Hark! 'tis the death-cry of your race! look back!Ulysses comes, and Pylian Nestor grey;See! Salaminian Teucer on your track,And Sthenelus, in the frayVersed, or with whip and rein, should need require,No laggard. Merion too your eyes shall knowFrom far. Tydides, fiercer than his sire,Pursues you, all aglow;Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright,Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade,And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despiteBoasts to your leman made.What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postponeThe day of doom to Troy and Troy's proud dames,Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown,Wrapp'd in Achaenan flames.”