No More Learning

is this my strong assurance? Ah me, what a shield is
lost, mine Iulus, to Ausonia and to thee! '

[59-96]This lament done, he bids raise the piteous body, and sends a
thousand men chosen from all his army for the last honour of escort, to
mingle in the father's tears; a small comfort in a great sorrow, yet the
unhappy parent's due. Others quickly plait a soft wicker bier of arbutus
rods and oak shoots, and shadow the heaped pillows with a leafy
covering. Here they lay him, high on their rustic strewing; even as some
tender violet or drooping hyacinth-blossom plucked by a maiden's finger,
whose sheen and whose grace is not yet departed, but no more does Earth
the mother feed it or lend it strength. Then Aeneas bore forth two
purple garments stiff with gold, that Sidonian Dido's own hands, happy
over their work, had once wrought for him, and shot the warp with
delicate gold. One of these he sadly folds round him, a last honour, and
veils in its covering the tresses destined to the fire; and heaps up
besides many a Laurentine battle-prize, and bids his spoils pass forth
in long train; with them the horses and arms whereof he had stripped the
enemy, and those, with hands tied behind their back, whom he would send
as nether offering to his ghost, and sprinkle the blood of their slaying
on the flame. Also he bids his captains carry stems dressed in the
armour of the foe, and fix on them the hostile names. Unhappy Acoetes is
led along, outworn with age, he smites his breast and rends his face,
and flings himself forward all along the ground. Likewise they lead
forth the chariot bathed in Rutulian blood; behind goes weeping Aethon
the war-horse, his trappings laid away, and big drops wet his face.
Others bear his spear and helmet, for all else is Turnus' prize. Then
follow in mourning array the Teucrians and all the Tyrrhenians, and the
Arcadians with arms reversed. When the whole long escorting file had
taken its way, Aeneas stopped, and sighing deep, pursued thus: 'Once
again war's dreadful destiny calls us hence to other tears:
[97-129]hail thou for evermore, O princely Pallas, and for evermore
farewell. ' And without more words he bent his way to the high walls and
advanced towards his camp.

And now envoys were there from the Latin city with wreathed boughs of
olive, praying him of his grace to restore the dead that lay strewn by
the sword over the plain, and let them go to their earthy grave: no war
lasts with men conquered and bereft of breath; let this indulgence be
given to men once called friends and fathers of their brides.
To them
Aeneas grants leave in kind and courteous wise, spurning not their
prayer, and goes on in these words: 'What spite of fortune, O Latins,
hath entangled you in the toils of war, and made you fly our friendship?
Plead you for peace to the lifeless bodies that the battle-lot hath
slain? I would fain grant it even to the living. Neither have I come but
because destiny had given me this place to dwell in; nor wage I war with
your people; your king it is who hath broken our covenant and preferred
to trust himself to Turnus' arms. Fitter it were Turnus had faced death
to-day. If he will fight out the war and expel the Teucrians, it had
been well to meet me here in arms; so had he lived to whom life were
granted of heaven or his own right hand. Now go, and kindle the fire
beneath your hapless countrymen. ' Aeneas ended: they stood dumb in
silence, with faces bent steadfastly in mutual gaze. Then aged Drances,
ever young Turnus' assailant in hatred and accusation, with the words of
his mouth thus answers him again:

'O Trojan, great in renown, yet greater in arms, with what praises may I
extol thy divine goodness? Shall thy righteousness first wake my wonder,
or thy toils in war? We indeed will gratefully carry these words to our
fathers' city, and, if fortune grant a way, will make thee at one with
King Latinus. Let Turnus seek his own alliances. Nay, [130-163]it will
be our delight to rear the massy walls of destiny and stoop our
shoulders under the stones of Troy. '

He ended thus, and all with one voice murmured assent. Twelve days'
truce is struck, and in mediation of the peace Teucrians and Latins
stray mingling unharmed on the forest heights. The tall ash echoes to
the axe's strokes; they overturn pines that soar into the sky, and
busily cleave oaken logs and scented cedar with wedges, and drag
mountain-ashes on their groaning waggons.