Heroic pair and blest! If aught I sing have lasting music, no remotest age shall blot your names from honor's storied scroll: not while the altars of Aeneas' line shall crown the Capitol's unshaken hill, nor while the Roman Father's hand sustains its empire o'er the world. The Rutules seized the spoils of victory, and slowly to their camp, with wail and cry, bore Volscens' corse; and in the eamp they made like wailing over Rhamnes lifeless found, o'er Numa and Serranus, and a throng of princes dead. The gazing people pressed around the slain, the dying, where the earth ran red with slaughter and full many a stream of trickling gore; nor did they fail to know Messapus' glittering helm, his baldric fair, recaptured now with lavish sweat and pain. Now, from Tithonus' saffron couch set free, Aurora over many a land outpoured the rising morn; the sun's advancing beam unveiled the world; and Turnus to his host gave signal to stand forth, while he arrayed himself in glorious arms. Then every chief awoke his mail-clad company, and stirred their slumbering wrath with tidings from the foe. Tumultuously shouting, they impaled on lifted spears—O pitiable sight! — the heads of Nisus and Euryalus. Th' undaunted Trojans stood in battle-line along the wall to leftward (for the right the river-front defended) keeping guard on the broad moat; upon the ramparts high sad-eyed they stood, and shuddered as they saw the hero-faces thrust aloft; too well their loyal grief the blood-stained features knew. On restless pinions to the trembling town had voiceful Rumor hied, and to the ears of that lone mother of Euryalus relentless flown. Through all her feeble frame the chilling sorrow sped. From both her hands dropped web and shuttle; she flew shrieking forth, ill-fated mother! and with tresses torn, to the wide ramparts and the battle-line ran frantic, heeding naught of men-at-arms, nor peril nor the rain of falling spears; and thus with loud and lamentable cry filled all the air: “Is it in yonder guise, Euryalus, thou comest? Art thou he, last comfort of my life? O cruel one! Couldst thou desert me? When they thrust thee forth to death and danger, did they dare refuse a wretched mother's last embrace? But now — O woe is me!—upon this alien shore thou liest for a feast to Latin dogs and carrion birds. Nor did thy mother lead the mourners to thy grave, nor shut those eyes, nor wash the dreadful wounds, nor cover thee with the fair shroud, which many a night and day I swiftly wove, and at my web and loom forgot my years and sorrows. Whither now to seek and follow thee? What spot of earth holds the torn body and the mangled limbs? Is all the gift thou bringest home, dear child, this? O, was this the prize for which I came o'er land and sea? O, stab me very deep, if ye have any pity; hurl on me your every spear, Rutulians; make of me your swords' first work. Or, Father of the gods! Show mercy, thou! and with thy lightning touch this head accurst, and let it fall by thee down to the dark. For else what power is mine my tortured life to end?” Her agony smote on their listening souls; a wail of woe along the concourse ran. Stern men-at-arms felt valor for a moment sleep, and all their rage of battle fail. But while she stirred the passion of her grief, Ilioneus and young Iulus, weeping filial tears, bade Actor and Idaeus, lifting her in both their reverent arms, to bear her home. But now the brazen trumpet's fearsome song blares loud, and startled shouts of soldiery spread through the roaring sky. The Volscian band press to the siege, and, locking shield with shield, fill the great trenches, tear the palisades, or seek approach by ladders up the walls, where'er the line of the defenders thins, and light through their black circle shines. The Trojans pour promiscuous missiles down, and push out hard with heavy poles—so well have they been schooled to fight against long sieges. They fling down a crushing weight of rocks, in hope to break th' assailing line, where roofed in serried shields the foe each charge repels. But not for long the siegers stand; along their dense array the crafty Teucrians down the rampart roll a boulder like a hill-top, laying low the Rutule troop and crashing through their shields. Nor may the bold Rutulian longer hope to keep in cover, but essays to storm only with far-flung shafts the bastion strong. Here grim Mezentius, terrible to see, waved an Etrurian pine, and made his war with smoking firebrands; there, in equal rage, Messapus, the steed-tamer, Neptune's son, ripped down the palisade, and at the breach strung a steep path of ladders up the wall.