Heroic pair and blest! If aught I singhave lasting music, no remotest ageshall blot your names from honor's storied scroll:not while the altars of Aeneas' lineshall crown the Capitol's unshaken hill,nor while the Roman Father's hand sustainsits 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 madelike wailing over Rhamnes lifeless found,o'er Numa and Serranus, and a throngof princes dead. The gazing people pressedaround the slain, the dying, where the earthran red with slaughter and full many a streamof trickling gore; nor did they fail to knowMessapus' glittering helm, his baldric fair,recaptured now with lavish sweat and pain.

Now, from Tithonus' saffron couch set free,Aurora over many a land outpouredthe rising morn; the sun's advancing beamunveiled the world; and Turnus to his hostgave signal to stand forth, while he arrayedhimself in glorious arms. Then every chiefawoke his mail-clad company, and stirredtheir slumbering wrath with tidings from the foe.Tumultuously shouting, they impaledon lifted spears—O pitiable sight! —the heads of Nisus and Euryalus.Th' undaunted Trojans stood in battle-linealong the wall to leftward (for the rightthe river-front defended) keeping guardon the broad moat; upon the ramparts highsad-eyed they stood, and shuddered as they sawthe hero-faces thrust aloft; too welltheir loyal grief the blood-stained features knew.

On restless pinions to the trembling townhad voiceful Rumor hied, and to the earsof that lone mother of Euryalusrelentless flown. Through all her feeble framethe chilling sorrow sped. From both her handsdropped web and shuttle; she flew shrieking forth,ill-fated mother! and with tresses torn,to the wide ramparts and the battle-lineran frantic, heeding naught of men-at-arms,nor peril nor the rain of falling spears;and thus with loud and lamentable cryfilled 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 forthto death and danger, did they dare refusea wretched mother's last embrace? But now —O woe is me!—upon this alien shorethou liest for a feast to Latin dogsand carrion birds. Nor did thy mother leadthe mourners to thy grave, nor shut those eyes,nor wash the dreadful wounds, nor cover theewith the fair shroud, which many a night and dayI swiftly wove, and at my web and loomforgot my years and sorrows. Whither nowto seek and follow thee? What spot of earthholds 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 cameo'er land and sea? O, stab me very deep,if ye have any pity; hurl on meyour every spear, Rutulians; make of meyour swords' first work. Or, Father of the gods!Show mercy, thou! and with thy lightning touchthis head accurst, and let it fall by theedown to the dark. For else what power is minemy tortured life to end?” Her agonysmote on their listening souls; a wail of woealong the concourse ran. Stern men-at-armsfelt valor for a moment sleep, and alltheir rage of battle fail. But while she stirredthe passion of her grief, Ilioneusand young Iulus, weeping filial tears,bade Actor and Idaeus, lifting herin both their reverent arms, to bear her home.

But now the brazen trumpet's fearsome songblares loud, and startled shouts of soldieryspread through the roaring sky. The Volscian bandpress 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 lightthrough their black circle shines. The Trojans pourpromiscuous missiles down, and push out hardwith heavy poles—so well have they been schooledto fight against long sieges. They fling downa crushing weight of rocks, in hope to breakth' assailing line, where roofed in serried shieldsthe foe each charge repels. But not for longthe siegers stand; along their dense arraythe crafty Teucrians down the rampart rolla boulder like a hill-top, laying lowthe Rutule troop and crashing through their shields.Nor may the bold Rutulian longer hopeto keep in cover, but essays to stormonly with far-flung shafts the bastion strong.Here grim Mezentius, terrible to see,waved an Etrurian pine, and made his warwith smoking firebrands; there, in equal rage,Messapus, the steed-tamer, Neptune's son,ripped down the palisade, and at the breachstrung a steep path of ladders up the wall.