A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched him Taking his header, coming up, and swimming, And spitting out salt water. The two last ones, Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged; Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managed To get ahead, a little; he neared the rock, Less than a length ahead; the rival _Dragon_ Was lapped on him, and up and down, amidships, Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:--“Get going, Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of Hector Whom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment. Show the old spirit and the nerve that took us Through the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters, Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,-- Let Neptune look to that!--maybe--at least, Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could not Bear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost, Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shaking Under the effort, and the quiet ocean Streamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary, Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulped And gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers, And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses, Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock, Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oars Were sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors, Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks, Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And Mnestheus Easier now, and with exalted spirit From this much victory, with a prayer to the winds And the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters, Over the open ocean, as a dove Suddenly startled out of her nest in a cavern Where the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright, Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers, And skims down peaceful air, with never a motion Of wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped, So sped the _Dragon_, racing home, and the sweep Of her own speed made a wind. She passed Sergestus Struggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howling For help, in vain, and learning how to manage A boat when the oars are broken. She overhauled Gyas, in the _Chimaera_, wallowing heavy Without a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left; They were after him with all their might, the clamor Rose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer, And the sky was a crash of shouting. On the _Scylla_ They would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it, The glory and honor are theirs already, almost; And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness; They can because they think they can. They would have, Perhaps, or tied, at least had not Cloanthus Taken to prayer:--“Gods of the seas, whose waters I skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladly Promise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullock At altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,