O prince! (Meriones replies) whose care Leads forth the embattled sons of Crete to war; This speaks my grief: this headless lance I wield; The rest lies rooted in a Trojan shield. To whom the Cretan: Enter, and receive The wonted weapons; those my tent can give; Spears I have store, (and Trojan lances all,) That shed a lustre round the illumined wall, Though I, disdainful of the distant war, Nor trust the dart, nor aim the uncertain spear, Yet hand to hand I ght, and spoil the slain; And thence these trophies, and these arms I gain. Enter, and see on heaps the helmets rolld, And high-hung spears, and shields that ame with gold. Nor vain (said Merion) are our martial toils; We too can boast of no ignoble spoils: But those my ship contains; whence distant far, I ght conspicuous 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 elds of ght

Have proved thy valour, and unconquerd might: And were some ambush for the foes designd, Even there thy courage would not lag behind: In that sharp service, singled from the rest, The fear of each, or valour, stands confessd. No force, no rmness, the pale coward shows; He shifts his place: his colour comes and goes: A dropping sweat creeps cold on every part; Against his bosom beats his quivering heart; Terror and death in his wild eye-balls stare; With chattering teeth he stands, and stiffening hair, And looks a bloodless image of despair! Not so the bravestill dauntless, still the same, Unchanged his colour, and unmoved his frame: Composed his thought, determined is his eye, And xd his soul, to conquer or to die: If aught disturb the tenour of his breast, Tis but the wish to strike before the rest. In such assays thy blameless worth is known,

And every art of dangerous war thy own. By chance of ght whatever wounds you bore, Those wounds were glorious all, and all before; Such as may teach, twas still thy brave delight Toppose thy bosom where thy foremost ght. But why, like infants, cold to honours charms, Stand we to talk, when glory calls to arms? Gofrom my conquerd spears the choicest take, And to their owners send them nobly back. Swift at the word bold Merion snatchd a spear

And, breathing slaughter, followd to the war. So Mars armipotent invades the plain, (The wide destroyer of the race of man,) Terror, his best-beloved son, attends his course, Armd with stern boldness, and enormous force; The pride of haughty warriors to confound, And lay the strength of tyrants on the ground: From Thrace they y, calld to the dire alarms Of warring Phlegyans, and Ephyrian arms; Invoked by both, relentless they dispose, To these glad conquest, murderous rout to those. So marchd the leaders of the Cretan train, And their bright arms shot horror oer the plain. Then rst spake Merion: Shall we join the right,