The Aeneid

by Virgil

Trojans to their customs will be tied: I will, myself, their common rites provide; The natives shall command, the foreigners subside. All will be Latium; Troy with out a name; And her misplaced sons forget about from whence they came. From blood so mix’d, a pious race shall flow, Equal to gods, excelling all below.

The hero measur’d first, with narrow view, The destin’d mark; and, growing as he threw, With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.

“I recognize my death deserv’d, nor desire to live: Use what the gods and thy excellent fortune give. Yet think, O think, if mercy can be proven, Thou hadst a father as soon as, and hast a son. Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;

Thine is the conquest, thine the royal spouse: Against a yielded guy, ’tis suggest ignoble strife.”

In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to face, And, simply prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand. He roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment felt His manly soul with greater compassion melt; When, casting down a informal glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter’d on his aspect, The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore From loss of life Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries (Flames, even as he spoke, came flashing from his eyes) “Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou artwork, in trophies of my buddy? To his unhappy soul a thankful off’ring move! ’Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this lethal blow.”