"My son, my son! my age's last relief,
Thy fire's late glory, now his cause of grief;
Prop of my age, and guardian of my throne,
Which totters to its fall now thou art gone:
Comfort no more her healing balm will shed,
My Turnus falls, and Daunus peace is fled.
Are these the trophies of thy vast renown?
Are these the glories of an added crown?
Are these the honours of extended pow'r,
O Fortune, giddy as the whirling hour?
Man builds up schemes for her to over-turn,
We grasp at sceptres, and possess an urn:
And thou, who, lately a whole nation's joy,
Didst drive thy thunders on the sons of Troy,
Now ly'st an empty form of lifeless clay,
Our hope no longer, nor the foe's dismay.
No more that tongue shall list'ning crouds persuade,
No more that face shall charm each gazing maid,
No more that form shall catch th' admiring view,
Those eyes no more their lustre shall renew;
Thy port majestic no one now shall prize,
In arts of peace, ah, Turnus. vainly wise;
Mars crop'd thy honours in their vernal bloom,
And ev'ry virtue withers on thy tomb.
Urg'd on to war, too eager in thy hate,
Thou rush'd to sight, and half-way met thy fate.
O Death, relentless, thy unerring blow
Strikes down the great, and lays the haughty low;
Kings, princes, people, his dread rigor fear,
And shrink to dust when he approaches near.
Insatiate pow'r, among the old and young,
Each day o'er whom thy sable stole is flung,
Could not thy hand arrest-one single dart,
That thro' a son's has riv'd a parent's heart?
Amata happy! now at endless rest,
Thy slaughter'd son moves not thy quiet breast.
Say, say, ye pow'rs! have I yet more to dread?
What drive ye next on this devoted head?
Ye crop'd my blossom in his earliest spring,
And blazing Ardea flutters on the wing.
Yet what is Ardea? for my child I moan.
The loss of him is ev'ry loss in one;
Some woe superior was for me decreed,
I have it now, and am a wretch indeed.
When once the Fates have mark'd their destin'd prey,
Each various ill pursues him on his way;
This way and that the fainting wretch is hurl'd,
The sport of heav'n, and pity of the world."