Hafte to the fhips, the gotten spoils enjoy,
Nor tempt too far the hoftile Gods of Troy.
The voice divine confess'd the martial Maid;
In hafte he mounted, and her word obey'd;
The courfers fly before Ulyffes' bow,
Swift as the wind, and white as winter-fnow.
Not unobferv'd they pass'd: the God of Light
Had watch'd his Troy, and mark'd Minerva's flight,
Saw Tydeus' fon with heavenly fuccour bleft,
And vengeful anger fill'd his facred breast.
Swift to the Trojan camp descends the Power,
And wakes Hippocoön in the morning hour
(On Rhefus' fide accustom❜d to attend,
A faithful kinfman, and instructive friend.)
He rofe, and faw the field deform'd with blood,
An empty space where late the courfers stood,
The yet-warm Thracians panting on the coaft;
For each he wept, but for his Rhefus moft:
Now while on Rhefus' name he calls in vain,
The gathering tumult spreads o'er all the plain; 615
On heaps the Trojans rufh, with wild affright,
And wondering view the flaughters of the night.
Meanwhile the chiefs arriving at the fhade
Where late the spoils of Hector's spy were laid,
Ulyffes ftopp'd; to him Tydides bore
The trophy, dropping yet with Dolon's gore :
Then mounts again; again their nimble feet
The courfers ply, and thunder tow'rds the fleet.
Old Neftor first perceiv'd th' approaching found,
Befpeaking thus the Grecian peers around :
Methinks the noife of trampling steeds I hear,
Thickening this way, and gathering on my ear;
Perhaps fome horfes of the Trojan breed
(So may, ye Gods! my pious hopes fucceed))
The great Tydides and Ulyffes bear,
Return'd triumphant with this prize of war.
Yet much I fear (ah may that fear be vain !)
The chiefs out-number'd by the Trojan train;
Perhaps, ev'n now pursued, they seek the shore;
Or, oh! perhaps thofe heroes are no more.
Scarce had he spoke, when lo! the chiefs appear,
And spring to earth; the Greeks dismiss their fear:
With words of friendship and extended hands
They greet the kings; and Nettor first demands:
Say thou, whofe praises all our hoft proclaim, 640 Thou living glory of the Grecian name!
Say, whence thefe courfers? by what chance bestow'd? The fpoil of foes, or prefent of a God?
Not thofe fair steeds fo radiant and so gay,
That draw the burning chariot of the day.
Old as I am, to age I fcorn to yield,
And daily mingle in the martial field ;
But fure till now no courfers ftruck my fight
Like thefe, confpicuous through the ranks of fight.
Some God, I deem, conferr'd the glorious prize, 650
Bleft as ye are, and favourites of the skies;
The care of him who bids the thunder roar,
And her, whofe fury bathes the world with gore,
r! not fo (fage Ithacus rejoin'd)
f Heaven are of a nobler kind;
Of Thracian lineage are the steeds ye view,
Whose hoftile king the brave Tydides flew;
Sleeping he dy'd, with all his guards around,
And twelve beside lay gasping on the ground.
These other spoils from conquer'd Dolon came,
A wretch, whose swiftness was his only fame,
By Hector fent our forces to explore,
He now lies headlefs on the fandy shore.
Then o'er the trench the bounding courfers flew;
The joyful Greeks with loud acclaim pursue.
Straight to Tydides' high pavilion borne,
The matchless steeds his ample stall adorn :
The neighing courfers their new fellows greet,
And the full racks are heap'd with generous wheat.
But Dolon's armour, to his ships convey'd,
High on the painted ftern Ulyffes laid,
A trophy deftin'd to the blue-ey'd Maid.
Now from nocturnal fweat, and languine ftain, They cleanse their bodies in the neighbouring main : Then in the polish'd bath, refresh'd from toil, Their joints they fupple with diffolving oil,
In due repaft indulge the genial hour,
And firft to Pallas the libations pour :
They fit, rejoicing in her aid divine,
And the crown'd goblet foams with floods of wine. 680
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