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A lot like this, of hopeless tears,
Was due to my declining years.
If early death was his decreed,
'Twas comfort that he thus should bleed,
As Troy to Latium's walls he led
Through fields his arm with death had spread.
Nor e'en for you, dear child, could sire
A worthier sepulture desire
Than this which good Æneas deigns
In honour to your loved remains,
Where Phrygia's mightiest shed the tear
And all Etruria tends the bier.
Proud trophies to your praise they yield,
The chiefs you tumble on the field:
Thou, Turnus, too hadst swelled his fame,
A mighty trunk with armour hung,
Had time but made his years the same,
His arm with equal vigour strung.
But why with helpless wail delay
A host impatient for the fray?
Go, to your gallant prince remit
My charge, upon your memory writ:
If thus bereaved I linger yet,
'Tis from your hand to claim my debt,
The life of Turnus, doubly due
To Pallas and his father too:
This niche alone is vacant still
For fortune and desert to fill.
Not now to glad this life of mine
I ask—forbid it, powers divine!
No; down to darkness I would bear
The joy, and with my darling share.'

Meantime the gracious Dawn displays
To wretched men her genial rays,
And calls to work once more: