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held the hero in a strict embrace.
Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore,
And either hand a pointed javā€™lin bore.
His mother was a dame of Dardan blood;
His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood.
He welcomes his returning friends ashore
With plenteous country cates and homely store.

Now, when the following morn had chasā€™d away
The flying stars, and light restorā€™d the day,
Aeneas callā€™d the Trojan troops around,
And thus bespoke them from a rising ground:
ā€œOffspring of heavā€™n, divine Dardanian race!
The sun, revolving throā€™ thā€™ ethereal space,
The shining circle of the year has fillā€™d,
Since first this isle my fatherā€™s ashes held:
And now the rising day renews the year;
A day for ever sad, for ever dear.
This would I celebrate with annual games,
With gifts on altars pilā€™d, and holy flames,
Thoā€™ banishā€™d to Gaetuliaā€™s barren sands,
Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands:
But since this happy storm our fleet has drivā€™n
(Not, as I deem, without the will of Heavā€™n)
Upon these friendly shores and flowā€™ry plains,
Which hide Anchises and his blest remains,
Let us with joy perform his honours due,
And pray for prospā€™rous winds, our voyage to renew;
Pray, that in towns and temples of our own,
The name of great Anchises may be known,
And yearly games may spread the godsā€™ renown.
Our sports Acestes, of the Trojan race,
With royal gifts ordainā€™d, is pleasā€™d to grace:
Two steers on evā€™ry ship the king bestows;
His gods and ours shall share your equal vows.
Besides, if, nine days hence, the rosy morn
Shall with unclouded light the skies adorn,
That day with solemn sports I mean to grace:
Light galleys on the seas shall run a watā€™ry race;
Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend,
And others try the twanging bow to bend;
The strong, with iron gauntlets armā€™d, shall stand
Opposā€™d in combat on the yellow sand.
Let all be present at the games preparā€™d,
And joyful victors wait the just reward.
But now assist the rites, with garlands crownā€™d.ā€
He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.
Then Helymus, by his example led,
And old Acestes, each adornā€™d his head;
Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,
His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.

Aeneas then advancā€™d amidst the train,
By thousands followā€™d throā€™ the flowā€™ry plain,
To great Anchisesā€™ tomb; which when he found,
He pourā€™d to Bacchus, on the hallowā€™d ground,
Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more,
And two (from offerā€™d bulls) of purple gore,
With roses then the sepulcher he strowā€™d
And thus his fatherā€™s ghost bespoke aloud:
ā€œHail, O ye holy manes! hail again,
Paternal ashes, now reviewā€™d in vain!
The gods permitted not, that you, with me,
Should reach the promisā€™d shores of Italy,
Or Tiberā€™s flood, what flood soeā€™er it be.ā€
Scarce had he finishā€™d, when, with speckled pride,
A serpent from the tomb began to glide;
His hugy bulk on sevā€™n high volumes rollā€™d;
Blue was his breadth of back, but streakā€™d with scaly gold:
Thus riding on his curls, he seemā€™d to pass
A rolling fire along, and singe the grass.
More various colours throā€™ his body run,
Than Iris when her bow imbibes the sun.
Betwixt the rising altars, and around,
The sacred monster shot along the ground;
With harmless play amidst the bowls he passā€™d,
And with his lolling tongue assayā€™d the taste:
Thus fed with holy food, the wondrous guest
Within the hollow tomb retirā€™d to rest.
The pious prince, surprisā€™d at what he viewā€™d,
The funā€™ral honours with more zeal renewā€™d,
Doubtful if this placeā€™s genius were,
Or guardian of his fatherā€™s sepulcher.
Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew;
As many swine, and steers of sable hue;
New genā€™rous wine he from the goblets pourā€™d.
And callā€™d his fatherā€™s ghost, from hell restorā€™d.
The glad attendants in long order come,
Offā€™ring their gifts at great Anchisesā€™ tomb:
Some add more oxen: some divide the spoil;
Some place the chargers on the grassy soil;
Some blow the fires, and offered entrails broil.

Now came the day desirā€™d. The skies were bright
With rosy luster of the rising light:
The bordā€™ring people, rousā€™d by sounding fame
Of Trojan feasts and great Acestesā€™ name,
The crowded shore with acclamations fill,
Part to behold, and part to prove their skill.
And first the gifts in public view they place,
Green laurel wreaths, and palm, the victorsā€™ grace:
Within the circle, arms and tripods lie,
Ingots of gold and silver, heapā€™d on high,
And vests embroiderā€™d, of the Tyrian dye.
The trumpetā€™s clangour then the feast proclaims,
And all prepare for their appointed games.
Four galleys first, which equal rowers bear,
Advancing, in the watā€™ry lists appear.
The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind,
Bore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind:
Gyas the vast Chimaeraā€™s bulk commands,
Which rising, like a towā€™ring city stands;
Three Trojans tug at evā€™ry labā€™ring oar;
Three banks in three degrees the sailors bore;
Beneath their sturdy strokes the billows roar.
Sergesthus, who began the Sergian race,
In the great Centaur took the leading place;
Cloanthus on the sea-green Scylla stood,
From whom Cluentius draws his Trojan blood.

Far in the sea, against the foaming shore,
There stands a rock: the raging billows roar
Above his head in storms; but, when ā€™tis clear,
Uncurl their ridgy backs, and at his foot appear.
In peace below the gentle waters run;
The cormorants above lie basking in the sun.
On this the hero fixā€™d an oak in sight,
The mark to guide the mariners aright.
To bear with this, the seamen stretch their oars;
Then round the rock they steer, and seek the former shores.
The lots decide their place. Above the rest,
Each leader shining in his Tyrian vest;
The common crew with wreaths of poplar boughs
Their temples crown, and shade their sweaty brows:
Besmearā€™d with oil, their naked shoulders shine.
All take their seats, and wait the sounding sign:
They gripe their oars; and evā€™ry panting breast
Is raisā€™d by turns with hope, by turns with fear depressā€™d.
The clangour of the trumpet gives the sign;
At once they start, advancing in a line:
With shouts the sailors rend the starry skies;
Lashā€™d with their oars, the smoky billows rise;
Sparkles the briny main, and the vexā€™d ocean fries.
Exact in time, with equal strokes they row:
At once the brushing oars and brazen prow
Dash up the sandy waves, and ope the depths below.
Not fiery coursers, in a chariot race,
Invade the field with half so swift a pace;
Not the fierce driver with more fury lends
The sounding lash, and, ere the stroke descends,
Low to the wheels his pliant body bends.
The partial crowd their hopes and fears divide,
And aid with eager shouts the

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