My former woes, in long oblivion drowned, I would have lost, but you renew the wound; Better to pass him o'er, than to relate The cause I have your mighty sire to hate. His fame has filled the world, and reached the sky; Which, oh, I wish with truth I could deny! We praise not Hector, though his name we know Is great in arms; 'tis hard to praise a foe. He, your great father, levelled to the ground Messenia's towers; nor better fortune found Elis, and Pylas; that, a neighbouring state, And this, my own; both guiltless of their fate. To pass the rest, twelve, wanting one, he slew, My brethren, who their birth from Neleus drew; All youths of early promise, had they lived; By him they perished; I alone survived. The rest were easy conquest; but the fate Of Periclymenos is wonderous to relate. To him our common grandsire of the main Had given to change his form, and, changed, resume again. Varied at pleasure, every shape he tried, And in all beasts Alcides still defied; Vanquished on earth, at length he soared above, Changed to the bird, that bears the bolt of Jove. The new dissembled eagle, now endued With peak and pounces, Hercules pursued, And cuffed his manly cheeks, and tore his face, Then, safe retired, and towered in empty space. Alcides bore not long his flying foe, But, bending his inevitable bow, Reached him in air, suspended as he stood, And in his pinion fixed the feathered wood. Light was the wound; but in the sinew hung The point, and his disabled wing unstrung. He wheeled in air, and stretched his vans in vain; His vans no longer could his flight sustain; For, while one gathered wind, one unsupplied Hung drooping down, nor poised his other side. He fell; the shaft, that slightly was impressed, Now from his heavy fall with weight increased, Drove through his neck aslant; he spurns the ground, And the soul issues through the weazon's wound. Now, brave commander of the Rhodian seas, What praise is due from me to Hercules? Silence is all the vengeance I decree For my slain brothers; but 'tis peace with thee.-- Thus with a flowing tongue old Nestor spoke; Then, to full bowls each other they provoke; At length, with weariness and wine oppressed, They rise from table, and withdraw to rest. The sire of Cygnus, monarch of the main, } Meantime laments his son in battle slain; } And vows the victor's death, nor vows in vain. } For nine long years the smothered pain he bore; Achilles was not ripe for fate before; Then when he saw the promised hour was near, He thus bespoke the god, that guides the year:-- Immortal offspring of my brother Jove, My brightest nephew, and whom best I love, Whose hands were joined with mine, to raise the wall