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Rh The rest in undistinguished mass

They burn, unheeding rank or class:

The wide plains flicker through the gloom

With ghastly funeral glare.

And now the third return of day

Had made the dewy night give way:

Sighing they tumble from each pyre

The hills of mingled dust,

And heap them, tepid from the fire,

With mounded earthen crust.

But in the royal city chief

Swell loud and high the sounds of grief;

There mothers of their sons bereft,

Young brides to widowed misery left,

Fond hearts of sisters, nigh to break,

And orphan boys their wailing make,

Cry malison on Turnus' head

And execrate his bridal bed:

Who fain would wear Italia's crown

Alone to battle should come down,

To triumph or to fall.

Loud clamours Drances, and attests

In Turnus' hand the issue rests,

For him the Trojans call.

And Turnus too can boast his throng

With voices manifold and strong:

The cherished favour of the queen

Protects him with a mighty screen,

And many a deed of valour bold

And trophy won his fame uphold.

While thus men's passions heave and rage

And tumult fiercest burns,

With doleful news the embassage

From Diomed returns:

'Tis idly spent, their toil and pain,

Gifts, gold, entreaties, all in vain: