XV. Now came the looked-for day. The ninth fair dawn Bright Phaethon drove up a cloudless sky. Rumour and great Acestes' name had drawn The neighbouring folk; shoreward in crowds they hie To see the Trojans, or the games to try. Piled in the lists the presents they behold, Green garlands, tripods, robes of purple dye, The conqueror's palm, bright armour for the bold, And many a talent's weight of silver and of gold. XVI. Now from a mound the trumpet's notes proclaim The sports begun. Four galleys from the fleet, The choicest, manned by mariners of fame, And matched in size and urged with ponderous beat Of oar-blades, for the naval contest meet. See, here the Shark comes speeding to her place, Trained is her crew and eager to compete, Brave Mnestheus is her captain, born to grace Italia's land ere long, and found the Memmian race. XVII. Here too, the huge Chimaera towers along, A floating citadel, with walls of pine, Three tale of Dardans urge her, stout and strong, Their triple tiers in unison combine To drive her, ruled by Gyas, through the brine. Borne in the monstrous Centaur, next doth come Sergestus, father of the Sergian line. Last, in the dark-blue Scylla ploughs the foam Cloanthus, whence thy house, Cluentius of Rome. XVIII. Far seaward stands, afront the foamy shore, A rock, half-hid when wintry waves upleap, And skies are starless, and the North-winds roar, But still and silent, when the calm waves sleep, A level top it lifts above the deep, The seamews' haunt. A bough of ilex here The good AEneas sets upon the steep, Green-leaved and tall,--a goal, to seamen clear, To seek and, doubling round, their homeward course to steer. XIX. Each takes his station. On the sterns behold, Ranged in due order as the lots assign, The captains, gay with purple and with gold. The crews their brows with poplar garlands twine, And wet with oil their naked shoulders shine. Prone on their oars, and straining from the thwart, With souls astretch, they listen for the sign. Fear stirs the pulse and drains the throbbing heart, Thrilled with the lust of praise, and panting for the start. XX. Loud peals the trumpet. From the port they dash With cheers. The waves hiss, as the strong arms keep In time, drawn up to finish with a flash; And three-toothed prow and oars, with measured sweep, Tear up the yawning furrows of the deep, Less swiftly, to the chariot yoked atwain, The bounding racers from the base outleap, Less keen the driver, as they scour the plain, Leans o'er the whistling lash, and slacks the streaming rein.