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Part of the TENTH BOOK of the ILIADS of

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HOMER.

In the Stile of MILTON.

Now high advanc'd the night, o'er all the hoft

Sleep fhed his fofteft balm; restless alone
Atrides lay, and cares revolv’d on cares.

As when with rifing vengeance gloomy Jove
Pours down a watery deluge, or in storms
Of hail or fnow commands the goary jaws
Of war to roar; through all the kindling skies,
With flaming wings on lightnings lightnings play:
So while Atrides meditates the war,

Sighs after fighs burst from his manly breast,

And shake his inmoft foul: round o'er the fields
To Troy he turns his eyes, and round beholds
A thoufand fires blaze dreadful; through his ears
Paffes the direful fymphony of war,

Of fife, or pipe, and the loud hum of hofts

Strikes him dismay'd: Now o'er the Grecian tents
His eyes he rolls; now from his royal head

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Rends the fair curl in facrifice to Jove,

And his brave heart heaves with imperial woes.

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Thus groans the thoughtful king, at length refolves

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To feek the Pylian fage, in wife debate

To ripen high designs, and from the fword
Preferve his banded legions: Pale and fad
Uprofe the monarch: inftant o'er his breast
A robe he threw, and on his royal feet

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Glitter'd

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Glitter'd th' embroider'd fandals; o'er his back
A dreadful ornament, a lion's fpoils,

With hideous grace down to his ankles hung,
Fierce in his hand he grafp'd a glittering fpear.

With equal care was Menelaus toss'd,
Sleep from his temples fled, his generous heart
Felt all his people's woes, who in his cause
Stem'd the proud main, and nobly stood in arms
Confronting death: A leopard's spotted spoils
Terrific clad his limbs, a brazen helm
Beam'd on his head, and in his hand a spear.
Forth from his tent the royal Spartan ftrode
To wake the king of men; him wak'd he found
Clafping his polish'd arms; with rifing joy

The heroes meet, the Spartan thus began:

Why thus in arms, my prince? fend'st throu some spy

To view the Trojan hoft? alas! I fear

Left the most dauntless fons of glorious war
Shrink at the bold defign! this task demands
A foul refolv'd, to pass the gloom of night,
And 'midft her legions fearch the powers of Troy.
O prince, he cries, in this disastrous hour
Greece all our counfel claims, now, now demands.
Our deepest cares! the power omnipotent
Frowns on our arms, but finiles with afpect mild
On Hector's incenfe: Heavens ! what fon of fame,.
Renown'd in ftory, e'er fuch deeds atchiev'd

In a whole life, as in one glorious day
This favourite of the fkies? and yet a man!

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A mortal! born to die! but fuch his deeds
As future Grecians fhall repeat with tears
To children yet unborn.-But haste, repair
To Ajax and Idomeneus; we wake

Ourself the Pylian fage; to keep the guards
On duty, be his care; for o'er the guards
His fon prefides nocturnal, and in arms
His great compeer, Meriones the bold.

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But fay, rejoins the prince, these orders borne,
There fhall I stay, or, measuring back the shores,
To thee return ?- -No more return, replies
The king of hofts, left treading different ways
We meet no more: for through the camp the
Lie intricate and various, but aloud
Wake every Greek to martial fame and arms,
Teach them to emulate their godlike fires ;
And thou awhile forget thy royal birth,
And share a foldier's cares: the proudest king
Is but exalted duft; and when great Jove
Call'd us to life, and gave us royal power,
He gave a fad preheminence of woes.

He spoke, and to the tent of Nestor turns
His ftep majeftic: on his couch he found
The hoary warrior; all around him lay

His arms, the fhield, the fpears, the radiant helm,
And scarf of various dye; with these array'd,
The reverend father to the field of fame
Led his bold files; for, with a brave difdain,
Old as he was, he fcorn'd the ease of age.

Sudden

Sudden the monarch starts, and half uprais'd,
Thus to the king aloud; What art thou, say?
Why in the camp alone? while others fleep,
Why wandereft thou obfcure the midnight hours ?
Seek'st thou fome centinel, or absent friend?
Speak instant!

Silent to advance, is death!

pride of Greece, the plaintive king returns, Here in thy tent thou Agamemnon view'ft, A prince, the most unhappy of mankind; Woes I endure, which none but kings can feel, Which ne'er will ceafe until forgot in death: Penfive I wander through the damp of night, Through the cold damp of night; diftrefs'd! alone! And fleep is grown a stranger to my eyes: The weight of all the war, the load of woes That presses every Greek, united falls

On me

the cares of all the hoft are mine!
Grief discompofes, and diftracts my thoughts;
My restless panting heart, as if it strove
To force its prifon, beats against my fides!
My ftrength is fail'd, and even my feet refufe
To bear fo great a load of wretchednefs!

But if thy wakeful cares (for o'er thy head Wakeful the hours glide on) have aught matur'd Ufeful, the thought unfold; but rife, my friend, Vifit with me the watches of the night;

Left tir'd they fleep, while Troy with all her war Hangs o'er our tents, and now, perhaps ev'n now Arins her proud bands. Arife, my friend, arife!

To whom the Pylian: Think not, mighty king,
Jove ratifies vain Hector's haughty views ;
A fudden, fad reverse of mighty woes
Waits that audacious victor, when in arms
Dreadful Achilles fhines. But now thy steps
Neftor attends: Be it our care to wake
Sage Ithacus, and Diomed the brave,
Meges the bold, and in the race renown'd
Oilean Ajax: To the fhips that guard
Outmoft the camp, fome other fpeed his way
To raise ftern Ajax and the Cretan king.
But love, nor reverence to the mighty name
Of Menelaus, nor thy wrath, O king,

Shall ftop my free rebuke: Sleep is a crime
When Agamemnon wakes, on him it lies
To fhare thy martial toils, to court the peers
To act the men: this hour claims all our cares.

Referve, rejoins the king, for future hours
Thy generous anger: Seems the royal youth
Remifs? 'tis not through indolence of foul,
But deference to our power; for our commands
He waits, and follows when we lead the way.
This night, difdaining reft, his steps he bent.
To our pavilion; now th' illuftrious peers
Rais'd at his call, a chofen fynod ftand
Before the gates; hafte, Neftor, hafte away.

To whom the fage well pleas'd: In fuch brave hands
No Greek will envy power: with loyal joy
Subjects obey, when men of worth command.

He

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