let all your fears lie dead:
Lo here the first-fruits! battle-spoil won from a haughty king:
Lo this is all Mezentius now, mine own hands' fashioning.
Now toward the King and Latin walls all open lies the way;
Up hearts, for war! and let your hope foregrip the battle-day,
That nought of sloth may hinder you, or take you unaware,
When Gods shall bid the banners up, and forth with men ye fare 20
From out of camp,--that craven dread clog not your spirits then:
Meanwhile give we unto the earth these our unburied men,
The only honour they may have in nether Acheron.
Come, fellows, to those noble souls who with their blood have won
A country for us, give those gifts, the last that they may spend.
And first unto Evander's town of sorrow shall I send
That Pallas, whom, in nowise poor of valour or renown,
The black day reft away from us in bitter death to drown."

With weeping eyes he drew aback, e'en as the word he said,
Unto the threshold of the place where Pallas, cold and dead, 30
The old Acoetes watched, who erst of that Parrhasian King,
Evander, was the shield-bearer, but now was following
His well-beloved foster-child in no such happy wise;
But round him were the homemen's band and Trojan companies,
And Ilian wives with loosened locks in guise of sorrow sore.
But when AEneas entereth now beneath the lofty door
From beaten breast great moan they cast up to the starry heaven;
And wailing of their woeful cheer through all the house is driven.
The King himself when he beheld the pillowed head at rest, 39
The snow-white face, the open wound wrought on the smooth young breast
By that Ausonian spear, so spake amid his gathered tears:

"O boy bewept, despite the gifts my happy Fortune bears
Doth she still grudge it thee to see my kingdom glorious,
Or come a victor back again unto thy father's house?
Not such the promise that I gave on that departing day
Unto thy father, whose embrace then sped me on my way
To mighty lordship, while his fear gave forth the warning word
That with fierce folk I had to do, hard people of the sword.
Now he, deceived by empty hope, belike pours forth the prayer,
And pileth up the gifts for nought upon the altars fair, 50
While we--in woe with honours vain--about his son we stand,
Dead now, and no more owing aug