every trace was baffled by a maze without solution and without return, not unlike are the courses in which these sons of the Teucrians interlace their movements—a gamesome tangle of flying and fighting, as it were dolphins that swimming the watery seas dart through the Carpathian 15 and the Libyan, and sport along the billows. Such was the form of exercise, and such the game that Ascanius, when he built the cincturing walls of Alba the Long, was the first to revive, and taught the early Latians to celebrate it as he had done in his boyhood, he and the youth of Troy 20 with him; the men of Alba taught their sons; from them mighty Rome received the tradition and maintained the observance of her sires; and the boys still bear the name of Troy, and their band is styled the band of Troy. Thus far went the solemn[194] games in honour of the deified sire. 25 Now it was that Fortune exchanged her old faith for new. While they are rendering to the tomb the due solemnities of the varied games, Juno, Saturn’s daughter, has sped down Iris from heaven to the feet of Ilion, with breath of winds to waft her on her way—Juno, deep-brooding 30 over many thoughts, her ancient wrath yet unsated. Speeding along her many-coloured bow, seen of none, runs swiftly down the celestial maid. She beholds that mighty concourse; she looks round on the coast, and sees harbour abandoned and fleet forsaken. Far away, in the privacy 35 of a solitary beach, the Trojan dames were weeping for lost Anchises, and, as they wept, were gazing, one and all, wistfully on the great deep. Alas, that wearied souls should still have those many waters to pass, and that vast breadth of sea! Such the one cry of every heart. Oh for a city! the toils of the main are a weariness to bear! So, then, in the midst of them, she suddenly alights—no novice in the ways of doing hurt—and lays by her heavenly 5 form and heavenly raiment. She takes the shape of Beroe, the aged wife of Doryclus of Tinaros, a dame who once had had race and name and children, and in this guise stands in the midst of the Dardan matrons. “Wretched women,” cries she, “not to have been dragged to the death 10 of battle by the force of Achaia under our country’s walls! Hapless nation! What worse than death has Fortune in store for you? Here is the seventh summer rolling on since Troy’s overthrow, and all the while we are being driven, land and ocean over, among all the rocks of an 15 unfriendly sea, under all the stars of heaven, as through the great deep we follow after retreating Italy, and are tossed from wave to wave. Here is the brother-land of Eryx; here is Acestes, our ancient friend. Who shall gainsay digging a foundation, and giving a people the city 20 they crave? O my country! O gods of our homes,