Or when the young [1] Euryalus is kill'd,
And rolls in death along the bloody field;
Like some fair flow'r beneath the share he lies,
His head declin'd, and drooping as he dies;
The reader's soul is touch'd with gen'rous woe,
He longs to rush with Nisus on the Foe;
He burns with friendly pity to the dead,
To raise the youth, and prop his sinking head;
And strives in vain to stop the gushing blood,
That stains his bosom with a purple flood.
But if the bard such images pursues,
That raise the blushes of the virgin-muse;
Let them be slightly touch'd, and ne'er exprest,
Give but a hint, and let us guess the rest;
If Jove commands the gath'ring storms to rise,
And with deep thunders rends the vaulted skies,
In the same cave together may be seen
The [2] Trojan hero, and the Tyrian queen;
The poet's modesty must add no more;
Enough, that earth had giv'n the sign before;
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