the fray!” He said, and moved forth with a threatening spear. The other cried: “Hast robbed me of my son, and now, implacable, wouldst fright me more? That way, that only, was it in thy power to cast me down. No fear of death I feel. Nor from thy gods themselves would I refrain. Give o'er! For fated and resolved to die I come thy way: but; bring thee as I pass these offerings.” With this he whirled a spear against his foe, and after it drove deep another and another, riding swift in wide gyration round him. But the shield, the golden boss, broke not. Three times he rode in leftward circles, hurling spear on spear against th' unmoved Aeneas: and three times the Trojan hero in his brazen shield the sheaf of spears upbore. But such slow fight, such plucking of spent shafts from out his shield, the Trojan liked not, vexed and sorely tried in duel so ill-matched. With wrathful soul at length he strode forth, and between the brows of the wild war-horse planted his Iong spear. Up reared the creature, beating at the air with quivering feet, then o'er his fallen lord entangling dropped, and prone above him lay, pinning with ponderous shoulder to the ground. The Trojans and the Latins rouse the skies with clamor Ioud. Aeneas hastening forth unsheathes his sword, and looming o'er him cries: “Where now is fierce Mezentius, and his soul's wild pulse of rage?” The Tuscan in reply with eyes uprolled, and gasping as he gave long looks at heaven, recalled his fading mind: “Why frown at me and fume, O bitterest foe? Why threaten death? To slay me is no sin. Not to take quarter came I to this war, not truce with thee did my lost Lausus crave, yet this one boon I pray,—if mercy be for fallen foes: O, suffer me when dead in covering earth to hide! Full well I know what curses of my people ring me round. Defend me from that rage! I pray to be my son's companion in our common tomb.” He spoke: then offered with unshrinking eye his veined throat to the sword. O'er the bright mail his vital breath gushed forth in streaming gore. Up from the sea now soared the dawning day: Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him haste to burial of the slain, and his sad soul is clouded with the sight of death, fulfils, for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow, at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oak shorn of its limbs he sets upon a hill and clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoil of King Mezentius, and a trophy proud to thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumes bedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears; there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steel twelve times gored through; upon the left he binds the brazen shield, and from the neck suspends the ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus, as crowding close his train of captains throng, addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine, our largest work is done. Bid fear begone of what is left to do. Behold the spoils! Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war. See this Mezentius my hands have made! Now to the Latin town and King we go. Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hope prepare the war! So when the gods give sign to open battle and lead forth our brave out of this stronghold, no bewilderment, nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mind shall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we lay our comrades fallen; for no honor else in Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he, “bring gifts of honor and of last farewell to those high hearts by shedding of whose blood our country lives. To sad Evander's town bear Pallas first; who, though he did not fail of virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest, and to the bitterness of death consigned.” Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drew to the tent-door, where by the breathless clay of Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man, once bearer of Evander's arms, but now under less happy omens set to guard his darling child. Around him is a throng of slaves, with all the Trojan multitude, and Ilian women, who the wonted way let sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When now Aeneas to the lofty doors drew near, all these from smitten bosoms raised to heaven a mighty moaning, till the King's abode was loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewed the pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale, the smooth young breast that bore the gaping wound of that Ausonian spear, and weeping said: “Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came, refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst see my throne established, and victorious ride beside me to thy father's house? Not this my parting promise to thy King and sire, Evander, when with friendly, fond embrace to win imperial power he bade me go; yet warned me anxiously I must resist bold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes. And haply even now he cheats his heart with expectation vain, and offers vows, heaping with gifts the altars of his gods. But we with unavailing honors bring this lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heaven no more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King! Soon shalt thou see thy son's unpitying doom! What a home-coming! This is glory's day so Iong awaited; this the solemn pledge I proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyes will find no shameful wounding on the slain, nor for a son in coward safety kept wilt thou, the sire, crave death. But woe is me! How strong a bulwark in Ausonia falls! What loss is thine, Iulus!” Thus lamenting, he bids them lift the body to the bier, and sends a thousand heroes from his host to render the last tributes, and to share father's tears:—poor solace and too small for grief so great, but due that mournful sire. Some busy them to build of osiers fine the simple litter, twining sapling oaks with evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bed the branching shade extends. Upon it lay, as if on shepherd's couch, the youthful dead, like fairest flower by virgin fingers culled, frail violet or hyacinth forlorn, of color still undimmed and leaf unmarred; but from the breast of mother-earth no more its life doth feed. Then good Aeneas brought two broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold, which with the gladsome labor of her hands Sidonian Dido wrought him long ago, the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of these the sad prince o'er the youthful body threw for parting gift; and with the other veiled those tresses from the fire; he heaped on high Laurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bring much tribute forth: horses and arms he gave, seized from the fallen enemy; with hands fettered behind them filed a captive train doomed to appease the shades, and with the flames to mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefs set up the trunks of trees and clothe them well with captured arms, inscribing on each one some foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth, a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breast with tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled face with ruthless fingers; oft he cast him down full length along the ground. Then lead they forth the blood-stained Rutule chariots of war; Aethon, the war-horse, of his harness bare, walks mournful by; big teardrops wet his cheek. Some bear the lance and helm; for all the rest victorious Turnus seized. Then filed along a mournful Teucrian cohort; next the host Etrurian and the men of Arcady with trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now, when the long company had passed him by, spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from hence are summoned by the same dread doom of war to other tears. Farewell forevermore! Heroic Pallas! be forever blest! I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence then back to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved. Now envoys from the Latin citadel came olive-crowned, to plead for clemency: would he not yield those bodies of the dead sword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them lie beneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages war upon the vanquished, the unbreathing slain? To people once his hosts and kindred called, would he not mercy show? To such a prayer, deemed not unworthy, good Aeneas gave the boon, and this benignant answer made: “Ye Latins, what misfortune undeserved has snared you in so vast a war, that now you shun our friendship? Have you here implored peace for your dead, by chance of battle fallen? Pain would I grant it for the living too. I sailed not hither save by Heaven's decree, which called me to this land. I wage no war with you, the people; 't was your King refused our proffered bond of peace, and gave his cause to Turnus' arms. More meet and just it were had Turnus met this death that makes you mourn. If he would end our quarrel sword in hand, thrusting us Teucrians forth, 't was honor's way to cross his blade with mine; that man to whom the gods, or his own valor, had decreed the longer life, had lived. But now depart! Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!” So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder mute all stood at gaze, each turning to behold his neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years, and ever armed with spite and slanderous word against young Turnus, made this answering plea: “O prince of mighty name, whose feats of arms are even mightier! Trojan hero, how shall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies? Is it thy rectitude or strenuous war most bids me wonder? We will bear thy word right gladly to the city of our sires; and there, if Fortune favor it, contrive a compact with the Latin King. Henceforth let Turnus find his own allies! Ourselves will much rejoice to see thy destined walls, and our own shoulders will be proud to bear the stone for building Troy .” Such speech he made, and all the common voice consented loud. So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harm Latins and Teucrians unmolested roved together o'er the wooded hills. Now rang loud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines, once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw; and with industrious wedge asunder clove stout oak and odorous cedar, piling high harvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain. Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe, to King Evander hied, Evander's house and city filling, where, but late, her word had told in Latium Pallas' victory. th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gates bear funeral torches, the accustomed way; in lines of flame the long street flashes far, lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves a Phrygian company, to join with theirs its lamentation loud. The Latin wives, soon as they saw them entering, aroused the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe. No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew into the midmost tumult, and fell prone on his dead Pallas, on the resting bier; he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans, till anguish for a space his lips unsealed: “Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire, to walk not rashly in the war-god's way. I knew too well how honor's morning-star, and sweet, foretasted glory tempt and woo in a first battle. O first-fruit forlorn of youth so fair! O prelude pitiless of war approaching! O my vows and prayers, which not one god would hear! My blessed wife, how happy was the death that spared thee not to taste this bitterness! But I, the while, by living longer lived to meet my doom,— a father sole-surviving. Would I myself had perished by the Rutule's cruel spear, the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of life how gladly had I given! And O, that now yon black solemnity were bearing home myself, not Pallas, dead! Yet blame I not, O Teucrians, the hallowed pact we made, nor hospitable bond and clasp of hands. This doom ye bring me was writ long ago, for my old age. And though my child is fallen untimely, I take comfort that he fell where thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie, and into Latium led the Teucrian arms. What brighter glory could I crave in death for thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings, and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lords with all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bear yon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword! Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigy in giant armor clad, if but his years and strength full ripe had been fair match for thine! But now my woes detain the Trojan host from battle. I beseech ye haste away, and bear this faithful message to your King: since I but linger out a life I loathe, without my Pallas, nothing but thy sword can bid me live. Then let thy sword repay its debt to sire and son by Turnus slain! Such deed alone may with thy honor fit, and happier fortunes. But my life to me has no joy left to pray for, save to bring my son that solace in the shadowy land.”