But while the shoot was on, Aeneas called Epytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him, With words for a loyal ear:--“Go, tell Iulus, If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled, To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presenting Himself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back, Leaving the long course clear and the field open. The boys rode in, shining on bridled ponies Before their fathers’ eyes, in true formation, To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighed The young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wands With iron at the tip; and some had quivers Bright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of gold Looped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leaders Led, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followed Each gay young captain. One of them was Priam, Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson, On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock. Young Atys led another line--(The Atii, In Latium, claim descent from him)--young Atys, Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome, Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser, Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carried The other riders, who rode up to the cheering Shy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcome Of crowds that saw the fathers in the children. They rode full circle once, and then a signal, A crack of the whip, was given, and they parted Into three groups, went galloping off, recalled, Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready, Made march and counter-march, troops intermingled With troops, to right and left, in mimic battle, Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a course Confusing as the Labyrinth in Crete Whose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hidden A thousand wandering ways, mistake and error Threading insoluble mazes, so the children, The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflict In flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leaping Through the Carpathian waters. This was a custom Ascanius, when grown, himself established At Alba Longa, his own town, and taught there What he had learned in boyhood, and the Albans In turn informed their children, and the Romans Keep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy, And the game Trojan, to this very day, From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.
Here fortune changed, not keeping faith; for Juno, While the ritual of sport went on, sent Iris, With a fair wind, to the Trojan fleet. She was angry, Still, and the ancient grudge unsatisfied, And Iris, over her thousand-colored rainbow, Ran her swift path, unseen, beheld the crowd, Surveyed the shore, harbor and fleet deserted, While far off on the lonely coast the women Mourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watching The unfathomable deep. “For weary people, Alas! how much remains, of shoal and ocean!” So ran the common sigh. They crave a city, They are tired of bearing the vast toil of sailing, And into their midst came Iris, versed in mischief, Laying aside her goddess-guise, becoming Old Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometime Had children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris, Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers. “Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the Greeks Never laid hands, to drag us down to death Before our native walls! Unfortunate people, For what is fortune saving us, what doom, What dying? It is seven weary summers Since Troy’s destruction, and still we wander over All lands, all seas, with rocks and stars forever Implacable, as we go on pursuing A land that flees forever over the waters. Here lived our brother Eryx, here we find A welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids us To found the walls, to build our city here? O fatherland, O household gods in vain Saved from the Greeks, will there never be any walls For Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus, The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burn These vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you, I have been given warnings; in a dream I saw Cassandra, she was giving me firebrands, _Here seek your Troy, here is your home_, she told me; It is time for us to act, be quick about it! Neptune himself, with fire on these four altars, Provides the method, and the resolution.”