The Death of Achilles.
The Sire of Cygnus, Monarch of the Main,
Mean time, laments his Son, in Battel slain,
And vows the Victor's Death; nor vows in vain.
For nine long Years the smother'd Pain he bore;
{Achilles was not ripe for Fate, before:)
Then when he saw the promis'd 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 join'd with mine, to raise the Wall
Of tottring Troy, now nodding to her Fall,
Dost thou not mourn our Pow'r employ'd in vain;
And the Defenders of our City slain?
To pass the rest, cou'd noble Hector lie
Unpity'd, drag'd around his Native Troy?
And yet the Murd'rer lives: Himself by far
A greater Plague, than all the wasteful War:
He lives; the proud Pelides lives, to boast
Our Town destroy'd, our common Labour lost,
O, could I meet him! But I wish too late:
To prove my Trident is not in his Fate!
But let him try (for that's allow'd) thy Dart,
And pierce his only penetrable Part.
Apollo bows to the superior Throne;
And to his Uncle's Anger, adds his own.
Then in a Cloud involv'd, he takes his Flight,
Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal Fight;
And found out Paris, lurking where he stood,
And stain'd his Arrows with Plebeian Blood:
Phœbus to him alone the God confess'd,
Then to the recreant Knight, he thus address'd.
Dost thou not blush, to spend thy Shafts in vain
On a degenerate, and ignoble Train?
