Of oaken twigs and arbutus they wove A wattled bier.

Soft leaves beneath him made His pillow, and with leafy boughs above They twined a verdurous canopy of shade.
There, on his rustic couch the youth is laid, Fair as the hyacinth, with drooping head, Cropped by the careless fingers of a maid, Or tender violet, when life has fled, That, torn from earth, still blooms, unfaded but unfed.
X.

Two purple mantles, stiff with golden braid, AEneas brings, which erst, in loving care, Sidonian Dido with her hands had made, And pranked with golden tissue, for his wear.
One, wound in sorrow round the corpse so fair, The last, sad honour, shrouds the senseless clay; One, ere the burning, veils the warrior's hair.
Rich spoils, the trophies of Laurentum's fray, Stript arms and steeds he brings, and bids them pile the prey.
XI.

Here march the captives, doomed to feed the flames; There, staff in hand, each Dardan chief uprears The spoil-decked ensigns, marked with foemen's names.
There, too, they lead Acoetes, bowed with years, He smites his breast, his haggard cheeks he tears, Then flings his full length prostrate.

There, again, The blood-stained chariot, and with big, round tears, Stript of his trappings, in the mournful train, AEthon, the warrior's steed, comes sorrowing for the slain.
XII.