"Proud trophies those who perish by thy hand Bear thee, and slaughtered foemen speak thy fame.
Thou, Turnus, too, an effigy should'st stand, Hung round with arms, and Pallas' praise proclaim, Had but thine age and Pallas' been the same, Like thine the vigour of his years.

But O! Why, Teucrians, do I keep you?
wherefore claim An old man's privilege of empty woe?
This message bear your king, and con it as ye go.
XXIII.

"If yet I linger on, with Pallas slain, Loathing the light, and longing to expire, 'Tis thy right hand that tempts me to remain, That hand from which--thou see'st it--son and sire The penalty of Turnus' blood require.
This niche of fame,--'tis all the Fates bestow-- Awaits thee still.

For me, all life's desire-- 'Twere vain--hath fled; but gladly would I go, And bear the welcome news to Pallas' shade below." XXIV.

Meanwhile to weary mortals fresh and fair Upsprings the Dawn, and reawakes the land To toil and labour.