Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/391

There when he saw the pillowed head,
The bloodless features of the dead,
And on the ivory breast displayed
The wound that Turnus' javelin made,
Once more the pitying tear he shed,
And words their utterance found:
'Unhappy youth! and can it be
That Fortune, in her happier hour,
Has grudged you to partake with me
The spectacle of new won power,
And homeward ride in conquering car,
Triumphant from the field of war?
Not such the oath I swore that day
To your lorn father, old and grey,
When, ere he sped me on my way,
He clasped my hand in fond embrace,
And warned me, fierce would prove the fray,
And stern the temper of the race.
E'en now perchance by hope beguiled
He makes oblation for his child,
And calls on Heaven to save;
We sadly render to the shade
Whose every debt to Heaven is paid
The due that spectres crave.
'Tis yours, ill-fated, to behold
The son you look for dead and cold!
Is this our proud procession? these
Our triumph's boasted pageantries,
And this the pledge I gave?
But not from field of battle chased,
By ignominious wounds disgraced,
Your darling shall return,
Nor you, his father, pray for death
To stop your scant remains of breath,
While he survives in scorn.