day had put the stars to rout, Aeneas calls his comrades from all the shore together and speaks from a mounded eminence: “Great sons of Dardanus, born of heaven’s high race, with the passing of the months the circling year draws to an end since we laid in earth the dust, all that was left, of my divine father, and hallowed the altars of grief. And now, if I err not, the day is at hand which I shall keep (such, O gods, was your will) ever as a day of grief, ever as a day of honour. Were I spending it in exile in the Gaetulian Syrtes, or caught on the Argolis sea or in Mycenae’s town, yet would I perform the yearly vow with rites of solemn ordinance and pile the altars with due gifts.

But now, lo! by my sire’s own dust and bones we stand – not, I think, without the purpose and will of