Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown,

(Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son,)

Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;

And, for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save!

Or, if thy vowed revenge pursue my death,

Give to my friends my body void of breath!

{  The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life:

{  Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:

{  Against a yielded man, 'tis mean ignoble strife."

In deep suspense the Trojan seemed to stand,

And, just prepared to strike, repressed his hand.

He rolled his eyes, and every moment felt

His manly soul with more compassion melt;

When, casting down a casual glance, he spied

The golden belt that glittered on his side,

The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore

From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.

Then, roused anew to wrath, he loudly cries,

(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)

"Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,

Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?

To his sad soul a grateful offering go!

'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow."

He raised his arm aloft, and, at the word,

Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.

The streaming blood distained his arms around,

And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.