to harbour my weary ships, than the land which keeps for
me above ground the Darden Acestes, and laps in its breast 5
the bones of my sire Anchises?” This said, they make
for the haven; favouring zephyrs swell their sail, the fleet
rides swiftly over the flood, and at last they touch with
joy the strand they know so well.
From a hill’s tall top Acestes had marked with wonder 10
afar off the new arrival, and the friendly vessels; up he
runs, all in the savage trim of hunting-spear and Libyan
bearskin—Acestes, son of a Trojan mother by the river