LXXXI. These feats Ascanius to his people showed, When girdling Alba Longa; there with joy The ancient Latins in the pastime rode, Wherein the princely Dardan, as a boy, Was wont his Trojan comrades to employ. To Alban children from their sires it came, And mighty Rome took up the "game of Troy," And called the players "Trojans," and the name Lives on, as sons renew the hereditary game. LXXXII. Thus far to blest Anchises they defrayed The funeral rites; when Fortune turned unkind, Forsook her faith. For while the games were played Before the tomb, Saturnian Juno's mind New schemes, to glut her ancient wrath, designed. Iris she calls, and bids the Goddess go Down to the Ilian fleet, and breathes a wind To waft her on. So, borne upon her bow Of myriad hues, unseen, the maiden hastes below. LXXXIII. She eyes the concourse, marks the ships unmanned, And sees the empty harbour and the shore. While far off on the solitary strand The Trojan dames sat sorrowful, and o'er The deep sea gazed, and, gazing, evermore Wept for the Sire. "Ah, woe! the fields of foam! The waste of waters for the wearied oar! Oh! for a city and a certain home; A rest for sea-worn souls, for weary 'tis to roam!" LXXXIV. So, not unversed in mischief, from the skies Amidst the gathered matrons down she came, In raiment and in face to mortal eyes No more a Goddess, but an aged dame, The wife of Doryclus, of Tmarian fame. E'en venerable Beroe, once blest With rank, and children and a noble name. So changed in semblance, the celestial guest Mixed with the Dardan dames, and thus the crowd addressed: LXXXV. "Oh, born to sorrow! whom th' Achaian foe Dragged not to death, when Ilion was o'erthrown! O hapless race! what still extremer woe Doth Fortune doom the living to bemoan? Since Ilion fell, seven summers nigh have flown, And we o'er every ocean, every plain, Past cheerless rocks, and under stars unknown, Oft and so oft are driven, as in vain Italia's shores we grasp, and welter on the main! LXXXVI. "'Tis Eryx' land, Acestes is our host. What hinders for the homeless here to gain A home--an Ilion for the one we lost? O fatherland! O home-gods saved in vain, If still in endless exile we remain! Ah! nevermore shall I behold with joy A Xanthus and a Simois again, Our Hector's streams? ne'er hear the name of Troy? Up! let devouring flames these ill-starred ships destroy!