Nor yet the pile where dead Patroclus lies,
Smokes, nor as yet the sullen flames arise;
But fast beside, Achilles stood in prayer,
Iarok'd the gods, whose spirit moves the air,
And victims promis'd, and libations cast,.
To gentle Zephyr and the Boreal blast:
He call'd th' aerial powers, along the skies
To breathe, and whisper to the fires to rise.
The winged Iris heard the hero's call,
And instant hasten'd to their airy hall,
Where, in old Zephyr's open courts on high,
Sat all the blustering brethren of the sky.
She shone amidst them, on her painted bow;
The rocky pavement glitter'd with the show.
All from the banquet rise, and each invites
The various goddess to partake the rites:
"Not so" (the dame reply'd) "I haste to go
To sacred Ocean, and the floods below:
Er'n now our solemn hecatombs attend,

And Heaven is feasting on the world's green end,
With righteous Ethiops (uncorrupted train!)
Far on th' extremest limits of the main."
Bat Peleus' son entreats, with sacrifice,
The Western spirit, and the North to rise;
"Let on Patroclus' pile your blast be driven,
And bear the blazing honours high to Heaven."
Swift as the word she vanish'd from their view:
Swift as the word the winds tumultuous flew ;
Forth burst the stormy band with thundering roar,
And heaps on heaps the clouds are tost before,
To the wide main then stooping from the skies,
The heaving deeps in watery mountains rise:
Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls,
Till on the pile the gather'd tempest falls.
The structure crackles in the roaring fires,
And all the night the plenteous flame aspires.
All night Achilles hails Patroclus' soul,
With large libations from the golden bowl...
As a poor father, helpless and undone,
Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son,
Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
And pours in tears, ere yet they close the urn:
So stay'd Achilles, circling round the shore,
So watch'd the flames, 'till now they flame no more.
'Twas when, emerging through the shades of night,
The morning planet told th' approach of light;
And fast behind, Aurora's warmer ray
O'er the broad ocean pour'd the golden day:
Then sunk the blaze, the pile no longer burn'd,
And to their caves the whistling winds return'd;
Across the Thracian seas their course they bore;
The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.

Then parting from the pile he ceas'd to weep, And sunk to quiet in th' embrace of sleep, Exhausted with his grief: meanwhile the crowd Of thronging Grecians round Achilles stood; The tumult wak'd him: from his eyes he shook Unwilling slumber, and the chiefs bespoke :

Ye kings and princes of th' Achaian name! First let us quench the yet remaining flame With sable wine; then (as the rites direct) The hero's bones with careful view select: (Apart, and easy to be known, they lie Amidst the heap, and obvious to the eye: The rest around the margin will be seen Promiscuous, steeds and immolated men). These, wrapt in double calls of fat, prepare; And in the golden vase dispose with care; There let them rest, with decent honour laid, Till I shall follow to th' infernal shade. VOL XIX.

Meantime erect the tomb with pious hands,
A common structure on the humble sands;
Hereafter Greece some nobler work may raise,
And late posterity record our praise."

The Greeks obey; where yet the embers glow, Wide o'er the pile the sable wine they throw, And deep subsides the ashy heap below. Next, the white bones his sad companions place, With tears collected, in the golden vase. The sacred relics to the tent they boze; The urn a veil of linen cover'd o'er. That done, they bid the sepulchre aspire, And cast the deep foundations round the pyre; High in the midst they heap the swelling bed Of rising earth, memorial of the dead.

The swarming populace the chief detains,
And leads amidst a wide extent of plains;
There plac'd them round: then from the ships pro-
ceeds

A train of oxen, mules, and stately steeds,
Vases and tripods (for the funeral games)
Resplendent brass, and more resplendent dames.
First stood the prizes to reward the force
Of rapid racers in the dusty course:

A woman for the first in beauty's bloom,
Skill'd in the needle, and the labouring loom;
And a large vase, where two bright handles rise,
Of twenty measures its capacious size.
The second victor claims a mare unbroke,
Big with a mule unknowing of the yoke:
The third a charger yet untouch'd by flame;
Four ample measures held the shining frame;
Two golden talents for the fourth were plac'd;
An ample double bowl contents the last.
These in fair order rang'd upon the plain,
The hero, rising, thus addrest the train:
"Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed
To brave the rulers of the racing steed;
Prizes which none beside ourself, could gain,
Should our immortal coursers take the plain
(A race unrival'd, which from ocean's god
Peleus receiv'd, and on his son bestow'd).
But this no time our vigour to display;
Nor suit with them the games of this sad day;
Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck
Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck.
Sad, as they shar'd in human grief, they stand,
And trail those graceful honours on the sand;
Let others for the noble task prepare,
Who trust the courser, and the flying car."

Fir'd at his word, the rival racers rise;
But far the first, Eumelus, hopes the prize,
Fam'd through Pieria for the fleetest breed,
And skill'd to manage the high-bounding steed.
With equal ardour bold Tydides swell'd
The steeds of Tros beneath his yoke compell'd
(Which late obey'd the Dardan chief's command,
When scarce a god redeem'd him from his hand).
Then Menelaus his Podargus brings,
And the fam'd courser of the king of kings:
Whom rich Echepolus (more rich than brave)
To 'scape the wars, to Agamemnon gave,
(Æthe her name) at home to end his days;
Base wealth preferring to eternal praise.
Next him Antilochus demands the course,
With beating heart, and cheers his Pylian horse.
Experienc'd Nestor gives his son the reins,
Directs his judgment, and his heat restrains;
Nor idly warns the hoary sire, nor hears
The prudent son with unattending ears:

L

My son! though youthful ardour fire thy breast, The gods have lov'd thee, and with arts have blest. Neptune and Jove on thee conferr'd the skill, Swift round the goal to turn the flying wheel. To guide thy conduct, little precept needs; But slow, and past their vigour, are my steeds. Fear not thy rivals, though for swiftness known; Compare those rivals' judgment, and thy own: It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize, And to be swift is less than to be wise. 'Tis more by art, than force of numerous strokes, The dextrous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks; By art the pilot, through the boiling deep And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship; And 'tis the artist wins the glorious course, Not those who trusts in chariots and in horse. In vain; unskilful, to the goal they strive, And short, or wide, the ungovern'd courser drive: While with sure skill, though with inferior steeds, The knowing racer to his end proceeds; Fix'd on the goal his eye fore-runs the course, His hand unerring steers the steady horse, And now contracts or now extends the rein, Observing still the foremost on the plain. Mark then the goal, 'tis easy to be found; Yon aged trunk, a cubit from the ground, Of some once stately oak the last remains, Or hardy fir, unperish'd with the rains: Enclos'd with stones, conspicuous from afar; And round, a circle for the wheeling car (Some tomb, perhaps, of old, the dead to grace; Or then, as now, the limit of a race); Bear close to this, and warily proceed, A little bending to the left-hand steed: But urge the right, and give him all the reins; While thy strict hand his fellow's head restrains, And turns him short; till, doubling as they roll, The wheel's round naves appear to brush the goal. Yet (not to break the car, or lame the horse) Clear of the stony heap direct the course; Lest, through incaution failing, thou may'st be A joy to others, a reproach to me. So shalt thou pass the goal, secure of mind, And leave unskilful swiftness far behind; Though thy fierce rival drove the matchless steed Which bore Adrastus, of celestial breed ; Or the fain'd race, through all the regions known, That whirl'd the car of proud Laomedon."

Thus (nought unsaid) the much-advising sage
Concludes; then sate, stiff with unwieldy age.
Next bold Meriones was seen to rise,
The last, but not least ardent for the prize.
They mount their seats; the lots their place dis-
pose

(Roll'd in his helmet, these Achilles throws).
Young Nestor leads the race: Eumelus then;
And next, the brother of the king of men:
Thy lot, Meriones, the fourth was cast;
And far the bravest, Diomed, was last.
They stand in order, an impatient train;
Pelides points the barrier on the plain,
And sends before old Phoenix to the place,
To mark the racers, and to judge the race.
At once the coursers from the barrier bound;
The lifted scourges all at once resound;

Their hearts, their eyes, their voice, they send be

fore;

And up the champaign thunder from the shore: Thick, where they drive, the dusty clouds arise, And the lost courser in the whirlwind flies;

Loose on their shoulders the long manos, reclin's,
Float in their speed, and dance upon the wind:
The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound,
Now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground.
While, hot for fame, and conquest all their care,
(Each o'er his flying courser hung in air)
Erect with ardour, pois'd upon the rein,
They pant, they stretch, they shout along the plain
Now (the last compass fetch'd around the goal)
At the near prize each gathers all his soul,
Each burns with double hope, with double pain,
Tears up the shore, and thunders toward the main.
First few Eumelus on Pheretian steeds;
With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds:
Close on Eumelus' back they puff the wind,
And seem just mounting on his car behind;
Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,
And, hovering o'er, their stretching shadow sees.
Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize:
But angry Phoebus to Tydides flies,

Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain
His matchless horses' labour on the plain.
Rage fills his eye, with anguish to survey,
Snatch'd from his hope, the glories of the day.
The fraud celestial Pallas sees with pain,
Springs to her knight, and gives the scourge again,
And fills his steeds with vigour. At a stroke,
She breaks his rival's chariot from the yoke;
Nor more their way the startled horses held;
The car revers'd came rattling on the field;
Shot headlong from his seat, beside the wheel,
Prone on the dust th' unhappy master fell;
His batter'd face and elbows strike the ground;
Nose, mouth, and front, one undistinguish'd wound:
Grief stops his voice, a torrent drowns his eyes;
Before him far the glad Tydides flies;
Minerva's spirit drives his matchless pace,
And crowns him victor of the labour'd race.

The next, though distant, Menelaus succeeds;
While thus young Nestor animates his steeds :
"Now, now, my generous pair, exert your force;
Not that we hope to watch Tydides' horse,
Since great Minerva wings their rapid way,
And gives their lord the honours of the day.
But reach Atrides! shall his mare out-go
Your swiftness, vanquish'd by a female foe?
Through your neglect, if lagging on the plain
The last ignoble gift be all we gain;

No more shall Nestor's band your food supply,
The old man's fury rises, and ye die.
Haste then; yon narrow road before our sight
Presents the occasion, could we use it right."

Thus he. The coursers, at their master's threat, With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat. And now Antilochus, with nice survey,

Observes the compass of the hollow way.
'Twas where, by force of wintery torrents torn,
Fast by the road a precipice was worn:

Here, where but one could pass to shun the throng,
The Spartan hero's chariot smok'd along.
Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep,
Still edging near, and bears him tow'rd the steep.
Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below,
And wonders at the rashness of his foe.

66

[to ride

Hold, stay your steeds!-What madness thus This narrow way! Take larger field" he cry'd, "Or both must fall."-Atrides ery'd in vain; He flies more fast, and throws up all the rain. Far as an able arm the disk can send, When youthful rivals their full force extend,

So far, Antilochus! thy chariot flew
Before the king: he, cautious, backward drew
His horse compell'd; foreboding in his fears
The rattling ruin of the clashing cars,
The floundering coursers rolling on the plain,
And conquest lost through frantic haste to gain:
But thus upbraids his rival, as he flies;

Go, furious youth! ungenerous and unwise!
Go, but expect not I'll the prize resign;-
Add perjury to fraud, and make it thine."
Then to his steeds with all his force he cries;
"Be swift, be vigorous, and regain the prize!
Your rivals, destitute of youthful force,
With fainting knees shall labour in the course,
And yield the glory yours."-The steeds obey;
Already at their heels they wing their way,
And seem already to retrieve the day.

Meantime the Grecians in a ring beheld
The coursers bounding o'er the dusty field.
The first who mark'd them was the Cretan king;
High on a rising ground, above the ring,
The monarch sate: from whence, with sure survey,
He well observ'd the chief who led the way,
And heard from far his animating cries,
And saw the foremost steed with sharpen'd eyes;
On whose broad front, a blaze of shining white,
Like the full Moon, stood obvious to the sight.
He saw; and, rising, to the Greeks begun :
"Are yonder horse discern'd by me alone?
Or can ye, all, another chief survey,
And other steeds, than lately led the way?
Those, though the swiftest, by some god withheld,
Lie sure disabled in the middle field:
For, since the goal they doubled, round the plain
I search to find them, but I search in vain.
Perchance the reins forsook the driver's hand,
And, turn'd too short, he tumbled on the strand,
Shot from the chariot; while his coursers stray
With frantic fury from the destin'd way.
Rise then some other, and inform my sight
(For these dim eyes, perhaps, discern not right)
Yet sure he seems (to judge by shape and air)
The great Ætolian chief, renown'd in war."

"Old man!" (Oïleus rashly thus replies) "Thy tongue too hastily confers the prize; Of those who view the course, not sharpest-cy'd, Nor youngest, yet the readiest to decide. Eumelus' steeds, high-bounding in the chase, Still, as at first, unrivall'd lead the race; I well discern him as he shakes the rein, And hear his shouts victorious o'er the plain." Thus he. Idomeneus, incens'd, rejoin'd: "Barbarous of words! and arrogant of mind! Contentious prince, of all the Greeks beside The last in merit, as the first in pride: To vile reproach what answer can we make? A goblet or a tripod let us stake, And be the king the judge. The most unwise Will learn their rashness, when they pay the prize." He said: and Ajax, by mad passion borne, Stern had reply'd; fierce scorn enhancing scorn To fell extremes: but Thetis' godlike son Awful amidst them rose, and thus begun :

"Forbear, ye chiefs! reproachful to contend; Much would you blame, should others thus offend : And lo! th' approaching steeds your contest end." No sooner had he spoke, but, thundering near, Drives through a stream of dust the charioteer. High o'er his head the circling lash he wields; His bounding horses scarcely touch the fields:

His car amidst the dusty whirlwind roll'd, Bright with the mingled blaze of tin and gold, Refulgent through the cloud; no eye could find The track his flying wheels had left behind: And the fierce coursers urg'd their rapid pace So swift, it seem'd a flight, and not a race. Now victor at the goal Tydides stands,

Quits his bright car, and springs upon the sands; From the hot steeds the sweaty torrents stream; The well-ply'd whip is hung athwart the beam: With joy brave Sthenelus receives the prize, The tripod-vase, and dame with radiant eyes: These to the ships his train triumphant leads, The chief himself unyokes the panting steeds.

Young Nestor follows (who by art, not force, O'er-past Atrides) second in the course. Behind, Atrides urg'd the race, more near Than to the courser in his swift career The following car, just touching with his heel, And brushing with his tail, the whirling wheel: Such and so narrow now the space between The rivals, late so distant on the green; So soon swift the her lost ground regain'd, One length, one moment, had the race obtain'd. Merion pursued, at greater distance still, With tardier coursers, and inferior skill. Last came, Admetus! thy unhappy son : Slow dragg'd the steeds his batter'd chariot on : Achilles saw, and pitying thus begun:

"Behold! the man whose matchless art surpast The sons of Greece! the ablest, yet the last! Fortune denies, but justice bids us pay (Since great Tydides bears the first away) To him the second honours of the day."

The Greeks consent with loud applauding cries; And then Eumelus had received the prize : But youthful Nestor, jealous of his fame, Th' award opposes, and asserts his claim. "Think not," he cries, "I tamely will resign, O Peleus' son! the mare so justly mine. What if the gods, the skilful to confound, [ground? Have thrown the horse and horseinan to the Perhaps he sought not Heaven by sacrifice, And vows omitted forfeited the prize. If yet (distinction to thy friend to show, And please a soul desirous to bestow) Some gift must grace Eumelus; view thy store Of beauteous handmaids, steeds, and shining ore; An ample present let him thence receive, And Greece shall praise thy generous thirst to give. But this my prize I never shall forego: This, who but touches, warriors! is my foe."

Thus spake the youth; nor did his words offend; Pleas'd with the well-turn'd flattery of a friend, Achilles smil'd: "The gift propos'd," he cry'd, "Antilochus! we shall ourself provide. With plates of brass the corselet cover'd o'er, (The same renown'd Asteropæus wore) Whose glittering margins rais'd with silver shine, (No vulgar gift) Eumelus, shall be thine."

He said: Automedon, at his command,
The corselet brought, and gave it to his hand.
Distinguish'd by his friend, his bosom glows
With generous joy: then Menelaus rose;
The herald plac'd the sceptre in h ́s hands,
And still'd the clamour of the shouting bands.
Not without cause incens'd at Nestor's son,
And inly grieving, thus the king begun :

"The praise of wisdom, in thy youth obtain'd, An act so rash, Antilochus, has stain'd.

Robb'd of my glory and my just reward,
To you, O Grecians! be my wrong declar'd:
So not a leader shall our conduct blame,
Or judge me envious of a rival's fame.
But shall not we, ourselves, the truth maintain?
What needs appealing in a fact so plain?
What Greek shall blame me, if I bid thee rise,
And vindicate by oath th' ill-gotten prize?
Rise if thou dar'st, before thy chariot stand,
The driving scourge high-fifted in thy hand;
And touch thy steeds, and swear, thy whole in-

tent

Was but to conquer, not to circumvent.
Swear by that god whose liquid arms surround
The globe, and whose dread earthquakes heave the
ground."

The prudent chief with calm attention heard;
Then mildly thus: "Excuse, if youth have err'd:
Superior as thou art, forgive th' offence,
Nor I thy equal, or in years, or sense.
Thou know'st the errours of unripen'd age,
Weak are its counsels, headlong is its rage.
The prize I quit, if thou the wrath resign;
The mare, or aught thou ask'st, be freely thine:
Ere I become (from thy dear friendship torn)
Hateful to thee, and to the gods forsworn."

So spoke Antilochus: and at the word
The mare contested to the king restor❜d.
Joy swells his soul: as when the vernal grain
Lifts the green ear above the springing plain,
The fields their vegetable life renew,

And laugh and glitter with the morning dew;
Such joy the Spartan's shining face o'erspread,
And lifted his gay heart, while thus he said:
"Still may our souls, O generous youth! agree,
'Tis now Atrides' turn to yield to thee.
Rash heat, perhaps, a moment might control,
Not break, the settled temper of thy soul.
Not but (my friend) 'tis still the wiser way
To wave contention with superior sway;
For ah! how few, who should like thee offend,
Like thee have talents to regain the friend!
To plead indulgence, and thy fault atone,
Suffice thy father's merit and thy own:
Generous alike, for me, the sire and son
Have greatly suffer'd, and have greatly done.
I yield; that all may know, my soul can bend,
Nor is my pride preferr'd before my friend."

He said; and, pleas'd his passion to command, Resign'd the courser to Noëman's hand, Friend of the youthful chief: himself content, The shining charger to his vessel sent. The golden talents Merion next obtain'd; The fifth reward, the double bowl, remain'd. Achilles this to reverend Nestor bears, And thus the purpose of his gift declares: Accept thou this, O sacred sire!" he said, "In dear memorial of Patroclus dead; Dead, and for ever lost, Patroclus lies, For ever snatch'd from our desiring eyes! Take thou this token of a grateful heart, Though 'tis not thine to hurl the distant dart, The quoit to toss, the ponderous mace to wield, Or urge the race, or wrestle on the field. Thy pristine vigour age has overthrown, But left the glory of the past thy own."

He said, and plac'd the goblet at his side; With joy the venerable king reply'd: "Wisely and well, my son, thy words have prov'd A senior honour'd, and a friend belov'd!

Too true it is, deserted of my strength,
These wither'd arms and limbs have fail'd at
Oh! had I now that force 1 felt of yore, [length,
Known through Buprasium and the Pylian shore!
Victorious then in every solemn game,
Ordain'd to Amarynce's mighty name;
The brave Epeians gave my glory way,
Ætolians, Pylians, all resign the day.
I quell'd Clytomedes in fights of hand,
And backward hurl'd Ancæus on the sand,
Surpast Iphyclus in the swift career,
Phyleus and Polydorus with the spear.
The sons of Actor won the prize of horse,
But won by numbers, not by art or force:
For the fam'd twins, impatient to survey
Prize after prize by Nestor borne away,
Sprung to their car; and with united pains
One lash'd the coursers, while one rul'd the reins.
Such once I was! Now to these tasks succeeds
A younger race, that emulate our deeds:
I yield, alas! (to age who must not yield?)
Though once the foremost hero of the field.
Go thou, my son! by generous friendship led,
With martial honours decorate the dead;
While pleas'd I take the gift thy hands present
(Pledge of benevolence, and kind intent);
Rejoic'd, of all the numerous Greeks, to see
Not one but honours sacred age and me:
Those due distinctions thou so well canst pay,
May the just gods return another day!"

Proud of the gift, thus spake the full of days.
Achilles heard him, prouder of the praise.

The prizes next are order'd to the field, For the bold champions who the cestus wield. A stately mule, as yet by toils unbroke, Of six years age, unconscious of the yoke, Is to the Circus led, and firmly bound; Next stands a goblet, massy, large, and round. Achilles, rising, thus: "Let Greece excite Two heroes equal to this hardy fight; Who dare the foe with lifted arms provoke, And rush beneath the long-descending stroke. On whom Apollo shall the palm bestow, And whom the Greeks supreme by conquest know, This mule his dauntless labours shall repay; The vanquish'd bear the massy bowl away."

This dreadful combat great Epeus chose; High o'er the crowd, enormous bulk! he rose, And seiz'd the beast, and thus began to say: "Stand forth some man, to bear the bowl away! (Prize of his ruin :) for who dares deny This mule my right; th' undoubted victor I? Others, 'tis own'd, in fields of battle shine, But the first honours of this fight are mine; For who excels in all? Then let my foe Draw near, but first his certain fortune know; Secure, this hand shall his whole frame confound, Mash all his bones, and all his body pound: So let his friends be nigh, a needful train, To heave the batter'd carcase off the plain." The giant spoke; and in a stupid gaze The host beheld him, silent with amaze! 'Twas thou, Euryalus! who durst aspire To meet his might, and emulate thy sire, The great Mecistheus; who in days of yore In Theban games the noblest trophy bore, (The games ordain'd dead Oedipus to grace) And singly vanquish'd the Cadmæan race. Him great Tydides urges to contend, Warm'd with the hopes of conquest for his friend;

Officious with the cincture girds him round; And to his wrist the gloves of death are bound. Amid the circle now each champion stands, And poises high in air his iron hands; With clashing gauntlets now they fiercely close, Their crackling jaws re-echo to the blows, And painful sweat from all their members flows. At length Epeus dealt a weighty blow, Full on the cheek of his unwary foe; Beneath that ponderous arm's resistless sway Down dropt he, nerveless, and extended lay. As a large fish, when winds and waters roar, By some huge billow dash'd against the shore, Lies panting: not less batter'd with his wound, The bleeding hero pants upon the ground. To rear his fallen foe, the victor lends, Scornful, his hand! and gives him to his friends; Whose arms support him reeling through the throng,

And dragging his disabled legs along;

Nodding, his head hangs down his shoulder o'er;
His mouth and nostrils pour the clotted gore;
Wrapt round in mists he lies, and lost to thought;
His friends receive the bowl, too dearly bought.
The third bold game Achilles next demands,
And calls the wrestlers to the level sands:
A massy tripod for the victor lies,
Of twice six oxen its reputed price;
And next, the loser's spirits to restore,
A female captive, valued but at four.
Scarce did the chief the vigorous strife propose,
When tower-like Ajax and Ulysses rose.
Amid the ring each nervous rival stands,
Embracing rigid with implicit hands:
Close lock'd above, their heads and arms are mixt;
Below, their planted feet at distance fix? :
Like two strong rafters which the builder forms,
Proof to the wintery wind and howling storms,
Their tops connected, but at wider space
Fixt on the centre stands their solid base.
Now to the grasp each manly body bends;
The humid sweat from every pore descends;
Their bones resound with blows: sides, shoulders,

thighs,

Swell to each gripe, and bloody tumours rise.
Nor could Ulysses, for his art renown'd,
O'erturn the strength of Ajax on the ground;
Nor could the strength of Ajax overthrow
The watchful caution of his artful foe.
While the long strife ev'n tir'd the lookers-on,
Thus to Ulysses spoke great Telamon:
"O let me lift thee, chief, or lift thou me;
Prove we our force, and Jove the rest decree."
He said; and, straining, heav'd him off the
ground

[bine

With matchless strength; that time Ulysses found
The strength t' evade, and where the nerves com-
His ankle struck: the giant fell supine;
Ulysses, following, on his bosom lies;
Shouts of applause run rattling through the skies.
Ajax to lift, Ulysses next essays,

He barely stirr'd him, but he could not raise:.
His knee lock'd fast, the foe's attempt deny'd;
And grappling close, they tumbled side by side.
Defil'd with honourable dust, they roll,
Still breathing strife, and unsubdued of soul:
Again they rage, again to combat rise;
When great Achilles thus divides the prize:

"Your noble vigour, oh my friends! restrain : Nor weary out your generous strength in vain.

Ye both have won: let others who excel,
Now prove that prowess you have prov'd so well."
The hero's words the willing chiefs obey,
From their tir'd bodies wipe the dust away,
And, cloth'd anew, the following games survey.
And now succeed the gifts ordain'd to grace
The youths contending in the rapid race.
A silver urn that full six measures held,
By none in weight or workmanship excell'd;
Sidonian artists taught the frame to shine,
Elaborate, with artifice divine;

Whence Tyrian sailors did the prize transport,
And gave to Thoas at the Lemnian port:
From him descended, good Eunæus heir'd
The glorious gift; and, for Lycaon spar'd,
To brave Patroclus gave the rich reward.
Now, the same hero's funeral rites to grace,
It stands the prize of swiftness in the race.
A well-fed ox was for the second plac'd;
And half a talent must content the last.
Achilles rising then bespoke the train-
"Who hope the palm of swiftness to obtain,
Stand forth, and bear these prizes from the plain."
The hero said, and, starting from his place,
Oïlean Ajax rises to the race;
Ulysses next; and he whose speed surpast
His youthful equals, Nestor's son the last.
Rang'd in a line the ready racers stand;
Pelides points the barrier with his hand :
All start at once; Oileus led the race;
The next Ulysses, measuring pace with pace;
Behind him, diligently close, he sped,
As closely following as the running thread
The spindle follows, and displays the charms
Of the fair spinster's breast, and moving arms:
Graceful in motion thus his foe he plies,
And treads each footstep ere the dust can rise:
His glowing breath upon his shoulders plays;
Th' admiring Greeks loud acclamations raise:
To him they give their wishes, hearts, and eyes,
And send their souls before him as he flies.
Now three times turn'd in prospect of the goal,
The panting chief to Pallas lifts his soul:

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Assist, O goddess!" (thus in thought he pray'd) And present at his thought descends the maid. Buoy'd by her heavenly force, he seems to swim, And feels a pinion lifting every limb.

All fierce, and ready now the prize to gain,
Unhappy Ajax stumbles on the plain
(O'erturn'd by Pallas); where the slippery shore
Was clogg'd with slimy dung, and mingled gore
(The self-same place, beside Patroclus' pyre,
Where late the slaughter'd victims fed the fire):
Besmear'd with filth, and blotted o'er with clay,
Obscene to sight, the rueful racer lay;
The well-fed bull (the second prize) he shar'd,
And left the urn Ulysses' rich reward.
Then, grasping by the horn the mighty beast,
The baffled hero thus the Greeks addrest :

"Accursed fate! the conquest I forego;
A mortal I, a goddess was my foe;
She urg'd her favourite on the rapid way,
And Pallas, not Ulysses, won the day."
Thus sourly wail'd he, sputtering dirt and

gore;