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His fathers quicken in his veins:
He hails his kinsmen, come once more,
With rustic splendour entertains,
And cheers them from his friendly store.

Soon as the morrow's dawning light
Had put the vanquished stars to flight,
Æneas thus from grassy mound
Bespeaks his comrades gathering round:
'Brave Dardans, born of heavenly line,
A year its round of months has made
Since in the sepulchre we laid
The relics of my sire divine,
And mourning altars reared.
And now that day has come, to me
For ever more, by heaven's decree,
Embittered and endeared.
That day, though in Gætulian wild
It found me outcast and exiled,
Though tossing o'er the Ægæan foam
Or lurking in an Argive home,
That sacred day I still would keep
And high with gifts the altars heap.
And now, as time and place conspire,
E'en at the ashes of my sire,
Not unconducted by the hand
Of favouring gods, to-day we stand.
Then join we gladly in the rite:
Invoke the winds to speed our flight,
And pray that he we hold so dear
]May take our offerings year by year,
Soon as our promised town we raise,
In temples sacred to his praise.
Acestes, Troy's descendant true,
Bestows to-day on every crew
Two fair and stately steers: