III. So having said, he bade the seamen take The tackling in, and ply the lusty oar, Then sloped the mainsheet to the wind, and spake: "Noble AEneas, e'en if high Jove swore To bring us safely to Italia's shore, With skies like these, 'twere hopeless. Westward loom The dark clouds mustering, and the changed winds roar Athwart us, and the air is thick with gloom. Vainly we strive to move, and struggle with our doom. IV. "Come, then, since Fortune hath the mastering hand, Yield we and turn. Not far, methinks, there lies A friendly shore, thy brother Eryx' land, And ports Sicanian, if aright these eyes Recall my former reading of the skies." Then good AEneas: "Long ago, 'tis plain, The winds so willed it. I have seen," he cries, "And marked thee toiling in their teeth in vain. Shift sail and turn the helm. What sweeter shore to gain, V. "What port more welcome to a wearied fleet And wave-worn mariners, what land more blest Than that where still Acestes lives, to greet His Dardan friends, and in the boon earth's breast My father's bones, Anchises', are at rest?" He spake; at once the Trojans strive to gain The port. Fair breezes, blowing from the West, Swell out the sails. They bound along the main, And soon with gladdening hearts the well-known shore attain. VI. Far off Acestes, wondering, from a height The coming of their friendly ships descries, And hastes to meet them. Roughly is he dight In Libyan bearskin, as in huntsman's guise; A pointed javelin in each hand he plies. Him once a Trojan to Crimisus bore, The stream-god. Mindful of ancestral ties He hails his weary kinsmen, come once more, And dainty fruits sets forth, and cheers them from his store. VII. Next dawn had chased the stars, when on the shore AEneas thus the gathered crews addressed: "Twelve months have passed, brave Dardans, since we bore The bones of great Anchises to his rest, And laid his ashes in the ground, and blessed The mourning altars by the rolling sea. And now once more, if rightly I have guessed, The day is come, which Heaven hath willed to be Sacred for evermore, but ever sad to me. VIII. This day, though exiled on Gaetulian sands, Or caught by tempests on th' AEgean brine, Or at Mycenae in the foemen's hands, With annual honours will I hold divine, And head with fitting offerings the shrine. By chance unsought, now hither are we led, Yet not, I ween, without the God's design, Where lie the ashes of my father dead, And greet a friendly port, by favouring breezes sped.