Trojans! be firm; this arm fhall make your way 205
Through yon fquare body, and that black array.
Stand, and my spear fhall rout their scattering power,
Strong as they feem, embattled like a tower.
For he that Juno's heavenly bofom warms,
The firft of Gods, this day infpires our arms.
He said, and rouz'd the soul in every breast;
Urg'd with defire of fame, beyond the rest,
Forth march'd Deïphobus; but, marching, held
Before his wary steps his ample fhield.
Bold Merion aim'd a stroke (nor aim'd it wide)
The glittering javelin pierc'd the tough bull-hide;
But pierc'd not through: unfaithful to his hand,
The point broke short, and sparkled in the fand.
The Trojan warriour, touch'd with timely fear,
On the rais'd orb to distance bore the spear
The Greek retreating mourn'd his fruftrate blow,
And curs'd the treacherous lance that fpar'd' a foe;
Then to the fhips with furly fpeed he went,
To feek a furer javelin in his tent.
Meanwhile with rifing rage the battle glows,
The tumult thickens, and the clamour grows.
By Teucer's arm the warlike Imbrius bleeds,
The fon of Mentor, rich in generous steeds.
Ere yet to Troy the fons of Greece were led,
In fair Pedæus' verdant pastures bred,
The youth had dwelt; remote from war's alarms,
And blefs'd in bright Medeficafte's arms:
(This nymph, the fruit of Priam's ravish'd joy,
Ally'd the warriour to the house of Troy.)
To Troy, when glory call'd his arms,
And match'd the braveft of her chiefs in fame:
With Priam's fons, a guardian of the throne,
He liv'd, belov'd and honour'd as his own.
Him Teucer pierc'd between the throat and ear:
He
groans beneath the Telamonian fpear.
As from fome far-feen mountain's airy crown,
Subdued by steel, a tall ash tumbles down,
And foils its verdant treffes on the ground:
So falls the youth; his arms the fall resound.
Then Teucer rushing to defpoil the dead,
From Hector's hand a fhining javelin fled :
He faw, and fhunn'd the death; the forceful dart
Sung on, and pierc'd Amphimachus's heart,
Cteatus' fon, of Neptune's forceful line;
Vain was his courage, and his race divine !
Proftrate he falls; his clanging arms refound,
And his broad buckler thunders on the ground.
To feize his beamy helm the victor flies,
And just had fasten'd on the dazzling prize,
When Ajax' manly arm a javelin flung;
Full on the shield's round bofs the weapon rung;
He felt the fhock, nor more was doom'd to feel,
Secure in mail, and fheath'd in shining steel.
Repulsed, he yields; the victor Greeks obtain
The spoils contefted, and bear off the flain.
Between the leaders of th' Athenian line
(Stichius the brave, Menestheus the divine)
Deplor'd Amphimachus, fad object! lies;
Imbrius remains the fierce Ajaces' prize.
As two grim lions bear across the lawn,
Snatch'd from devouring hounds, a flaughter'd fawn,
In their fell jaws high-lifting through the wood,
And fprinkling all the shrubs with drops of blood;
So these the chief: great Ajax from the dead
Strips his bright arms, Oïleus lops his head:
Tofs'd like a ball, and whirl'd in air away,
At Hector's feet the gory visage lay.
The God of Ocean, fir'd with stern disdain, And pierc'd with forrow for his * grandson slain, Infpires the Grecian hearts, confirms their hands,. 275 And breathes deftruction on the Trojan bands. Swift as a whirlwind rushing to the fleet, He finds the lance-fam'd Idomen of Crete; His penfive brow the generous care exprest
With which a wounded foldier touch'd his breast, 280
Whom in the chance of war a javelin tore,
And his fad.comrades from the battle bore;
Him to the furgeons of the camp he sent;.
That office paid, he issued from his tent,
Fierce for the fight: to whom the. God begun,
In Thoas' voice, Andræmon's valiant fon,
Who rul❜d where Calydon's white rocks arise,
And Pleuron's chalky cliffs emblaze the skies :
Where's now th' imperious vaunt, the daring boast,
Of Greece victorious, and proud Ilion loft?
To whom the king: On Greece no blame be thrown Arms are her trade, and war is all her own. Her hardy heroes from the well-fought plains, Nor fear withholds, nor fhameful floth detains..
'Tis Heaven, alas! and Jove's all-powerful doom, 295
That far, far distant from our native home
Wills us to fall, inglorious! Oh my friend!
Once foremost in the fight, ftill prone to lend
Or arms or counfels, now perform thy best,
And what thou canst not singly, urge the rest.
Thus he; and thus the God, whose force can make
The folid globe's eternal basis shake:
Ah! never may he see his native land,
But feed the vultures on this hateful strand,
Who feeks ignobly in his ships to stay,
Nor dares to combat on this fignal day!
For this, behold! in horrid arms I shine,
And urge thy foul to rival acts with mine:
Together let us battle on the plain ;
Two, not the worst ; nor ev'n this fuccour vain: 310 Not vain the weakest, if their force unite;
But ours, the bravest have confess'd in fight.
This faid, he rushes where the combat burns ;
Swift to his tent the Cretan king returns.
From thence, two javelins glittering in his hand, 315
And clad in arms that lighten'd all the strand,
Fierce on the foe th' impetuous hero drove ;
Like lightning burfting from the arm of Jove,
Which to pale man the wrath of Heaven declares,
Or terrifies th' offending world with wars;
In ftreamy sparkles, kindling all the skies,
From pole to pole the trail of glory flies.
Thus his bright armour o'er the dazzled throng
Gleam'd dreadful, as the monarch flash'd along.
Him near his tent, Meriones attends;
Whom thus he queftions: Ever beft of friends!
O fay, in every art of battle fkill'd,
What holds thy courage from fo brave a field?
On fome important message art thou bound,
Or bleeds my friend by fome unhappy wound?
Inglorious here, my foul abhors to stay,
And glows with profpects of th' approaching day.
O prince! (Meriones replies) whofe care
Leads forth th' embattled fons of Crete to war;
This fpeaks my grief; this headlefs lance I wield; 335
The reft lies rooted in a Trojan fhield.
To whom the Cretan: Enter, and receive
The wanted weapons; thofe my tent can give;
Spears I have ftore (and Trojan lances all)
That fhed a luftre round th' illumin'd wall.
Though I, difdainful of the diftant war,
Nor truft the dart, nor aim th' uncertain fpear,
Yet hand to hand I fight, and spoil the flain;
And thence thefe trophies and these arms I gain.
Enter, and fee on heaps the helmets roll'd,
And high-hung fpears, and fhields that flame with gold.
Nor vain (faid Merion) are our martial toils;
We too can boast of no ignoble spoils.
But thofe my fhip contains; whence diftant far,
fight confpicuous in the van of war.
What need I more? if any Greek there be
Who knows not Merion, I appeal to thee.
To this, Idomeneus: The fields of fight
Have prov'd thy valour, and unconquer'd might ;
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