ghtered, and a life outworn.
I have o'erlived my destiny; life fled
When Pallas left me childless and forlorn.
O, had I fall'n with Trojans in his stead,
And me this pomp brought home, and not my Pallas, dead!

XXI. "Yet, Trojans, you I blame not, nor the hands
We joined in friendship, nor the league we swore.
Old age--too old--this cruel lot demands.
Ah, sweet to think, though falling in his flower,
He fell, where thousand Volscians fell before,
Leading Troy's sons to Latium. Thou shalt have
A Trojan's funeral--can I wish thee more?--
What rites AEneas offers to the brave,
And all Etruria's hosts shall bear thee to the grave.

XXII. "Proud trophies those who perish by thy hand
Bear thee, and slaughtered foemen speak thy fame.
Thou, Turnus, too, an effigy should'st stand,
Hung round with arms, and Pallas' praise proclaim,
Had but thine age and Pallas' been the same,
Like thine the vigour of his years. But O!
Why, Teucrians, do I keep you? wherefore claim
An old man's privilege of empty woe?
This message bear your king, and con it as ye go.

XXIII. "If yet I linger on, with Pallas slain,
Loathing the light, and longing to expire,
'Tis thy right hand that tempts me to remain,
That hand from which--thou see'st it--son and sire
The penalty of Turnus' blood require.
This niche of fame,--'tis all the Fates bestow--
Awaits thee still. For me, all life's desire--
'Twere vain--hath fled; but gladly would I go,
And bear the welcome news to Pallas' shade below."

XXIV. Meanwhile to weary mortals fresh and fair
Upsprings the Dawn, and reawakes the land
To toil and labour. Reared with pious care
By Tarchon and the good AEneas, stand
The funeral pyres along the winding strand.
Here brings each warrior, as in days gone by,
His comrade's corpse, and holds the lighted brand.
The dusk flames burn beneath them, and on high
The clouds of smoke roll up, and shroud the lofty sky.

XXV. Three times the Trojans, sheathed in shining mail,
Pace round the piles; three times they ride around
The funeral fire, and raise the warrior's wail.
Tears bathe their arms, and tears bedew the ground,
And, mixt with clamour, comes the clarion's sound.
Spoils of dead Latins on the flames are thrown,
Bits, bridles, glowing wheels and helmets crown'd
With glittering plumes, and, last, the gifts we