stice shall I praise thee most, or battle's mastery?
Now happy, to our fathers' town this answer back we bear,
And if good-hap a way thereto may open anywhere,
Thee to Latinus will we knit--let Turnus seek his own!--
Yea, we shall deem it joy forsooth about your fateful town: 130
To raise the walls, and Trojan stones upon our backs to lay."

Such words he spake, and with one mouth did all men murmur yea.
For twice six days they covenant; and in war-sundering peace
The Teucrians and the Latins blent about the woods increase,
About the hill-sides wander safe; the smitten ash doth know
The ring of steel; the pines that thrust heaven-high they overthrow;
Nor cease with wedge to cleave the oak and cedar shedding scent,
Or on the wains to lead away the rowan's last lament.

And now the very Winged Fame, with that great grief she bears,
Filleth Evander's town and house, filleth Evander's ears; 140
Yea, Fame, who erst of Pallas' deeds in conquered Latium told:
Rush the Arcadians to the gates, and as they used of old,
Snatch up the torches of the dead, and with the long array
Of flames the acre-cleaving road gleams litten far away:
Then meeteth them the Phrygian crowd, and swells the wailing band;
And when the mothers saw them come amid the house-built land,
The woeful town they set afire with clamour of their ill.
But naught there is hath any might to hold Evander still;
He comes amidst, and on the bier where Pallas lies alow
He grovels, and with weeping sore and groaning clings thereto; 150
And scarce from sorrow at the last his speech might win a way:
"Pallas, this holdeth not the word thou gavest me that day,
That thou wouldst ward thee warily in game of bitter Mars:
Though sooth I knew how strong it is, that first fame of the wars;
How strong is that o'er-sweet delight of earliest battle won.
O wretched schooling of my child! O seeds of war begun,
How bitter hard! O prayers of mine, O vows that none would hear
Of all the Gods! O holiest wife, thy death at least was dear,
And thou art happy to be gone, not kept for such a tide.
But I--my life hath conquered Fate, that here I might abide 160
A lonely father. Ah, had I gone with the Trojan host,
To fall amid Rutulian spears! were mine the life-days lost;
If me, not Pallas, this sad pomp were bri