And more avail'd than strength, my valiant friend
Had urged a better right than Ajax can pretend :
As good at least Eurypylus may claim,
And the more moderate Ajax of the name:
The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer,
And Menelaus bold with sword and spear:
All these had been my rivals in the shield,
And yet all these to my pretensions yield.
Thy boisterous hands are then of use, when I
With this directing head those hands apply.
Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care
Foresees, provides, administers the war.
Thy province is to fight; but when shall be
The time to fight, the king consults with me:
No dram of judgment with thy force is join'd:
Thy body is of profit, and my mind.
By how much more the ship her safety owes
To him who steers, than him that only rows;
By how much more the captain merits praise,
Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys;
By so much greater is my worth than thine,
Who canst but execute what I design.
What gain'st thou brutal man, if I confess
Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less?
Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert,
From the mind's vigor, and the immortal part.
'But you, O Grecian chiefs, reward my care,
Be grateful to your watchman of the war:
For all my labors in so long a space,
Sure I may plead a title to your grace:
Enter the town; I then unbarr'd the gates,
When I removed their tutelary fates.
By all our common hopes, if hopes they be
Which I have now reduced to certainty;
By falling Troy, by yonder tottering towers,
And by their taken gods, which now are ours;
Or if there yet a farther task remains,
To be perform'd by prudence, or by pains;
If yet some desperate action rests behind,
That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind;
If aught be wanting to the Trojan doom,
Which none but I can manage and o'ercome,
Award those arms I ask, by your decree :
Or give to this, what you refuse to me.'
He ceased and ceasing, with respect he bow'd,
And with his hand at once the fatal statue show'd.
Heaven, air, and ocean, rung with loud applause,
And by the general vote he gain'd his cause.
Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail'd,
And eloquence o'er brutal force prevail'd.
AJAX, in despair, puts a period to his existence, and the blood of the hero is changed into a hyacinth.
HE who could often, and alone, withstand
The foe, the fire, and Jove's own partial hand,
Now cannot his unmaster'd grief sustain,
But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain ;
Then snatching out his falchion,' Thou,' said he,
'Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee.
O often tried, and ever-trusty sword, Now do thy last kind office to thy lord: 'Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show
None but himself himself could overthrow :'
He said, and with so good a will to die,
Did to his breast the fatal point apply.
It found his heart, a way till then unknown,
Where never weapon enter'd but his own.
No hands could force it thence, so fix'd it stood,
Till out it rush'd, expell'd by streams of spouting blood.
The fruitful blood produced a flower, which grew
On a green stem, and of a purple hue:
Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew:
Inscribed in both, the letters are the same,
But those express the grief, and these the name.
STORY OF POLYXENA AND HECUBA.
POLYXENA, the daughter of Priam, is sacrificed at the tomb of Achilles, while her brother Polydore, by his great riches, excites the avarice of Polymestor, king of Thrace, who murders him-The lifeless body of her son is discovered by Hecuba, who contrives to deprive the faithless monarch of his eyes-His subjects pursue her with darts and stones, when she is metamorphosed into a bitch.
THE victor with full sails for Lemnos stood,
(Once stain'd by matrons with their husbands' blood,)
Thence great Alcides' fatal shafts to bear,
Assign'd to Philoctetes' secret care.
These with their guardian to the Greeks convey'd,
Their ten years' toil with wish'd success repaid.
With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives ;
Till all her woes complete, transform'd she grieves
In borrow'd sounds, nor with a human face,
Barking tremendous o'er the plains of Thrace.
Still Ilium's flames their pointed columns raise,
And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze.
Shed on Jove's altar are the poor remains
Of blood, which trickled from old Priam's veins.
Cassandra lifts her hands to heaven in vain,
Dragg'd by her sacred hair; the trembling train
Of matrons to their burning temples fly:
There to their gods for kind protection cry;
And to their statues cling till forced away,
The victor Greeks bear off the invidious prey.
From those high towers Astyanax is thrown,
Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down, 635
When oft his mother with a fond delight
Pointed to view his father's rage in fight,
To win renown, and guard his country's right.
The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales Sing in the shrouds, and court the spreading sails. 640 'Farewell, dear Troy,' the captive matrons cry: 'Yes, we must leave our long-loved native sky.' Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand, And quit the smoking ruins of the land. Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears; Found weeping o'er her children's sepulchres: Dragg'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd sons, Whilst yet she grasp'd their tombs, and kiss'd their mouldering bones.
Yet Hector's ashes from his urn she bore,
And in her bosom the sad relic wore :
Then scatter'd on his tomb her hoary hairs,
A poor oblation mingled with her tears.
Opposed to Ilium lie the Thracian plains,
Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns.
King Priam to his care commits his son,
Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun.
A wise precaution! had not gold, consign'd
For the child's use, debauch'd the tyrant's mind.
When sinking Troy to its last period drew,
With impious hands his royal charge he slew;
Then in the sea the lifeless corse is thrown ;
As with the body he the guilt could drown.
The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore,
Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor.
Here the wide-opening earth to sudden view
Disclosed Achilles, great as when he drew
The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain,
As when he sought Briseis to regain ;
When stern debate, and rash injurious strife
Unsheathed his sword, to reach Atrides' life.
And will ye go?' he said: 'Is then the name
Of the once great Achilles lost to fame?
Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue
In vain for honors to my manes due.
For this just end, Polyxena I doom
With victim rites to grace my slighted tomb.'
The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey'd,
And to the tomb led the devoted maid
Snatch'd from her mother, who with pious care
Cherish'd this last relief of her despair.
Superior to her sex, the fearless maid
Approach'd the altar, and around survey'd
The cruel rites, and consecrated knife,
Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life.
Then, as with stern amaze intent he stood:
6 Now strike,' she said; now spill my generous
Deep in my breast or throat your dagger sheath,
Whilst thus I stand prepared to meet my death:
For life on terms of slavery I despise :
Yet sure no god approves this sacrifice.
O! could I but conceal this dire event
From my sad mother, I should die content.
Yet should she not with tears my death deplore,
Since her own wretched life demands them more.
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