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368 Mourn, sad Ausonia! mourn thy fate,

Left of thy guardian desolate,

And thou, Iulus, mourn!'

His wailing o'er, he gives command

To raise the mournful load,

And bids a thousand of his band

Attend its homeward road,

With charge to comfort and condole;

Weak cordial to the father's soul,

Yet such as friendship owed:

While others weave without delay

Of oaken branch and arbute spray

A funeral bier, and deftly spread

Soft leaves above the pliant bed.

There high on rural couch displayed

The body of the youth is laid;

So cropped by maiden's finger lies

A hyacinth or violet;

Its graceful mould, its glowing dyes

Undimmed, unwasted yet,

Though parent earth afford no more

The vital juice it drank before.

Next brings the chief two mantles fair

Deep dyed with dazzling red;

Phœnicia's hapless queen whilere,

So prodigal of loving care,

Had wrought them for her hero's wear

And pranked with golden thread.

Full soon with one the lifeless frame

In funeral guise he wound:

The tresses that must feed the flame

With one he muffled round.

Then at his word in long array

The attendants marshal forth the prey,

Memorials of Laurentum's fray: