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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: