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And order'd you the prize without the lot.

Accept this goblet, rough with figur'd gold,
Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old:

This pledge of ancient amity receive,
Which to my second sire I justly give."

He said, and, with the trumpets' cheerful sound,
Proclaim'd him victor, and with laurel-crown'd.

Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize,
Tho' he transfix'd the pigeon in the skies.

Who cut the line, with second gifts was grac'd;
The third was his whose arrow pierc'd the mast.

The chief, before the games were wholly done,
Call'd Periphantes, tutor to his son,

And whisper'd thus: "With speed Ascanius find;
And, if his childish troop be ready join'd,

On horseback let him grace his grandsire's day,
And lead his equals arm'd in just array."

He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears.
The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears.

And now the noble youths, of form divine,
Advance before their fathers, in a line;

The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.
Thus marching on in military pride,

Shouts of applauseresound from side to side.
Their casques adorn'd with laurel wreaths they wear,

Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear.
Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore;

Their chains of burnish'd gold hung down before.
Three graceful troops they form'd upon the green;

Three graceful leaders at their head were seen;
Twelve follow'd ev'ry chief, and left a space between.

The first young Priam led; a lovely boy,
Whose grandsire was th' unhappy king of Troy;

His race in after times was known to fame,
New honors adding to the Latian name;

And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became.
White were the fetlocks of his feet before,

And on his front a snowy star he bore.
Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred,

Of equal age, the second squadron led.
The last in order, but the first in place,

First in the lovely features of his face,
Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed,

Queen Dido's gift, and of the Tyrian breed.
Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains,

With golden bits adorn'd, and purple reins.
The pleas'd spectators peals of shouts renew,

And all the parents in the children view;
Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace,

And hopes and fears alternate in their face.
Th' unfledg'd commanders and their martial train

First make the circuit of the sandy plain
Around their sires, and, at th' appointed sign,

Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line.
The second signal sounds, the troop divides

In three distinguish'd parts, with three distinguish'd guides
Again they close, and once again disjoin;

In troop to troop oppos'd, and line to line.
They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar

With harmless rage and well-dissembled war.
Then in a round the mingled bodies run:

Flying they follow, and pursuing shun;
Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew

In other forms the military shew.
At last, in order, undiscern'd they join,

And march together in a friendly line.
And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old,

With wand'ring ways and many a winding fold,
Involv'd the weary feet, without redress,

In a round error, which denied recess;
So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play,

Turn'd and return'd, and still a diff'rent way.
Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase

In circles, when they swim around the wat'ry race.
This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught;

And, building Alba, to the Latins brought;
Shew'd what he learn'd: the Latin sires impart

To their succeeding sons the graceful art;
From these imperial Rome receiv'd the game,

Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.
Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate:

But Fortune soon resum'd her ancient hate;
For, while they pay the dead his annual dues,

Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views;
And sends the goddess of the various bow,

To try new methods of revenge below;
Supplies the winds to wing her airy way,

Where in the port secure the navy lay.
Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends,

And, undiscern'd, her fatal voyage ends.
She saw the gath'ring crowd; and, gliding thence,

The desart shore, and fleet without defense.
The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone,

With sighs and tears Anchises' death bemoan;
Then, turning to the sea their weeping eyes,

Their pity to themselves renews their cries.
"Alas!" said one, "what oceans yet remain

For us to sail! what labors to sustain!"
All take the word, and, with a gen'ral groan,

Implore the gods for peace, and places of their own.
The goddess, great in mischief, views their pains,

And in a woman's form her heav'nly limbs restrains.
In face and shape old Beroe she became,

Doryclus' wife, a venerable dame,
Once blest with riches, and a mother's name.

Thus chang'd, amidst the crying crowd she ran,
Mix'd with the matrons, and these words began:

"O wretched we, whom not the Grecian pow'r,
Nor flames, destroy'd, in Troy's unhappy hour!

O wretched we, reserv'd by cruel fate,
Beyond the ruins of the sinking state!

Now sev'n revolving years are wholly run,
Since this improsp'rous voyage we begun;

Since, toss'd from shores to shores, from lands to lands,
Inhospitable rocks and barren sands,

Wand'ring in exile thro' the stormy sea,
We search in vain for flying Italy.

Now cast by fortune on this kindred land,
What should our rest and rising walls withstand,

Or hinder here to fix our banish'd band?
O country lost, and gods redeem'd in vain,

If still in endless exile we remain!
Shall we no more the Trojan walls renew,

Or streams of some dissembled Simois view!
Haste, join with me, th' unhappy fleet consume!

Cassandra bids; and I declare her doom.
In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands

(For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands:
'With these,' said she, 'these wand'ring ships destroy:

These are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.'
Time calls you now; the precious hour employ:

Slack not the good presage, while Heav'n inspires
Our minds to dare, and gives the ready fires.

See! Neptune's altars minister their brands:
The god is pleas'd; the god supplies our hands."

Then from the pile a flaming fire she drew,
And, toss'd in air, amidst the galleys threw.

Wrapp'd in amaze, the matrons wildly stare:
Then Pyrgo, reverenc'd for her hoary hair,

Pyrgo, the nurse of Priam's num'rous race:
"No Beroe this, tho' she belies her face!

What terrors from her frowning front arise!
Behold a goddess in her ardent eyes!

What rays around her heav'nly face are seen!
Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien!

Beroe but now I left, whom, pin'd with pain,
Her age and anguish from these rites detain,"

She said. The matrons, seiz'd with new amaze,
Roll their malignant eyes, and on the navy gaze.

They fear, and hope, and neither part obey:
They hope the fated land, but fear the fatal way.

The goddess, having done her task below,
Mounts up on equal wings, and bends her painted bow.

Struck with the sight, and seiz'd with rage divine,
The matrons prosecute their mad design:

They shriek aloud; they snatch, with impious hands,
The food of altars; fires and flaming brands.

Green boughs and saplings, mingled in their haste,
And smoking torches, on the ships they cast.

The flame, unstopp'd at first, more fury gains,
And Vulcan rides at large with loosen'd reins:

Triumphant to the painted sterns he soars,
And seizes, in this way, the banks and crackling oars.

Eumelus was the first the news to bear,
While yet they crowd the rural theater.

Then, what they hear, is witness'd by their eyes:
A storm of sparkles and of flames arise.

Ascanius took th' alarm, while yet he led
His early warriors on his prancing steed,

And, spurring on, his equals soon o'erpass'd;
Nor could his frighted friends reclaim his haste.

Soon as the royal youth appear'd in view,
He sent his voice before him as he flew:

"What madness moves you, matrons, to destroy
The last remainders of unhappy Troy!

Not hostile fleets, but your own hopes, you burn,
And on your friends your fatal fury turn.

Behold your own Ascanius!" While he said,
He drew his glitt'ring helmet from his head,

In which the youths to sportful arms he led.
By this, Aeneas and his train appear;

And now the women, seiz'd with shame and fear,
Dispers'd, to woods and caverns take their flight,

Abhor their actions, and avoid the light;
Their friends acknowledge, and their error find,

And shake the goddess from their alter'd mind.
Not so the raging fires their fury cease,

But, lurking in the seams, with seeming peace,
Work on their way amid the smold'ring tow,

Sure in destruction, but in motion slow.
The silent plague thro' the green timber eats,

And vomits out a tardy flame by fits.
Down to the keels, and upward to the sails,

The fire descends, or mounts, but still prevails;
Nor buckets pour'd, nor strength of human hand,

Can the victorious element withstand.
The pious hero rends his robe, and throws

To heav'n his hands, and with his hands his vows.
"O Jove," he cried, "if pray'rs can yet have place;

If thou abhorr'st not all the Dardan race;
If any spark of pity still remain;



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