365
BOOK XI.
Morn rose meantime from ocean's bed:
Æneas, though his comrades dead
His instant care invite,
Still wildered by the bloody day,
Yet hastes his votive dues to pay
With dawn of earliest light.
An oak with branches lopped all round
He plants upon a lofty mound,
And hangs with armour bright,
Mezentius' warrior panoply,
A glorious trophy, vowed to thee,
Great ruler of the fight.
There stands the helm, besprent with gore,
The spent snapped darts in life he bore,
The hauberk mail, whose twisted rows
Twelve ghastly apertyres disclose:
The buckler on the left is hung,
And from the neck the falchion strung.
Then thus the conqueror addressed
The exulting chiefs who round him pressed:
'A mighty deed, my friends, is done:
The future craves no fear;
These spoils are from the tyrant won;
See battle's first-fruits here!
Behold, the great Mezentius stands,
The master-work of these my hands!
