King Cisseus, memorial and token, Of everlasting friendship.” On his brows He bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victor Over the rest, and no one grudged the honor, Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove; Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether, Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast, Hippocoön, was not forgotten either. 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.