igh and fierce the tide of wrath doth win
O'er heart of that Dardanian duke, and now the Parcae spin
Lausus' last thread: for his stark sword AEneas drives outright
Through the young body, hiding it hilt-deep therein from light
It pierced the shield and glittering gear wherewith he threatened war,
And kirtle that his mother erst with gold had broidered o'er,
And flooded all his breast with blood; and woeful down the wind
His spirit sought the under-world, and left his corpse behind. 820

But when Anchises' son beheld the face of that dead man,
His face that in a wondrous wise grew faded out and wan,
Groaning for ruth his hand therewith down toward him did he move,
For o'er his soul the image came of his own father's love:
"O boy, whom all shall weep, what then for such a glorious deed,
What gift can good AEneas give, thy bounteous valour's meed?
Keep thou the arms thou joyedst in. I give thy body here
Unto thy father's buried ghosts, if thou thereof hast care.
But let this somewhat solace thee for thine unhappy death,
By great AEneas' hand thou diest."
Then chiding words he saith 830
Unto his fellows hanging back, and lifteth up the dead
From off the lea, where blood defiled the tresses of his head.

Meanwhile the father by the wave that ripples Tiber's breast
With water staunched his bleeding hurt and gave his body rest,
Leaning against a tree-trunk there: high up amid the tree
Hangeth his brazen helm; his arms lie heavy on the lea;
The chosen war-youths stand about: he, sick and panting now,
Nurseth his neck, and o'er his breast his combed-down beard lets flow.
Much about Lausus did he ask, and sore to men he spake
To bid him back, or warning word from his sad sire to take. 840
But Lausus dead his weeping folk were bearing on his shield;
A mighty heart, to mighty hand the victory must he yield
The father's soul foretaught of ill, afar their wail he knew,
And fouled his hoar hair with the dust, and both his hands upthrew
Toward heaven aloft; then clinging fast unto that lifeless one:

"What lust," saith he, "of longer life so held my heart, O son,
That thee, my son, I suffered thus to bare thee to the bane
Instead of me; that I, thy sire, health of thy hurts I gain,
Life of thy death! Ah now at last my exile is beco