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now no more the gods with fate contend,

      At Juno’s suit the heavenly factions end.

      Destruction hangs o’er yon devoted wall,

      And nodding Ilion waits the impending fall.

      This hear observant, and the gods obey!’

      The vision spoke, and pass’d in air away.

      Now, valiant chiefs! since heaven itself alarms,

      Unite, and rouse the sons of Greece to arms.

      But first, with caution, try what yet they dare,

      Worn with nine years of unsuccessful war.

      To move the troops to measure back the main,

      Be mine; and yours the province to detain.”

      He spoke, and sat: when Nestor, rising said,

      (Nestor, whom Pylos’ sandy realms obey’d,)

      “Princes of Greece, your faithful ears incline,

      Nor doubt the vision of the powers divine;

      Sent by great Jove to him who rules the host,

      Forbid it, heaven! this warning should be lost!

      Then let us haste, obey the god’s alarms,

      And join to rouse the sons of Greece to arms.”

      Thus spoke the sage: the kings without delay

      Dissolve the council, and their chief obey:

      The sceptred rulers lead; the following host,

      Pour’d forth by thousands, darkens all the coast.

      As from some rocky cleft the shepherd sees

      Clustering in heaps on heaps the driving bees,

      Rolling and blackening, swarms succeeding swarms,

      With deeper murmurs and more hoarse alarms;

      Dusky they spread, a close embodied crowd,

      And o’er the vale descends the living cloud.

      So, from the tents and ships, a lengthen’d train

      Spreads all the beach, and wide o’ershades the plain:

      Along the region runs a deafening sound;

      Beneath their footsteps groans the trembling ground.

      Fame flies before the messenger of Jove,

      And shining soars, and claps her wings above.

      Nine sacred heralds now, proclaiming loud

      The monarch’s will, suspend the listening crowd.

      Soon as the throngs in order ranged appear,

      And fainter murmurs died upon the ear,

      The king of kings his awful figure raised:

      High in his hand the golden sceptre blazed;

      The golden sceptre, of celestial flame,

      By Vulcan form’d, from Jove to Hermes came.

      To Pelops he the immortal gift resign’d;

      The immortal gift great Pelops left behind,

      In Atreus’ hand, which not with Atreus ends,

      To rich Thyestes next the prize descends;

      And now the mark of Agamemnon’s reign,

      Subjects all Argos, and controls the main.

      On this bright sceptre now the king reclined,

      And artful thus pronounced the speech design’d:

      “Ye sons of Mars, partake your leader’s care,

      Heroes of Greece, and brothers of the war!

      Of partial Jove with justice I complain,

      And heavenly oracles believed in vain

      A safe return was promised to our toils,

      Renown’d, triumphant, and enrich’d with spoils.

      Now shameful flight alone can save the host,

      Our blood, our treasure, and our glory lost.

      So Jove decrees, resistless lord of all!

      At whose command whole empires rise or fall:

      He shakes the feeble props of human trust,

      And towns and armies humbles to the dust

      What shame to Greece a fruitful war to wage,

      Oh, lasting shame in every future age!

      Once great in arms, the common scorn we grow,

      Repulsed and baffled by a feeble foe.

      So small their number, that if wars were ceased,

      And Greece triumphant held a general feast,

      All rank’d by tens, whole decades when they dine

      Must want a Trojan slave to pour the wine.

      But other forces have our hopes o’erthrown,

      And Troy prevails by armies not her own.

      Now nine long years of mighty Jove are run,

      Since first the labours of this war begun:

      Our cordage torn, decay’d our vessels lie,

      And scarce insure the wretched power to fly.

      Haste, then, for ever leave the Trojan wall!

      Our weeping wives, our tender children call:

      Love, duty, safety, summon us away,

      ’Tis nature’s voice, and nature we obey,

      Our shatter’d barks may yet transport us o’er,

      Safe and inglorious, to our native shore.

      Fly, Grecians, fly, your sails and oars employ,

      And dream no more of heaven-defended Troy.”

      His deep design unknown, the hosts approve

      Atrides’ speech. The mighty numbers move.

      So roll the billows to the Icarian shore,

      From east and south when winds begin to roar,

      Burst their dark mansions in the clouds, and sweep

      The whitening surface of the ruffled deep.

      And as on corn when western gusts descend,

      Before the blast the lofty harvests bend:

      Thus o’er the field the moving host appears,

      With nodding plumes and groves of waving spears.

      The gathering murmur spreads, their trampling feet

      Beat the loose sands, and thicken to the fleet;

      With long-resounding cries they urge the train

      To fit the ships, and launch into the main.

      They toil, they sweat, thick clouds of dust arise,

      The doubling clamours echo to the skies.

      E’en then the Greeks had left the hostile plain,

      And fate decreed the fall of Troy in vain;

      But Jove’s imperial queen their flight survey’d,

      And sighing thus bespoke the blue-eyed maid:

      “Shall then the Grecians fly! O dire disgrace!

      And leave unpunish’d

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