Lycaon's utmost skill had grac'd the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel:
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil,[1]
Slain 'midst the forest in the hunter's toil,
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows,[2]
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows;
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembl'd train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain.[3]
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Iulus holds amidst the chiefs his place:220
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale?[4]
The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night,
Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight.
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er?
Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more!
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen,
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between:
Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine;
A mingled Chaos this of war and wine.230
"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share:
