Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/396

372 Swift through the gate Arcadia's bands

Pour forth, with torches in their hands,

So ancient rule ordains:

The highway glimmers, sadly bright,

One line of long funereal light,

That parts the dusky plains.

Now, marching mournfully along,

The Phrygians join their wailing throng.

The matrons see the crowd draw nigh

And rend the heaven with piercing cry.

No force can old Evander stay:

With breathless haste he takes his way,

And falling on the rested bier

Hangs o'er his child with groan and tear;

At last the refluent ware of woe

Gives scanty room for speech to flow:

'O Pallas! parting from your sire

Far other pledge you gave,

To moderate your martial fire

Nor war's worst fury brave!

I knew the young blood's maddening play,

The charm of battle's first essay.

O valour blighted in the flower!

O first dread drops of war's full shower!

O prayers unheard, rejected vows,

And thou, my lost, my sacred spouse,

Blest in thy death, nor spared to see

This uttermost calamity,

While I have overlived my span,

To linger on, a childless man!

Ah! had I joined the Dardan train,

And fallen by Rutule javelins slain,

And this your escort of the dead

Conveyed me home in Pallas' stead!

Nor you, ye Trojans, I upbraid,

The faith we swore, the league we made: