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'Say to your monarch I remit
His Pallas, handled as was fit.
The solace of a tomb, the meed
Of burial, freely I concede.
Who to Æneas plays the host
Must square the glory with the cost.'
Then with his foot the corpse he pressed,
And stripped the belt from off the breast,
The ponderous belt, whose sculptured gold
A tale of crime and bloodshed told,
Those fifty bridegrooms, slain in bed
E'en on the very night they wed:
Once Clonus' work: now proudly worn
By Turnus in his hour of scorn.
O impotence of man's frail mind
To fate and to the future blind,
Presumptuous and o'erweening still
When fortune follows at its will!
Full soon shall Turnus wish in vain
That life untouched, those spoils unta'en,
And think it cheap to spend his all,
Could gold that bloody deed recall!
But Pallas lifeless on his shield
His weeping comrades bear from field.
O sad, proud thought, that thus a son
Should reach a father's door!
This day beheld your wars begun:
This day beholds them o'er,
The while you leave on yonder plain
Vast heaps of Rutule warriors slain!

No random fame of ill so great,
But surer messenger of fate
To brave Æneas hies;
Tells him the day is well-nigh lost;
'Tis time to aid the routed host,
While yet the moment flies.