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.
IX.