“They enter, glittering side by side, And rein their steeds with youthful pride, As ’neath their fathers’ eyes they ride, While all Trinacria’s host and Troy’s With plaudits greet the princely boys. Each has his hair by rule confined With stripped-off leaves in garland twined: Some ride with shapely bows equipped: Two cornel spears they bear, steel-tipped: And wreaths of twisted gold invest The neck, and sparkle on the breast. Three are the companies of horse, And three the chiefs that scour the course: Twelve gallant boys each chief obey, And shine in tripartite array. Young Priam first, Polites’ heir, Well pleased his grandsire’s name to bear, Leads his gay troop, himself decreed To raise up an Italian seed: He prances forth, all dazzling bright, On Thracian steed with spots of white: White on its fetlock’s front is seen, And white the space its brows between. Then Atys, next in place, from whom The Atian family descend: Young Atys, fresh with life’s first bloom, The boy Iulus’ sweet boy-friend: Iulus last, in form and face Pre-eminent his peers above, A courser rides of Tyrian race, Memorial gift of Dido’s love. Sicilian steeds the rest bestride From old Acestes’ stalls supplied. The Dardanids with mingling cheers Relieve the young aspirants’ fears, And gaze delighted, as they trace A parent’s mien in each fair face. “And now, when all from first to last Beneath their kinsfolk’s eyes had past, Before the assembled crowd, Epytides shrills forth from far His signal-shout, as if for war, And cracks his whip aloud. In equal parts the bands divide, And gallop off on either side: Then wheeling round in full career Charge at a call with levelled spear Again, again they come and go, Through adverse spaces to and fro; Circles in circles interlock, And, sheathed in arms, the gazers mock With mimicry of battle-shock. And now they turn their backs in flight, Now put their spears in rest, And now in amity unite, And ride the field abreast.”