SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais?d her head 
Above the waves, and left her wat?ry bed; 
The pious chief, whom double cares attend 
For his unburied soldiers and his friend, 
Yet first to Heav?n perform?d a victor?s vows: 5 
He bar?d an ancient oak of all her boughs; 
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac?d, 
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac?d. 
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn, 
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10 
Was hung on high, and glitter?d from afar, 
A trophy sacred to the God of War. 
Above his arms, fix?d on the leafless wood, 
Appear?d his plumy crest, besmear?d with blood: 
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15 
Truncheons of shiver?d lances hung between; 
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor?d; 
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword. 
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man, 
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20 
?Our toils, my friends, are crown?d with sure success; 
The greater part perform?d, achieve the less. 
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town; 
Press but an entrance, and presume it won. 
Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, 25 
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice. 
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain, 
And, in this omen, is already slain. 
Prepar?d in arms, pursue your happy chance; 
That none unwarn?d may plead his ignorance, 30 
And I, at Heav?n?s appointed hour, may find 
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind. 
Meantime the rites and fun?ral pomps prepare, 
Due to your dead companions of the war: 
The last respect the living can bestow, 35 
To shield their shadows from contempt below. 
That conquer?d earth be theirs, for which they fought, 
And which for us with their own blood they bought; 
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend 
To the sad city of Evander send, 40 
Who, not inglorious, in his age?s bloom, 
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.? 
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, 
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. 
Acoetes watch?d the corpse; whose youth deserv?d 45 
The father?s trust; and now the son he serv?d 
With equal faith, but less auspicious care. 
Th? attendants of the slain his sorrow share. 
A troop of Trojans mix?d with these appear, 
And mourning matrons with dishevel?d hair. 50 
Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry; 
All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky. 
They rear his drooping forehead from the ground; 
But, when Æneas view?d the grisly wound 
Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore, 55 
And the fair flesh distain?d with purple gore; 
First, melting into tears, the pious man 
Deplor?d so sad a sight, then thus began: 
?Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest 
Of my full wishes, she refus?d the best! 60 
She came; but brought not thee along, to bless 
My longing eyes, and share in my success: 
She grudg?d thy safe return, the triumphs due 
To prosp?rous valor, in the public view. 
Not thus I promis?d, when thy father lent 65 
Thy needless succor with a sad consent; 
Embrac?d me, parting for th? Etrurian land, 
And sent me to possess a large command. 
He warn?d, and from his own experience told, 
Our foes were warlike, disciplin?d, and bold. 70 
And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return, 
Rich odors on his loaded altars burn, 
While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare 
To send him back his portion of the war, 
A bloody breathless body, which can owe 75 
No farther debt, but to the pow?rs below. 
The wretched father, ere his race is run, 
Shall view the fun?ral honors of his son. 
These are my triumphs of the Latian war, 
Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care! 80 
And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see 
A son whose death disgrac?d his ancestry; 
Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev?d: 
Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv?d. 
He died no death to make thee wish, too late, 85 
Thou hadst not liv?d to see his shameful fate: 
But what a champion has th? Ausonian coast, 
And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!? 
Thus having mourn?d, he gave the word around, 
To raise the breathless body from the ground; 90 
And chose a thousand horse, the flow?r of all 
His warlike troops, to wait the funeral, 
To bear him back and share Evander?s grief: 
A well-becoming, but a weak relief. 
Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier, 95 
Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear. 
The body on this rural hearse is borne: 
Strew?d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn. 
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow?r, 
New cropp?d by virgin hands, to dress the bow?r: 100 
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, 
No more to mother earth or the green stem shall owe. 
Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost, 
Of purple woven, and with gold emb