By talking loud,--her usual fashion Whenever she was in a passion,-- He stood, with looks resign'd and grave, Prepar'd to hear his mother rave. Who thus began: "Ah! Cupid, why Was I so silly as to try My fortune in the battle-field, (b) Or seek a pond'rous spear to wield, Which only Pallas (hated name!) Of all her sex can wield aright? What need had I of martial fame, Sought 'midst the dangers of the fight, When beauty's prize, a trophy far More precious than the spoils of war, Was mine already, won from those Whom rivalry has made my foes, And who on Trojan plains would sate E'en with my blood that ranc'rous hate Which Ida's neighb'ring heights inflame, And not this wound itself can tame? Ah! why did I not bear in mind That Beauty, like th' inconstant wind, Is always privileg'd to raise The rage of others to a blaze, Then, lull'd to rest, look calmly on, And see the work of havoc done? 'Twas well to urge your father, Mars, To mingle in those hated wars; 'Twas well--" But piteous cries of pain, From him she named, here broke the chain Of her discourse, and seem'd to say, "What want of feeling you display!" So, turning to her wounded lover, She kindly urged him to discover By whom and where the wound was given, That sent him writhing back to heaven. The god, thus question'd, hung his head, A burning blush of shame o'erspread With sudden flush his pallid cheek, As thus he answer'd: "Dost thou seek To hear a tale of dire disgrace, Which all those honours must efface, That, hitherto, have made my name Pre-eminent in warlike fame? Yet--since 'twas thou who bad'st me go To fight with mortals there below-- 'Tis fitting, too, that thou shouldst learn What laurels 'twas my fate to earn. At first, in my resistless car, I seem'd indeed the god of war; The Trojans rallied at my side; Changed in its hue, the Xanthus' tide Its waters to the ocean bore, Empurpled deep in Grecian gore; And o'er the corpse-impeded field The cry was still 'They yield!--they yield!' But soon, the flying ranks to stay, Thy hated rivals joined the fray; They nerved, with some accursed charm, Each Greek's, but most Tydides' arm, And, Venus, thou first felt the smart Of his Minerva-guided dart. I saw thee wounded, saw thee fly,-- I saw the chief triumphantly Tow'rds me, his ardent coursers turn, As though from gods alone to earn The highest honours of the fight; I know not why, but, at the sight-- Eternal shame upon my head!-- A panic seized me, and I fled-- I fled, like chaff before the wind, And, ah! my wounds are all--behind!" When thus at length the truth was told, (The shameful truth of his disgrace,) Again, within his mantle's fold, The wounded coward hid his face; (c)