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182 And laden with the new-won prize

Beneath the Sibyl's roof he hies.

Nor less meanwhile the Trojans pay

To dead Misenus' thankless clay

The last memorial rite:

And first a giant pile they raise

With oak and fir to feed the blaze,

With dark-leaved boughs its sides enlace,

Sad cypresses before it place,

And deck with armour bright.

Some fix the caldron, heat the wave,

And oil the corpse which first they lave.

Loud wails are heard: then on his bed,

The weeping done, they stretch the dead,

And heap above, the cold limbs o'er,

The purple robes the living wore:

Some lend their shoulders to the bier,

A ministration sad and drear,

And, as their fathers wont, apply

The firebrands with averted eye:

While streaming oil and offered spice

Blaze up with flesh of sacrifice.

And now, when sank the embers down,

And ceased the flame to burn,

The smouldering heap with wine they drown,

And Corynæus from the pyre

Collects the bones, charred white by fire,

And stores in brazen urn:

Then to his comrades thrice he gave

Lustration from the flowing wave,

With showery dew and olive bough

Besprinkling each polluted brow,

And spoke the last acclaim.

But good Æneas bids arise

A funeral mound of mighty size;