Book 5

Meanwhile Aeneas, now well launched away, steered forth with all the fleet to open sea, on his unswerving course, and ploughed the waves, sped by a driving gale; but when his eyes looked back on Carthage, they beheld the glare of hapless Dido's fire. Not yet was known what kindled the wild flames; but that the pang of outraged love is cruel, and what the heart of desperate woman dares, they knew too well, and sad foreboding shook each Trojan soul.

Soon in mid-sea, beyond all chart of shore, when only seas and skies were round their way, full in the zenith loomed a purple cloud, storm-laden, dark as night, and every wave grew black and angry; from his Iofty seat the helmsman Palinurus cried, “Alas!

What means this host of storms encircling heaven?

What, Neptune, wilt thou now?” He, having said, bade reef and tighten, bend to stronger stroke, and slant sail to the wind; then spake again:

“High-souled Aeneas, not if Jove the King gave happy omen, would I have good hope of making Italy through yonder sky.

Athwart our course from clouded evening-star rebellious winds run shifting, and the air into a cloud-wrack rolls. Against such foes too weak our strife and strain! Since now the hand of Fortune triumphs, let us where she calls obedient go. For near us, I believe, lies Eryx ' faithful and fraternal shore:

here are Sicilian havens, if my mind of yon familiar stars have knowledge true.”

then good Aeneas: “For a friendly wind long have I sued, and watched thee vainly strive.

Shift sail! What happier land for me and mine, or for our storm-beat ships what safer shore, than where Dardanian Acestes reigns;

the land whose faithful bosom cherishes

Anchises' ashes?” Heedful of his word, they landward steer, while favoring zephyrs fill the spreading sail. On currents swift and strong the fleet is wafted, and with thankful soul they moor on Sicily 's familiar strand.

From a far hill-top having seen with joy the entering ships, and knowing them for friends, good King Acestes ran to bid them hail.

Garbed in rough pelt of Libyan bear was he, and javelins he bore, in sylvan guise:

for him the river-god Crimisus sired of Trojan wife. Remembering in his heart his ancient blood, he greeted with glad words the wanderers returned; bade welcome to his rude abundance, and with friendly gifts their weariness consoled. The morrow morn, soon as the new beams of a golden day had banished every star, Aeneas called a council of his followers on the shore, and from a fair green hillock gave this word:

“Proud sons of Dardanus, whose lofty line none but the gods began! This day fulfils the annual cycle of revolving time, since the dear relics of my god-like sire to earth we gave, and with dark offerings due built altars sorrowful. If now I err not, this is my day—ye gods have willed it so! — for mourning and for praise. Should it befall me exiled in Gaetulia's wilderness, or sailing some Greek sea, or at the walls of dire Mycenae, still would I renew unfailing vows, and make solemnity with thankful rites, and worshipful array, at altars rich with gifts. But, lo, we come, beyond all hope, where lie the very bones of my great sire. Nor did it come to pass without divine intent and heavenly power, that on these hospitable shores we stand.

Up, then! For we will make a festal day, imploring lucky winds! O, may his spirit grant me to build my city, where his shrines forever shall receive perpetual vows made in his name! This prince of Trojan line,

Acestes, upon every ship bestows a pair of oxen. To our offerings call the powers that bless the altars and the fires of our ancestral hearth; and join with these the gods of good Acestes. Presently, when the ninth dawn shall bring its beam benign to mortal men, and show the radiant world, or all my Teucrian people I ordain a holiday of games; the flying ships shall first contend; then swiftest runners try a foot-race; after that the champions bold who step forth for a cast of javelins, or boast the soaring arrow; or fear not the boxing-bout, with gauntlet of thick thongs.

This summons is for all; let all have hope to earn some noble palm! And from this hour speak but well-boding words, and bind your brows with garlands green.” So saying, he twined a wreath of his own mother's myrtle-tree, to shade his sacred brow; the hero Helymus, and King Acestes for his tresses gray, like coronals took on; Ascanius and all the warrior youth like emblems wore.

Then in th' attendant throng conspicuous, with thousands at his side, the hero moved from place of council to his father's tomb.

There on the ground he poured libation due, two beakers of good wine, of sweet milk two, two of the victim's blood—and scattered flowers of saddest purple stain, while thus he prayed:

“Hail, hallowed sire! And hail, ye ashes dear of him I vainly saved! O soul and shade of my blest father! Heaven to us denied to find together that predestined land of Italy, or our Ausonian stream of Tiber—ah! but where?” He scarce had said, when from the central shrine a gliding snake, coiled seven-fold in seven spirals wide, twined round the tomb and trailed innocuous o'er the very altars; his smooth back was flecked with green and azure, and his changeful scales gleamed golden, as the cloud-born rainbow flings its thousand colors from th' opposing sun.

Aeneas breathless watched the serpent wind among the bowls and cups of polished rim, tasting the sacred feast; where, having fed, back to the tomb all harmless it withdrew.

Then with new zeal his sacrifice he brings in honor of his sire; for he must deem that serpent the kind genius of the place, or of his very father's present shade some creature ministrant. Two lambs he slew, the wonted way, two swine, and, sable-hued, the yoke of bulls; from shallow bowl he poured libation of the grape, and called aloud on great Anchises' spirit, and his shade, from Acheron set free. Then all the throng, each from his separate store, heap up the shrines with victims slain; some range in order fair the brazen cauldrons; or along the grass, scattered at ease, hold o'er the embers bright the spitted flesh and roast it in the flames.

Arrived the wished-for day; through cloudless sky the coursers of the Sun's bright-beaming car bore upward the ninth morn. The neighboring folk thronged eager to the shore; some hoped to see

Aeneas and his warriors, others fain would their own prowess prove in bout and game.

Conspicuous lie the rewards, ranged in sight in the mid-circus; wreaths of laurel green, the honored tripod, coronals of palm for conquerors' brows, accoutrements of war, rare robes of purple stain, and generous weight of silver and of gold. The trumpet's call proclaimed from lofty mound the opening games.

First, side by side, with sturdy, rival oars, four noble galleys, pride of all the fleet, come forward to contend. The straining crew of Mnestheus bring his speedy Pristis on, —

Mnestheus in Italy erelong the sire of Memmius' noble line. Brave Gyas guides his vast Chimaera, a colossal craft, a floating city, by a triple row of Dardan sailors manned, whose banks of oars in triple order rise. Sergestus, he of whom the Sergian house shall after spring, rides in his mighty Centaur. Next in line, on sky-blue Scylla proud Cloanthus rides — whence thy great stem, Cluentius of Rome!

Fronting the surf-beat shore, far out at sea rises a rock, which under swollen waves lies buffeted unseen, when wintry storms mantle the stars; but when the deep is calm, lifts silently above the sleeping wave its level field,—a place where haunt and play flocks of the sea-birds, Iovers of the sun.

Here was the goal; and here Aeneas set a green-leaved flex-tree, to be a mark for every captain's eye, from whence to veer the courses of their ships in sweeping curves and speed them home. Now places in the line are given by lot. Upon the lofty sterns the captains ride, in beautiful array of Tyriao purple and far-flaming gold;

the crews are poplar-crowned, the shoulders bare rubbed well with glittering oil; their straining arms make long reach to the oar, as on the thwarts they sit attentive, listening for the call of the loud trumpet; while with pride and fear their hot hearts throb, impassioned for renown.

Soon pealed the signal clear; from all the line instant the galleys bounded, and the air rang to the rowers, shouting, while their arms pulled every inch and flung the waves in foam;

deep cut the rival strokes; the surface fair yawned wide beneath their blades and cleaving keels.

Not swifter scour the chariots o'er the plain, sped headlong from the line behind their teams of mated coursers, while each driver shakes loose, rippling reins above his plunging pairs, and o'er the lash leans far. With loud applause vociferous and many an urgent cheer the woodlands rang, and all the concave shores back from the mountains took the Trojan cry in answering song. Forth-flying from his peers, while all the crowd acclaims, sped Gyas' keel along the outmost wave. Cloanthus next pushed hard upon, with stronger stroke of oars but heavier ship. At equal pace behind the Pristis and the Centaur fiercely strive for the third place. Now Pristis seems to lead, now mightier Centaur past her flies, then both ride on together, prow with prow, and cleave long lines of foaming furrow with swift keels.

Soon near the rock they drew, and either ship was making goal,—when Gyas, in the lead, and winner of the half-course, Ioudly hailed menoetes, the ship's pilot: “Why so far to starboard, we? Keep her head round this way!

Hug shore! Let every oar-blade almost graze that reef to larboard! Let the others take the deep-sea course outside!” But while he spoke,

Menoetes, dreading unknown rocks below, veered off to open sea. “Why steer so wide?

Round to the rock, Menoetes!” Gyas roared, — again in vain, for looking back he saw cloanthus hard astern, and ever nearer, who, in a trice, betwixt the booming reef and Gyas' galley, lightly forward thrust the beak of Scylla to the inside course, and, quickly taking lead, flew past the goal to the smooth seas beyond. Then wrathful grief flamed in the warrior's heart, nor was his cheek unwet with tears; and, reckless utterly of his own honor and his comrades, lives, he hurled poor, slack Menoetes from the poop headlong upon the waters, while himself, pilot and master both, the helm assuming, urged on his crew, and landward took his way.

But now, with heavy limbs that hardly won his rescue from the deep, engulfing wave, up the rude rock graybeard Menoetes climbed with garment dripping wet, and there dropped down upon the cliff's dry top. With laughter loud the Trojan crews had watched him plunging, swimming, and now to see his drink of bitter brine spewed on the ground, the sailors laughed again.

But Mnestheus and Sergestus, coming last, have joyful hope enkindled in each heart to pass the laggard Gyas. In the lead

Sergestus' ship shoots forth; and to the rock runs boldly nigh; but not his whole long keel may pass his rival; the projecting beak is followed fast by Pristis' emulous prow.

Then, striding straight amidships through his crew, thus Mnestheus urged them on: “O Hector's friends!

Whom in the dying hours of Troy I chose for followers! Now stand ye to your best!

Put forth the thews of valor that ye showed in the Gaetulian Syrtes, or that sea

Ionian, or where the waves race by the Malean promontory! Mnestheus now hopes not to be the first, nor do I strive for victory. O Father Neptune, give that garland where thou wilt! But O, the shame if we are last! Endure it not, my men!

The infamy refuse!” So, bending low, they enter the home-stretch. Beneath their stroke the brass-decked galley throbs, and under her the sea-floor drops away. On, on they fly!

Parched are the panting lips, and sweat in streams pours down their giant sides; but lucky chance brought the proud heroes what their honor craved.

For while Sergestus furiously drove his ship's beak toward the rock, and kept inside the scanty passage, by his evil star he grounded on the jutting reef; the cliffs rang with the blow, and his entangled oars grated along the jagged granite, while the prow hung wrecked and helpless. With loud cry upsprang the sailors, while the ship stood still, and pushed off with long poles and pointed iron, or snatched the smashed oars from the whirling tide.

Mnestheus exults; and, roused to keener strife by happy fortune, with a quicker stroke of each bright rank of oars, and with the breeze his prayer implored, skims o'er the obedient wave and sweeps the level main. Not otherwise a startled dove, emerging o'er the fields from secret cavern in the crannied hill where her safe house and pretty nestlings lie, soars from her nest, with whirring wings—but soon through the still sky she takes her path of air on pinions motionless. So Pristis sped with Mnestheus, cleaving her last stretch of sea, by her own impulse wafted. She outstripped

Sergestus first; for he upon the reef fought with the breakers, desperately shouting for help, for help in vain, with broken oars contriving to move on. Then Mnestheus ran past Gyas, in Chimaera's ponderous hulk, of pilot now bereft; at last remains

Cloanthus his sole peer, whom he pursues with a supreme endeavor. From the shore burst echoing cheers that spur him to the chase, and wild applause makes all the welkin ring.

The leaders now with eager souls would scorn to Iose their glory, and faint-hearted fail to grasp a prize half-won, but fain would buy honor with life itself; the followers too are flushed with proud success, and feel them strong because their strength is proven. Both ships now with indistinguishable prows had sped to share one prize,—but with uplifted hands spread o'er the sea, Cloanthus, suppliant, called on the gods to bless his votive prayer:

“Ye gods who rule the waves, whose waters be my pathway now; for you on yonder strand a white bull at the altar shall be slain in grateful tribute for a granted vow;

and o'er the salt waves I will scatter far the entrails, and outpour the flowing wine.”

He spoke; and from the caverns under sea

Phorcus and virgin Panopea heard, and all the sea-nymphs' choir; while with strong hand the kindly God of Havens rose and thrust the gliding ship along, that swifter flew than south wind, or an arrow from the string, and soon made land in haven safe and sure.

Aeneas then, assembling all to hear, by a far-sounding herald's voice proclaimed

Cloanthus victor, and arrayed his brows with the green laurel-garland; to the crews three bulls, at choice, were given, and plenteous wine and talent-weight of silver; to the chiefs illustrious gifts beside; the victor had a gold-embroidered mantle with wide band of undulant Meliboean purple rare, where, pictured in the woof, young Ganymede through Ida's forest chased the light-foot deer with javelin; all flushed and panting he.

But lo! Jove's thunder-bearing eagle fell, and his strong talons snatched from Ida far the royal boy, whose aged servitors reached helpless hands to heaven; his faithful hound bayed fiercely at the air. To him whose worth the second place had won, Aeneas gave a smooth-linked golden corselet, triple-chained, of which his own victorious hand despoiled

Demoleos, by the swift, embattled stream of Simois, under Troy,—and bade it be a glory and defence on valor's field;

scarce might the straining shoulders of two slaves,

Phegeus and Sagaris, the load endure, yet oft Demoleos in this armor dressed charged down full speed on routed hosts of Troy.

The third gift was two cauldrons of wrought brass, and bowls of beaten silver, cunningly embossed with sculpture fair. Bearing such gifts, th' exultant victors onward moved, each brow bound with a purple fillet. But behold!

Sergestus, from the grim rock just dragged off by cunning toil, one halting rank of oars left of his many lost, comes crawling in with vanquished ship, a mockery to all.

As when a serpent, on the highway caught, some brazen wheel has crushed, or traveller with heavy-smiting blow left half alive and mangled by a stone; in vain he moves in writhing flight; a part is lifted high with hissing throat and angry, glittering eyes;

but by the wounded part a captive still he knots him fold on fold: with such a track the maimed ship labored slow; but by her sails she still made way, and with full canvas on arrived at land. Aeneas then bestowed a boon upon Sergestus, as was meet for reward of the ship in safety brought with all its men; a fair slave was the prize, the Cretan Pholoe, well taught to weave, and twin boy-babes upon her breast she bore.

Then good Aeneas, the ship-contest o'er, turned to a wide green valley, circled round with clasp of wood-clad hills, wherein was made an amphitheatre; entering with a throng of followers, the hero took his seat in mid-arena on a lofty mound.

For the fleet foot-race, now, his summons flies, — he offers gifts, and shows the rewards due.

The mingling youth of Troy and Sicily hastened from far. Among the foremost came the comrades Nisus and Euryalus,

Euryalus for beauty's bloom renowned,

Nisus for loyal love; close-following these

Diores strode, a prince of Priam's line;

then Salius and Patron, who were bred in Acarnania and Arcady;

then two Sicilian warriors, Helymus and Panopes, both sylvan bred and born, comrades of King Acestes; after these the multitude whom Fame forgets to tell.

Aeneas, so surrounded, thus spake forth:

“Hear what I purpose, and with joy receive!

of all your company, not one departs with empty hand. The Cretan javelins bright-tipped with burnished steel, and battle-axe adorned with graven silver, these shall be the meed of all. The three first at the goal shall bind their foreheads with fair olive green, and win the rewards due. The first shall lead, victorious, yon rich-bridled steed away;

this Amazonian quiver, the next prize, well-stocked with Thracian arrows; round it goes a baldrick broad and golden,—in its clasp a lustrous gem. The third man goes away taking this helmet from the Argive spoil.”

They heard, and took their places. The loud horn gave signal, and impetuous from the line, swift as a bursting storm they sped away, eyes fixed upon the goal. Far in advance

Nisus shot forward, swifter than the winds or winged thunderbolt; the next in course, next, but out-rivalled far, was Salius, and after him a space, Euryalus came third; him Helymus was hard upon;

and, look! Diores follows, heel on heel, close at his shoulder—if the race be long he sure must win, or claim a doubtful prize.

Now at the last stretch, spent and panting, all pressed to the goal, when in a slime of blood

Nisus, hard fate! slipped down, where late the death of victims slain had drenched the turf below.

Here the young victor, with his triumph flushed, lost foothold on the yielding ground, and plunged face forward in the pool of filth and gore;

but not of dear Euryalus was he forgetful then, nor heedless of his friend;

but rising from the mire he hurled himself in Salius' way; so he in equal plight rolled in the filthy slough. Euryalus leaped forth, the winner of the race by gift of his true friend, and flying to the goal stood first, by many a favoring shout acclaimed.

Next Helymus ran in; and, for the third, last prize,

Diores. But the multitude now heard the hollowed hill-side ringing with wild wrath from Salius, clamoring where the chieftains sate for restitution of his stolen prize, lost by a cheat. But general favor smiles upon Euryalus, whose beauteous tears commend him much, and nobler seems the worth of valor clothed in youthful shape so fair.

Diores, too, assists the victor's claim, with loud appeal—he too has won a prize, and vainly holds his last place, if the first to Salius fall. Aeneas then replied:

“Your gifts, my gallant youths, remain secure.

None can re-judge the prize. But to console the misadventure of a blameless friend, is in my power.” Therewith to Salius an Afric lion's monstrous pelt he gave, with ponderous mane, the claws o'erlaid with gold.

But Nisus cried: “If such a gift be found for less than victory, and men who fall are worthy so much sorrow, pray, what prize shall Nisus have? For surely I had won the proudest of the garlands, if one stroke of inauspicious fortune had not fallen on Salius and me.” So saying, he showed his smeared face and his sorry limbs befouled with mire and slime. Then laughed the gracious sire, and bade a shield be brought, the cunning work of Didymaon, which the Greeks tore down from Neptune's temple; with this noble gift he sent the high-born youth upon his way.

The foot-race over and the gifts disbursed,

“Come forth!” he cries, “if any in his heart have strength and valor, let him now pull on the gauntlets and uplift his thong-bound arms in challenge.” For the reward of this fight a two-fold gift he showed: the victor's meed, a bullock decked and gilded; but a sword and glittering helmet to console the fallen.

Straightway, in all his pride of giant strength,

Dares Ioomed up, and wondering murmurs ran along the gazing crowd; for he alone was wont to match with Paris, he it was met Butes, the huge-bodied champion boasting the name and race of Amycus,

Bythinian-born; him felled he at a blow, and stretched him dying on the tawny sand.

Such Dares was, who now held high his head, fierce for the fray, bared both his shoulders broad, lunged out with left and right, and beat the air.

Who shall his rival be? Of all the throng not one puts on the gauntlets, or would face the hero's challenge. Therefore, striding forth, believing none now dare but yield the palm, he stood before Aeneas, and straightway seized with his left hand the bull's golden horn, and cried, “O goddess-born, if no man dares to risk him in this fight, how Iong delay?

how Iong beseems it I should stand and wait?

Bid me bear off my prize.” The Trojans all murmured assent, and bade the due award of promised gift. But with a brow severe

Acestes to Entellus at his side addressed upbraiding words, where they reclined on grassy bank and couch of pleasant green:

“O my Entellus, in the olden days bravest among the mighty, but in vain!

Endurest thou to see yon reward won without a blow? Where, prithee, is that god who taught thee? Are thy tales of Eryx vain?

Does all Sicilia praise thee? Is thy roof with trophies hung?” The other in reply:

“My jealous honor and good name yield not to fear. But age, so cold and slow to move, makes my blood laggard, and my ebbing powers in all my body are but slack and chill.

O, if I had what yonder ruffian boasts— my own proud youth once more! I would not ask the fair bull for a prize, nor to the lists in search of gifts come forth.” So saying, he threw into the mid-arena a vast pair of ponderous gauntlets, which in former days fierce Eryx for his fights was wont to bind on hand and arm, with the stiff raw-hide thong.

All marvelled; for a weight of seven bulls' hides was pieced with lead and iron. Dares stared astonished, and step after step recoiled;

high-souled Anchises' son, this way and that, turned o'er the enormous coil of knots and thongs;

then with a deep-drawn breath the veteran spoke:

“O, that thy wondering eyes had seen the arms of Hercules, and what his gauntlets were!

Would thou hadst seen the conflict terrible upon this self-same shore! These arms were borne by Eryx. Look; thy brother's!—spattered yet with blood, with dashed-out brains! In these he stood when he matched Hercules. I wore them oft when in my pride and prime, ere envious age shed frost upon my brows. But if these arms be of our Trojan Dares disapproved, if good Aeneas rules it so, and King

Acestes wills it, let us offer fight on even terms. Let Eryx ' bull's-hide go.

Tremble no more! But strip those gauntlets off — fetched here from Troy.” So saying, he dropped down the double-folded mantle from his shoulders, stripped bare the huge joints, the huge arms and thews, and towered gigantic in the midmost ring.

Anchises' son then gave two equal pairs of gauntlets, and accoutred with like arms both champions. Each lifted him full height on tiptoe; each with mien unterrified held both fists high in air, and drew his head far back from blows assailing. Then they joined in struggle hand to hand, and made the fray each moment fiercer. One was light of foot and on his youth relied; the other strong in bulk of every limb, but tottering on sluggish knees, while all his body shook with labor of his breath. Without avail they rained their blows, and on each hollow side, each sounding chest, the swift, reverberate strokes fell without pause; around their ears and brows came blow on blow, and with relentless shocks the smitten jaws cracked loud. Entellus stands unshaken, and, the self-same posture keeping, only by body-movement or quick eye parries attack. Dares (like one in siege against a mountain-citadel, who now will drive with ram and engine at the craggy wall, now wait in full-armed watch beneath its towers)

tries manifold approach, most craftily invests each point of vantage, and renews his unsuccessful, ever various war.

Then, rising to the stroke, Entellus poised aloft his ponderous right; but, quick of eye, the other the descending wrath foresaw and nimbly slipped away; Entellus so wasted his stroke on air, and, self-o'erthrown, dropped prone to earth his monstrous length along, as when on Erymanth or Ida falls a hollowed pine from giant roots uptorn.

Alike the Teucrian and Trinacrian throng shout wildly; while Acestes, pitying, hastes to lift his gray companion. But, unchecked, undaunted by his fall, the champion brave rushed fiercer to the fight, his strength now roused by rage, while shame and courage confident kindle his soul; impetuous he drives

Dares full speed all round the ring, with blows redoubled right and left. No stop or stay gives he, but like a storm of rattling hail upon a house-top, so from each huge hand the champion's strokes on dizzy Dares fall.

Then Sire Aeneas willed to make a stay to so much rage, nor let Entellus' soul flame beyond bound, but bade the battle pause, and, rescuing weary Dares, thus he spoke in soothing words: “Ill-starred! What mad attempt is in thy mind? Will not thy heart confess thy strength surpassed, and auspices averse?

Submit, for Heaven decrees!” With such wise words he sundered the fell strife. But trusty friends bore Dares off: his spent limbs helpless trailed, his head he could not lift, and from his lips came blood and broken teeth. So to the ship they bore him, taking, at Aeneas' word, the helmet and the sword—but left behind

Entellus' prize of victory, the bull.

He, then, elate and glorying, spoke forth:

“See, goddess-born, and all ye Teucrians, see, what strength was mine in youth, and from what death ye have clelivered Dares.” Saying so, he turned him full front to the bull, who stood for reward of the fight, and, drawing back his right hand, poising the dread gauntlet high, swung sheer between the horns and crushed the skull;

a trembling, lifeless creature, to the ground the bull dropped forward dead. Above the fallen

Entellus cried aloud, “This victim due

I give thee, Eryx, more acceptable than Dares' death to thy benignant shade.

For this last victory and joyful day, my gauntlets and my art I leave with thee.”

Forthwith Aeneas summons all who will to contest of swift arrows, and displays reward and prize. With mighty hand he rears a mast within th' arena, from the ship of good Sergestus taken; and thereto a fluttering dove by winding cord is bound for target of their shafts. Soon to the match the rival bowmen came and cast the lots into a brazen helmet. First came forth

Hippocoon's number, son of Hyrtacus, by cheers applauded; Mnestheus was the next, late victor in the ship-race, Mnestheus crowned with olive-garland; next Eurytion, brother of thee, O bowman most renowned,

Pandarus, breaker of the truce, who hurled his shaft upon the Achaeans, at the word the goddess gave. Acestes' Iot and name came from the helmet last, whose royal hand the deeds of youth dared even yet to try.

Each then with strong arm bends his pliant bow, each from the quiver plucks a chosen shaft.

First, with loud arrow whizzing from the string, the young Hippocoon with skyward aim cuts through the yielding air; and lo! his barb pierces the very wood, and makes the mast tremble; while with a fluttering, frighted wing the bird tugs hard,—and plaudits fill the sky.

Boldly rose Mnestheus, and with bow full-drawn aimed both his eye and shaft aloft; but he failing, unhappy man, to bring his barb up to the dove herself, just cut the cord and broke the hempen bond, whereby her feet were captive to the tree: she, taking flight, clove through the shadowing clouds her path of air.

But swiftly—for upon his waiting bow he held a shaft in rest—Eurytion invoked his brother's shade, and, marking well the dove, whose happy pinions fluttered free in vacant sky, pierced her, hard by a cloud;

lifeless she fell, and left in light of heaven her spark of life, as, floating down, she bore the arrow back to earth. Acestes now remained, last rival, though the victor's palm to him was Iost; yet did the aged sire, to show his prowess and resounding bow, hurl forth one shaft in air; then suddenly all eyes beheld such wonder as portends events to be (but when fulfilment came, too late the fearful seers its warning sung):

for, soaring through the stream of cloud, his shaft took fire, tracing its bright path in flame, then vanished on the wind,—as oft a star will fall unfastened from the firmament, while far behind its blazing tresses flow.

Awe-struck both Trojan and Trinacrian stood, calling upon the gods. Nor came the sign in vain to great Aeneas. But his arms folded the blest Acestes to his heart, and, Ioading him with noble gifts, he cried:

“Receive them, sire! The great Olympian King some peerless honor to thy name decrees by such an omen given. I offer thee this bowl with figures graven, which my sire, good gray Anchises, for proud gift received of Thracian Cisseus, for their friendship's pledge and memory evermore.” Thereon he crowned his brows with garland of the laurel green, and named Acestes victor over all.

Nor could Eurytion, noble youth, think ill of honor which his own surpassed, though he, he only, pierced the bird in upper air.

Next gift was his whose arrow cut the cord;

last, his whose light shaft clove the lofty pine.

Father Aeneas now, not making end of game and contest, summoned to his side

Epytides, the mentor and true friend of young Iulus, and this bidding gave to his obedient ear: “Arise and go where my Ascanius has lined his troop of youthful cavalry, and trained the steeds to tread in ranks of war. Bid him lead forth the squadron in our sire Anchises' name, and wear a hero's arms!” So saying, he bade the course be cleared, and from the whole wide field th' insurging, curious multitude withdrew.

In rode the boys, to meet their parents' eyes, in even lines, a glittering cavalry;

while all Trinacria and the host from Troy made loud applause. On each bright brow a well-trimmed wreath the flowing tresses bound;

two javelins of corner tipped with steel each bore for arms; some from the shoulder slung a polished quiver; to each bosom fell a pliant necklace of fine, twisted gold.

Three bands of horsemen ride, three captains proud prance here and there, assiduous in command, each of his twelve, who shine in parted lines which lesser captains lead. One cohort proud follows a little Priam's royal name — one day, Polites, thy illustrious race through him prolonged, shall greater glory bring to Italy. A dappled Thracian steed with snow-white spots and fore-feet white as snow bears him along, its white face lifted high.

Next Atys rode, young Atys, sire to be of th' Atian house in Rome, a boy most dear unto the boy Iulus; last in line, and fairest of the throng, Iulus came, astride a steed from Sidon, the fond gift of beauteous Dido and her pledge of love.

Close followed him the youthful chivalry of King Acestes on Trinacrian steeds.

The Trojans, with exultant, Ioud acclaim, receive the shy-faced boys, and joyfully trace in the features of the sons their sires.

After, with smiling eyes, the horsemen proud have greeted each his kin in all the throng,

Epytides th' appointed signal calls, and cracks his lash; in even lines they move, then, Ioosely sundering in triple band, wheel at a word and thrust their lances forth in hostile ranks; or on the ample field retreat or charge, in figure intricate of circling troop with troop, and swift parade of simulated war; now from the field they flee with backs defenceless to the foe;

then rally, lance in rest—or, mingling all, make common front, one legion strong and fair.

As once in Crete, the lofty mountain-isle, that-fabled labyrinthine gallery wound on through lightless walls, with thousand paths which baffled every clue, and led astray in unreturning mazes dark and blind:

so did the sons of Troy their courses weave in mimic flights and battles fought for play, like dolphins tumbling in the liquid waves, along the Afric or Carpathian seas.

This game and mode of march Ascanius, when Alba Longa 's bastions proudly rose, taught to the Latin people of the prime;

and as the princely Trojan and his train were wont to do, so Alba to her sons the custom gave; so glorious Rome at last the heritage accepted and revered;

and still we know them for the “Trojan Band,”

and call the lads a “Troy.” Such was the end of game and contest at Anchises' grave.

Then fortune veered and different aspect wore.

For 'ere the sacred funeral games are done,

Saturnian Juno from high heaven sent down the light-winged Iris to the ships of Troy, giving her flight good wind—still full of schemes and hungering to avenge her ancient wrong.

Unseen of mortal eye, the virgin took her pathway on the thousand-colored bow, and o'er its gliding passage earthward flew.

She scanned the vast assemblage; then her gaze turned shoreward, where along the idle bay the Trojan galleys quite unpeopled rode.

But far removed, upon a lonely shore, a throng of Trojan dames bewailed aloud their lost Anchises, and with tears surveyed the mighty deep. “O weary waste of seas!

What vast, untravelled floods beyond us roll!”

So cried they with one voice, and prayed the gods for an abiding city; every heart loathed utterly the long, laborious sea.

Then in their midst alighted, not unskilled in working woe, the goddess; though she wore nor garb nor form divine, but made herself one Beroe, Doryclus' aged wife, who in her happier days had lineage fair and sons of noble name; in such disguise she called the Trojan dames: “O ye ill-starred, that were not seized and slain by Grecian foes under your native walls! O tribe accursed, what death is Fate preparing? Since Troy fell the seventh summer flies, while still we rove o'er cruel rocks and seas, from star to star, from alien land to land, as evermore we chase, storm-tossed, that fleeting Italy across the waters wide. Behold this land of Eryx, of Acestes, friend and kin;

what hinders them to raise a rampart here and build a town? O city of our sires!

O venerated gods from haughty foes rescued in vain! Will nevermore a wall rise in the name of Troy? Shall I not see a Xanthus or a Simois, the streams to Hector dear? Come now! I lead the way.

Let us go touch their baneful ships with fire!

I saw Cassandra in a dream. Her shade, prophetic ever, gave me firebrands, and cried, ‘Find Ilium so! The home for thee is where thou art.’ Behold, the hour is ripe for our great act! No longer now delay to heed the heavenly omen. Yonder stand four altars unto Neptune. 'T is the god, the god himself, gives courage for the deed, and swift-enkindling fire.” So having said, she seized a dreadful brand; then, lifting high, waved it all flaming, and with furious arm hurled it from far. The Ilian matrons gazed, bewildered and appalled. But one, of all the eldest, Pyrgo, venerated nurse of Priam's numerous sons, exclaimed, “Nay, nay!

This is no Beroe, my noble dames.

Doryclus knew her not. Behold and see her heavenly beauty and her radiant eyes!

What voice of music and majestic mien, what movement like a god! Myself am come from Beroe sick, and left her grieving sore that she, she only, had no gift to bring of mournful honor to Anchises' shade.”

She spoke. The women with ill-boding eyes looked on the ships. Their doubting hearts were torn

'twixt tearful passion for the beauteous isle their feet then trod, and that prophetic call of Fate to lands unknown. Then on wide wings soared Iris into heaven, and through the clouds clove a vast arch of light. With wonder dazed, the women in a shrieking frenzy rose, took embers from the hearth-stones, stole the fires upon the altars—faggots, branches, brands — and rained them on the ships. The god of fire, through thwarts and oars and bows of painted fir, ran in unbridled flame. Swift to the tomb of Sire Anchises, to the circus-seats, the messenger Eumelus flew, to bring news of the ships on fire; soon every eye the clouds of smoke and hovering flame could see.

Ascanius, who had led with smiling brow his troops of horse, accoutred as he was, rode hot-haste to the turmoil of the camp, nor could his guards restrain. “What madness now?

What is it ye would do?” he cried. “Alas!

Ill-fated women! Not our enemies, nor the dread bulwarks of the Greek ye burn, but all ye have to hope for. Look at me, your own Ascanius!” His helmet then into their midst he flung, which he had worn for pageantry of war. Aeneas, too, with Trojan bands sped thither. But far off, the women, panic-scattered on the shore, fled many ways, and deep in caverned crags or shadowed forests hid them, for they Ioathed their deed and life itself; their thoughts were changed;

they knew their kin and husbands, and their hearts from Juno were set free. But none the less the burning and indomitable flames raged without stay; beneath the ships' smeared sides the hempen fuel puffed a lingering smoke, as, through the whole bulk creeping, the slow fire devoured its way; and little it availed that strong men fought the fire with stream on stream.

Then good Aeneas from his shoulder rent his garment, and with lifted hands implored the help of Heaven. “O Jove omnipotent!

If thou not yet thy wrath implacable on every Trojan pourest, if thou still hast pity, as of old, for what men bear,

O, grant my fleet deliverance from this flame!

From uttermost destruction, Father, save our desperate Trojan cause! Or even now — last cruelty! thy fatal thunders throw.

If this be my just meed, let thy dread arm confound us all.” But scarce the prayer is said, when with a bursting deluge a dark storm falls, marvellous to see; while hills and plains with thunder shake, and to each rim of heaven spreads swollen cloud-rack, black with copious rain and multitudinous gales. The full flood pours on every ship, and all the smouldering beams are drenched, until the smoke and flames expire and (though four ships be lost) the burning fleet rides rescued from its doom. But smitten sore by this mischance, Aeneas doubtfully weighs in his heart its mighty load of cares, and ponders if indeed he may abide in Sicily, not heeding prophet-songs, or seek Italian shores. Thereon uprose

Nautes, an aged sire, to whom alone

Tritonian Pallas of her wisdom gave and made his skill renowned; he had the power to show celestial anger's warning signs, or tell Fate's fixed decree. The gifted man thus to Aeneas comfortably spoke:

“O goddess-born, we follow here or there, as Fate compels or stays. But come what may, he triumphs over Fortune, who can bear whate'er she brings. Behold, Acestes draws from Dardanus his origin divine!

Make him thy willing friend, to share with thee thy purpose and thy counsel. Leave with him the crews of the lost ships, and all whose hearts repine at thy high task and great emprise:

the spent old men, the women ocean-weary, whate'er is feeble found, or faint of heart in danger's hour,—set that apart, and give such weary ones within this friendly isle a city called Acesta,—if he will.”

Much moved Aeneas was by this wise word of his gray friend, though still his anxious soul was vexed by doubt and care. But when dark night had brought her chariot to the middle sky, the sacred shade of Sire Anchises seemed, from heaven descending, thus to speak aloud:

“My son, than life more dear, when life was mine!

O son, upon whose heart the Trojan doom has weighed so Iong! Beside thy couch I stand, at pleasure of great Jove, whose hand dispelled the mad fire from thy ships; and now he looks from heaven with pitying brow. I bid thee heed the noble counsels aged Nautes gave.

Only with warriors of dauntless breast to Italy repair; of hardy breed, of wild, rough life, thy Latin foes will be.

But first the shores of Pluto and the Shades thy feet must tread, and through the deep abyss of dark Avernus come to me, thy sire:

for I inhabit not the guilty gloom of Tartarus, but bright Elysian day, where all the just their sweet assemblies hold.

Hither the virgin Sibyl, if thou give full offerings of the blood of sable kine, shall lead thee down; and visions I will show of cities proud and nations sprung from thee.

Farewell, for dewy Night has wheeled her way far past her middle course; the panting steeds of orient Morn breathe pitiless upon me.”

He spoke, and passed, like fleeting clouds of smoke, to empty air. “O, whither haste away?”

Aeneas cried. “Whom dost thou fly? What god from my fond yearning and embrace removes?”

Then on the altar of the gods of Troy he woke the smouldering embers, at the shrine of venerable Vesta, worshipping with hallowed bread and incense burning free.

Straightway he calls assembly of his friends, —

Acestes first in honor,—and makes known

Jove's will, the counsel of his cherished sire, and his own fresh resolve. With prompt assent they hear his word, nor does Acestes fail the task to share. They people the new town with women; and leave every wight behind who wills it—souls not thirsting for high praise.

Themselves re-bench their ships, rebuild, and fit with rope and oar the flame-swept galleys all;

a band not large, but warriors bold and true.

Aeneas, guiding with his hand a plough, marks out the city's ground, gives separate lands by lot, and bids within this space appear a second Troy. Trojan Acestes takes the kingly power, and with benignant joy appoints a forum, and decrees just laws before a gathered senate. Then they raise on that star-circled Erycinian hill, the temple to Idalian Venus dear;

and at Anchises' sepulchre ordain a priesthood and wide groves of hallowed shade.

Now the nine days of funeral pomp are done, and every altar has had honors due from all the folk. Now tranquil-breathing winds have levelled the great deep, while brisk and free, a favoring Auster bids them launch away.

But sound of many a wailing voice is heard along the winding shore; for ere they go, in fond embraces for a night and day they linger still. The women—aye, and men! — who hated yesterday the ocean's face and loathed its name, now clamor to set sail and bear all want and woe to exiles known.

But good Aeneas with benignant words their sorrow soothes, and, not without a tear, consigns them to Acestes' kindred care.

Then bids he sacrifice to Eryx ' shade three bulls, and to the wind-gods and the storm a lamb, then loose the ships in order due.

He, with a garland of shorn olive, stood holding aloft the sacrificial bowl from his own vessel's prow, and scattered far the sacred entrails o'er the bitter wave, with gift of flowing wine. Swift at the stern a fair wind rose and thrust them; while the crews with rival strokes swept o'er the spreading sea.

Venus, the while, disturbed with grief and care, to Neptune thus her sorrowing heart outpoured:

“Stern Juno's wrath and breast implacable compel me, Neptune, to abase my pride in lowly supplication. Lapse of days, nor prayers, nor virtues her hard heart subdue, nor Jove's command; nor will she rest or yield at Fate's decree. Her execrable grudge is still unfed, although she did consume the Trojan city, Phrygia 's midmost throne, and though she has accomplished stroke on stroke of retribution. But she now pursues the remnant—aye! the ashes and bare bones of perished Ilium; though the cause and spring of wrath so great none but herself can tell.

Wert thou not witness on the Libyan wave what storm she stirred, immingling sea and sky, and with Aeolian whirlwinds made her war, — in vain and insolent invasion, sire, of thine own realm and power? Behold, but now, goading to evil deeds the Trojan dames, she basely burned his ships; he in strange lands must leave the crews of his Iost fleet behind.

O, I entreat thee, let the remnant sail in safety o'er thy sea, and end their way in Tiber 's holy stream;—if this my prayer be lawful, and that city's rampart proud be still what Fate intends.” Then Saturn's son, the ruler of the seas profound, replied:

“Queen of Cythera, it is meet for thee to trust my waves from which thyself art sprung.

Have I not proved a friend, and oft restrained the anger and wild wrath of seas and skies?

On land, let Simois and Xanthus tell if I have loved Aeneas! On that day

Achilles drove the shuddering hosts of Troy in panic to the walls, and hurled to death innumerable foes, until the streams were choked with dead, and Xanthus scarce could find his wonted path to sea; that self-same day, aeneas, spent, and with no help of Heaven, met Peleus' dreadful son:—who else but I in cloudy mantle bore him safe afar?

Though 't was my will to cast down utterly the walls of perjured Troy, which my own hands had built beside the sea. And even to-day my favor changes not. Dispel thy fear!

Safe, even as thou prayest, he shall ride to Cumae 's haven, where Avernus lies.

One only sinks beneath th' engulfing seas, — one life in lieu of many.” Having soothed and cheered her heart divine, the worshipped sire flung o'er his mated steeds a yoke of gold, bridled the wild, white mouths, and with strong hand shook out long, Ioosened reins. His azure car skimmed light and free along the crested waves;

before his path the rolling billows all were calm and still, and each o'er-swollen flood sank 'neath his sounding wheel; while from the skies the storm-clouds fled away. Behind him trailed a various company; vast bulk of whales, the hoary band of Glaucus, Ino's son,

Palaemon and the nimble Tritons all, the troop of Phorcus; and to leftward ranged

Thalia, Thetis, and fair Alelite, with virgin Panopea, and the nymphs

Nesaea, Spio and Cymodoce.

Now in Aeneas' ever-burdened breast the voice of hope revived. He bade make haste to raise the masts, spread canvas on the spars;

all hands hauled at the sheets, and left or right shook out the loosened sails, or twirled in place the horn-tipped yards. Before a favoring wind the fleet sped on. The line in close array was led by Palinurus, in whose course all ships were bid to follow. Soon the car of dewy Night drew near the turning-point of her celestial round. The oarsmen all yielded their limbs to rest, and prone had fallen on the hard thwarts, in deep, unpillowed slumber.

Then from the high stars on light-moving wings, the God of Sleep found passage through the dark and clove the gloom,—to bring upon thy head,

O Palinurus, an ill-boding sleep, though blameless thou. Upon thy ship the god in guise of Phorbas stood, thus whispering:

“Look, Palinurus, how the flowing tides lift on thy fleet unsteered, and changeless winds behind thee breathe! 'T is now a happy hour take thy rest. Lay down the weary head.

Steal tired eyes from toiling. I will do thine office for thee, just a little space.”

But Palinurus, lifting scarce his eyes, thus answered him: “Have I not known the face of yonder placid seas and tranquil waves?

Put faith in such a monster? Could I trust —

I, oft by ocean's treacherous calm betrayed — my lord Aeneas to false winds and skies?”

So saying, he grasped his rudder tight, and clung more firmly, fixing on the stars his eyes.

Then waved the god above his brows a branch wet with the dews of Lethe and imbued with power of Stygian dark, until his eyes wavered and slowly sank. The slumberous snare had scarce unbound his limbs, when, leaning o'er, the god upon the waters flung him forth, hands clutching still the helm and ship-rail torn, and calling on his comrades, but in vain.

Then soared th' immortal into viewless air;

and in swift course across the level sea the fleet sped safe, protected from all fear by Neptune's vow. Yet were they drawing nigh the sirens' island-steep, where oft are seen white, bleaching bones, and to the distant ear the rocks roar harshly in perpetual foam.

Then of his drifting fleet and pilot gone

Aeneas was aware, and, taking helm, steered through the midnight waves, with many a sigh;

and, by his comrade's pitiable death sore-smitten, cried, “O, thou didst trust too far fair skies and seas, and liest without a grave, my Palinurus, in a land unknown!”