Ancas, setting sail from Africa, is driven by a storm on the coasts of Sicily, where he is hospitably received by his friend Acestes, king of part of the island, and born of Trojan parentage. He applies himself to celebrate the memory of his father with divine honours, and accordingly institutes funeral games, and appoints prizes for those who should conquer in them. While the cere monies were performing, Juno sends Iris to persuade the Trojan women to burn the ships, who upon her instigation set fire to them, which burnt four, and would have consumed the rest had not Jupiter by a miraculous shower extinguished it. Upon this Eneas, by the advice of one of his generals, and a vision of his father, builds a city for the women, old men, and others who were either unfit for war or weary of the voyage, and sails for Italy. Venus procures of Neptune a safe voyage for him and all his men, excepting only his pilot Palinurus, who was unfortunately lost.
MEANTIME the Trojan cuts his watery way,
Fixed on his voyage, through the curling sea;
Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze,
Sces on the Punic shore the mounting blaze--
The cause unknown; yet his presaging mind,
The fate of Dido from the fire divined.
He knew the stormy souls of womankind,
What secret springs their cager passions move,
How capable of death for injured love.
Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw,
Till neither fires nor shining shores they saw.
Now seas and skies their prospect only bound,
An empty space above, a floating field around.
But soon the heavens with shadows were o'erspread;
A swelling cloud hung hovering o'er their head.
Livid it looked (the threatening of a storm);
Then night and horror ocean's face deform.
The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud :
"What gusts of weather from that gathering cloud
My thoughts presage; ere yet the tempest roars,
Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars,
Contract your swelling sails and luff to wind.
The frighted crew perform the task assigned.
Then to his fearless chief: "Not Heaven," said he,
"Though Jove himself should promise Italy,
Can stem the torrent of this raging sea.
Mark how the shifting winds from west arise,
And what collected night involves the skies.
Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea,
Much less against the tempest force their way;
'Tis fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.
Not far from hence, if I observed aright
The southing of the stars and polar light,
Sicilia lies, whose hospitable shores
In safety we may reach with struggling oars."
Eneas then replied: “Too sure I find
We strive in vain against the seas and wind;
Now shift your sails, what place can please me more
Than what you promise, the Sicilian shore,
Whose hallowed earth Anchises' bones contains,
And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?"
The course resolved, before the western wind
They scud amain, and make the port assigned.
Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand,
Beheld the fleet descending on the land,
And not unmindful of his ancient race,
Down from the cliff he ran with cager pace,
And held the hero in a strict embrace.
Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore,
And either hand a pointed javelin 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 chased away
The flying stars, and light restored the day,
Eneas called the Trojan troops around,
And thus bespoke them from a rising ground:
"Offspring of heaven, divine Dardanian race,
The sun revolving through the ethereal space
The shining circle of the year has filled
Since first this isle my father'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 piled, and holy flames,
Though banished to Getulia's barren sands.
Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands;
But since this happy storm our fleet has driven
(Not, as I deem, without the will of Heaven)
Upon these friendly shores and flowery plains,
Which hide Anchises and his blest remains,
Let us with joy perform his honours due,
And pray for prosperous 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 gods' renown.
Our sports, Acestes of the Trojan race,
With royal gifts ordained, is pleased to grace.
Two steers on every 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 watery race,
Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend,
And others try the twanging bow to bend ;
The strong with iron gauntlets armed shall stand
Opposed in combat on the yellow sand.
Let all be present at the games prepared,
And joyful victors wait the just reward.
But now assist the rites, with garlands crowned."
He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.
Then Helymus, by his example led,
And old Acestes, each adorned his head.
Thus, young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,
His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.
Eneas then advanced amidst the train,
By thousands followed through the flowery plain,
To great Anchises' tomb, which, when he found,
He poured to Bacchus, on the hallowed ground,
Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more,
And two from offered bulls of purple gore.
With roses then the sepulchre he strewed,
And thus his father's ghost bespoke aloud:
"Hail, O ye holy manes hail again,
Paternal ashes! now reviewed in vain.
The gods permitted not that you with me
Should reach the promised shores of Italy,
Or Tiber's flood, what flood soc'er it be."
Scarce had he finished, when, with speckled pride,
A serpent from the tomb began to glide;
His hugy bulk on seven high volumes rolled,
Blue was his breadth of back, but streaked with scaly
gold.
Thus riding on his curls, he seemed to pass
A rolling fire along and singe the grass;
More various colours through 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 passed,
And with his lolling tongue essayed the taste.
Thus fed with holy food, the wond'rous guest
Within the hollow tomb retired to rest.
The pious prince, surprised at what he viewed,
The funeral honours with more zeal renewed,
Doubtful if this the place's genius were,
Or guardian of his father's sepulchre.
Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew,
As many swine, and steers of sable hue;
New generous wine he from the goblets poured,
And called his father's ghost, from hell restored.
The glad attendants in long order come,
Offering their gifts at great Anchises' 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 desired; the skies were bright
With rosy lustre of the rising light;
The bordering people roused by sounding fame
Of Trojan feasts and great Acestes' 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 victor's grace);
Within the circle arms and tripods lie,
Ingots of gold and silver heaped on high,
And vests embroidered of the Tyrian dye.
The trumpet's clangour then the feast proclaims,
And all prepare for their appointed games.
Four galleys first, which equal rowers bear,
Advancing, in the watery lists appear :
The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind,
Bore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind;
Gyas the vast Chimara's bulk commands,
Which rising like a towering city stands.
Three Trojans tug at every labouring 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 bilows roar
Above his head in storms; but when '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 fixed 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.
Besmeared with oil their naked shoulders shine;
All take their seats, and wait the sounding sign.
They grip their oars, and every panting breast
Is raised by turns with hope, by turns with fear depressed.
The clangour of the trumpet gives the sign,
At once they start, advancing in a line:
With shouts the sailors rend the starry skies,
Lashed with their oars, the smoky billows rise,
Sparkles the briny main, and the vexed 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, cre 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 favoured side;
Cries, murmurs, clamours, with a mixing sound,
From woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound.
Amidst the loud applauses of the shore.
Gyas outstripped the rest, and sprung before;
Cloanthus, better manned, pursued him fast,
But his o'er-masted galley checked his haste;
The Centaur and the Dolphin brush the brine
With equal oars, advancing in a line;
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