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Keep the frail arms you loved to wear:
The lifeless corpse I yield to share
(If thought like this still claim your care)
Your fathers' tomb below.
Yet take this solace to the grave;
'Twas great Æneas' hand that gave
The inevitable blow.'
With that he chides his friends' delay,
And rears from earth the bleeding clay,
Bedabbling as it lay with gore
The dainty locks so trim before.

Meantime the sire by Tiber's flood
Was staunching the yet flowing blood,
On tree's broad bole recumbent stayed
And sheltered by its kindly shade.
High on the branches hangs his casque:
His arms, reposing from their task,
In meadow-grasses rest:
His mates stand round in friendly ring:
Panting and weak, the wounded king
Eases his faint neck, scattering
His beard adown his breast.
Of Lausus oft he asks, and sends
Full many a charge by hand of friends
To call him back from field.
Alas! e'en then the weeping train
Were bearing Lausus o'er the plain,
The mighty by the mighty slain,
And stretched upon his shield.
The distant wail, prolonged and drear,
Smote on the sire's prophetic ear.
At once in bitterness of woe
He mars with dust his locks of snow,
His hands to heaven despairing flings,
And fondly to the body clings.