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Yet O ye gods, and O great Jove,
Have pity on a father's love
And hear Evander's prayer:
If 'tis your purpose to restore
My Pallas to my arms once more;
If living is to see his face,
Then grant me life, of your dear grace:
No toil too hard to bear.
But ah! if Fortune be my foe,
And meditate some crushing blow,
Now, now the thread in mercy break,
While hope sees dim and cares mistake,
While still I clasp thee, darling boy,
My latest and my only joy,
Nor let assurance, worse than fear.
With cruel tidings wound my ear.'
His speech grows faint, his limbs give way;
His slaves their master home convey.

Now through the open gates at last
The mounted company had passed:
Æneas and Achates lead:
The other lords of Troy succeed.
Young Pallas in the midst is seen
With broidered scarf and armour sheen:
Like Lucifer, the day-spring's star,
To radiant Venus dearest far
Of all the sons of light,
When, bathed in ocean's wave, he rears
His sacred presence 'mid the spheres,
And dissipates the night.
The matrons on the rampart stand:
Their straining eyes pursue
The dusty cloud, the mail-clad band
Far flashing on the view.