tiate, loth to see his Pallas go,
"Ah! would but Jove bring back the bygone years,
As when beneath Praeneste long ago
I strowed the van, and laid their mightiest low,
And burned their shields, and with this hand to Hell
Hurled down King Erulus, the monstrous foe,
To whom Feronia, terrible to tell,
Three lives had given, and thrice to battle ere he fell.

LXXV. "Twice up he rose, but thrice I slew the slain,
Thrice of his life I robbed him, till he died,
Thrice stripped his arms. O, were I such again,
Danger, nor death, nor aught of ill beside,
Sweet son, should ever tear me from thy side.
Ne'er had Mezentius then, the neighbouring lord,
Dared thus to flout me, nor this arm defied.
Nor wrought such havoc and such crimes abhorred,
Nor made a weeping town thus widowed by the sword.

LXXVI. "O Gods, and thou, who rulest earth and air,
Great Jove, their mightiest, pity, I implore,
Arcadia's King, and hear a father's prayer.
If Fate this happiness reserve in store,
To gaze upon my Pallas' face once more,
If living means to meet my son again,
Then let me live; how hard soe'er and sore
My trials, gladly will I count them gain.
Sweet will the suffering seem, and light the load of pain.

LXXVII. "But O, if Fortune, with malignant spite,
Some blow past utterance for my life prepare,
Now, now this moment rid me of the light,
While fears are vague, nor hoping breeds despair,
While, dearest boy, my late and only care,
Thus--thus I fold thee in my arms to-day.
Nor wound with news too sorrowful to bear
A father's ears!" He spake, and swooned away;
Back to his home the slaves their fainting lord convey.

LXXVIII. Forth troop the horsemen from the gates. First ride
AEneas and Achates; in the rear
Troy's nobles, led by Pallas, in the pride
Of broidered scarf and figured arms, appear.
As when bright Lucifer, to Venus dear
Beyond all planets and each starry beam,
High up in heaven his sacred head doth rear,
Bathed in the freshness of the Ocean stream,
And melts the dark, so fair the gallant youth doth seem.

LXXIX. The matrons stand upon the walls, distraught,
And mark the dust-cloud and the mail-clad train.
These through the brushwood, where the road lies short,
Move on in arms. The war-shout peals again,
The hard hoofs clattering shake the crumbling plain.
And now, whe