Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/330

306 Through the pale ranks ran winged Fame,

And swiftly to the mother came

Of lost Euryalus: the start

Sent icy chillness to her heart:

The thread was on the shuttle stopped,

And from her hand the spindle dropped.

She rends her hair; she shrieks aloud,

And to the rampart and the crowd

In wild distraction flies:

No more the face of men she fears,

The winged deaths, the showering spears,

But fills the air with cries:

'Euryalus! returned, and thus?

And could you leave me lone,

Mine age's stay, in life's late day?

O what a heart of stone!

This perilous adventure seek,

Nor farewell to your mother speak?

And you are lying, lying thrown

To dogs and birds, 'neath skies unknown;—

And I, your mother, might not close

Your glassy eyes, your limbs compose,

Nor wash the gore away,

Nor robe you in that mantle fair,

Which, solacing an old wife's care,

I hastened for my darling's wear,

Still spinning night and day!

Where shall I seek you? how reclaim

Those headless limbs, that mangled frame?

This all? and was it this, ah me,

I followed over land and sea?

O slay me, Rutules! if ye know

A mother's love, on me bestow

The tempest of your spears!

Or thou, great Thunderer, pity take.

And whelm me 'neath the Stygian lake,