o the camp. Nor in the camp was the wailing
less, when Rhamnes was found a bloodless corpse, and Serranus and Numa
and all their princes destroyed in a single slaughter. Crowds throng
towards the corpses and the men wounded to death, the ground fresh with
warm slaughter and the swoln runlets of frothing blood. They mutually
recognise the spoils, Messapus' shining helmet and the decorations that
cost such sweat to win back.

And now Dawn, leaving the saffron bed of Tithonus, scattered over earth
her fresh shafts of early light; now the sunlight streams in, now
daylight unveils the world. Turnus, himself fully armed, awakes his men
to arms, and each leader marshals to battle his brazen lines and whets
their ardour with varying rumours. Nay, pitiable sight! they
[465-499]fix on spear-points and uprear and follow with loud shouts the
heads of Euryalus and Nisus. . . . The Aeneadae stubbornly face them,
lining the left hand wall (for their right is girdled by the river),
hold the deep trenches and stand gloomily on the high towers, stirred
withal by the faces they know, alas, too well, in their dark dripping
gore. Meanwhile Rumour on fluttering wings rushes with the news through
the alarmed town and glides to the ears of Euryalus' mother. But
instantly the warmth leaves her woeful body, the shuttle starts from her
hand and the threads unroll. She darts forth in agony, and with woman's
wailing and torn hair runs distractedly towards the walls and the
foremost columns, recking naught of men, naught of peril or weapons;
thereon she fills the air with her complaint: 'Is it thus I behold thee,
O Euryalus? Couldst thou, the latest solace of mine age, leave me alone
so cruelly? nor when sent into such danger was one last word of thee
allowed thine unhappy mother? Alas, thou liest in a strange land, given
for a prey to the dogs and fowls of Latium! nor was I, thy mother, there
for chief mourner, to lay thee out or close thine eyes or wash thy
wounds, and cover thee with the garment I hastened on for thee whole
nights and days, an anxious old woman taking comfort from the loom.
Whither shall I follow? or what land now holds thy mangled corpse, thy
body torn limb from limb? Is this all of what thou wert that returns to
me, O my son? is it this I have followed by land and sea? Strike me
through of your pity, on me cast all your weapons, Rutulians; make me
the first sacrifice of your steel. Or do thou, mighty lord of heaven, be
merciful