With shrieks the matrons know Far off the funeral throng, and fill the town with woe.
XIX.

Naught stays Evander; through the midst he springs, And falling on the bier, as down they lay Dead Pallas, groaning to his child he clings, And hangs with tears upon the senseless clay, Till speech, half-choked with sorrow, finds a way.
"Pallas, not such thy promise to thy sire, Warely to trust the War-God in the fray.
I knew what ardour would thy soul inspire, The charms of new-won fame, and battle's fierce desire.
XX.

"O bitter first-fruits of a youth so fair! O war's stern prelude! promise dashed to scorn! Unheeded vows, and unavailing prayer! O happy spouse! not left, like me, to mourn A son thus slaughtered, and a life outworn.
I have o'erlived my destiny; life fled When Pallas left me childless and forlorn.
O, had I fall'n with Trojans in his stead, And me this pomp brought home, and not my Pallas, dead! XXI.

"Yet, Trojans, you I blame not, nor the hands We joined in friendship, nor the league we swore.
Old age--too old--this cruel lot demands.
Ah, sweet to think, though falling in his flower, He fell, where thousand Volscians fell before, Leading Troy's sons to Latium.

Thou shalt have A Trojan's funeral--can I wish thee more ?-- What rites AEneas offers to the brave, And all Etruria's hosts shall bear thee to the grave.
XXII.