XXXIII. All summoned now, the herald's voice declares Cloanthus conqueror, and with verdant bay AEneas crowns him. To each crew he shares Three steers and wine, and, to recall the day, A silver talent bids them bear away. Choice honours to the captains next are told, A scarf he gives the victor, rich and gay, Twice-fringed with purple, glorious to behold, Whose Melibaean dye meanders round the gold. XXXIV. Inwoven there, behold the kingly boy, Fair Ganymede, pursues the flying deer On Ida and the wooded heights of Troy, Swift-footed, glorying with uplifted spear, So keen the panting of his heart ye hear. Down swoops Jove's armour-bearer, and on high With taloned claws hath trussed him. Vainly here His aged guardians lift their heads and cry; The faithful dogs look up, and fiercely bay the sky. XXXV. A goodly hauberk to the next he gave, With polished rings and triple chain of gold, Torn by his own hands from Demoleos brave, Beneath high Troy, where Simois swiftly rolled, The warrior's glory and defence, to hold. Phegeus and Sagaris, with all their might, Two stalwart slaves, scarce bore it, fold on fold, That coat of mail, wherein Demoleos dight, Trod down the ranks of Troy, and put his foes to flight. XXXVI. Last comes the third: two brazen caldrons fine, Two cups of silver doth the prince bestow, Rough-chased with imagery of choice design. Each had his prize, and glorying forth they go, With purple ribbons on their brows, when lo! Scarce torn with effort from the rock's embrace, Oarless, and short of oarsmen by a row, Home comes Sergestus, and in rueful case Drives his dishonoured bark, left hindmost in the race. XXXVII. As when an adder, whom athwart the way Some wheel hath crushed, or traveller, passing by, Maimed with a stone, as unaware he lay, And left sore mangled, on the point to die, In vain his coils would lengthen, fain to fly: One half erect, his burning eyes around He darts, and lifts his hissing throat on high, Defiant, half still writhes upon the ground, Self-twined in tortuous knots, and crippled by the wound: XXXVIII. So slowly rows the Centaur, yet anon They set the sails, and loose the spreading sheet, And crowd full canvas; and the port is won. Glad is AEneas, and he joys to greet His friends brought safely and his ships complete. So to Sergestus, for his portion due, He gives fair Pholoe, a slave of Crete, Twins at her breast, two sons of loveliest hue, And well Minerva's works, the weaving art, she knew.