'Tis Heaven, alas! and Jove's all-powerful doom, 295
That far, far diftant from our native home
Wills us to fall, inglorious! Oh my friend!
Once foremost in the fight, still prone to lend
Or arms or counsels, now perform thy best,
And what thou canst not fingly, 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 worft; 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 bursting 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 questions: Ever best of friends!
O fay, in every art of battle skill'd,
What holds thy courage from fo brave a field ?
On fome important meffage art thou bound,
Or bleeds my friend by some unhappy wound?
Inglorious here, my foul abhors to stay,
And glows with profpects of th' approaching day.
O prince! (Meriones replies) whose care
Leads forth th' embattled fons of Crete to war;
This fpeaks my grief; this headless lance I wield; 335
The reft lies rooted in a Trojan shield.
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 shields that flame with gold Nor vain (faid Merion) are our martial toils;
We too can boast of no ignoble spoils.
But thofe my ship contains ; whence distant far,
I 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 3
And were fome ambush for the foes défign'd,
Ev'n there, thy courage would not lag behind.
In that sharp fervice, fingled from the reft,
The fear of each, or valour, ftands confeft,
No force, no firmness, the pale coward shows;
He shifts his place; his colour comes and goes ; 360
A dropping fweat creeps cold on every part,
Against his bofom beats his quivering heart;
Terrour and death in his wild eye-balls farer;
With chattering teeth he ftands, and stiffening hair,
And looks a bloodless image of despair! 365
Not fo the brave—still dauntless, still the same,
Unchang'd his colour, and unmov'd his frame;
Compos'd his thought, determin'd is his eye,
And fix'd his foul, to conquer or to die:
If aught difturb the tenour of his breast,
'Tis but the wish to ftrike before the rest.
In fuch affays thy blameless worth is known, And every art of dangerous war thy own. By chance of fight whatever wounds you bore, Those wounds were glorious all, and all before; 375 Such as may teach, 'twas still thy brave delight T'oppose thy bofom where the foremost fight. But why, like infants, cold to honour's charms, Stand we to talk, when glory calls to arms? Go from my conquer'd fpears the choicest take, 380 And to their owners fend them nobly back. Swift as the word bold Merion fnatch'd a spear, And breathing flaughter follow'd to the war. So Mars armipotent invades the plain (The wide deftroyer of the race of man).
Terrour, his best-lov'd fon, attends his courfe,
Arm'd with ftern boldness, and enormous force;
The pride of haughty warriours to confound,
And lay the strength of tyrants on the ground:
From Thrace they fly, call'd to the dire alarms
Of warring Phlegyians, and Ephyrian arms;
Invok'd by both, relentless, they difpofe
To thefe glad conquest, murderous rout to those.
So march'd the leaders of the Cretan train,
And their bright arms shot horrour o'er the plain. 395 Then first spake Merion: Shall we join the right,
Or combat in the centre of the fight ?~~/
Or to the left our wanted fuccour lend?
Hazard and fame all parts alike attend.
Not in the centre (Idomen reply'd):
Qur ablest chieftains the main battle guide;
Each god-like Ajax makes that poft his care,
And gallant Téucer deals destruction there :
Skill'd, or with shafts to gall the distant field,
Or bear close battle on the founding shield.
These can the rage of haughty Hector tame :
Safe in their arms, the navy fears no flame;
Till Jove himself defcends, his bolts to shed,
And hurl the blazing ruin at our head.
Great must he be, of more than human birth,
Nor feed like mortals on the fruits of earth,
Him neither rocks can crush, nor fteel can wound,
Whom Ajax fells not on th' enfanguin'd ground:
In standing fight he mates Achilles' force,
Excell'd alone in fwiftnefs in the course.
Then to the left our ready arms apply,
And live with glory, or with glory die.
He faid; and Merion to th' appointed place,
Fierce as the God of battles, urg'd his pace.
Soon as the foe the shining chiefs beheld
Rush like a fiery torrent o'er the field,
Their force embodied in a tide they pour;
The rifing combat sounds along the shore.
As warring winds, in Sirius' fultry reign,
From different quarters fweep the fandy plain;
On every fide the dusty whirlwinds rife,
And the dry fields are lifted to the skies :
Thus, by defpair, hope, rage, together driven,
Met the black hosts, and, meeting, darken'd heaven. All dreadful glar'd the iron face of war,
Briftled with upright fpears, that flash'd afar;
Dire was the gleam, of breast-plates, helms, and fhields,
And polish'd arms emblaz'd the flaming fields;
Tremendous fcene! that general horrour gave,
But touch'd with joy the bofoms of the brave.
Saturn's great fons in fierce contention vy'd,
And crouds of heroes in their anger dy'd.
The Sire of earth and heaven, by Thetis won
To crown with glory Peleus' god-like fon,
Will'd not deftruction to the Grecian powers,
But fpar'd a while the deftin'd Trojan towers:
While Neptune, rifing from his azure main,
Warr'd on the King of Heaven with stern disdain,
And breath'd revenge, and fir'd the Grecian train.
Gods of one fource, of one ethereal race,
Alike divine, and heaven their native place;
VOL. II.
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