If Fame, or better Vengeance be thy Care,
There aim: And, with one Arrow, end the War.
He said; and shew'd from far the blazing Sheild
And Sword, which, but Achilles, none cou'd wield
And how he mov'd a God, and mow'd the standing Field.
The Deity himself directs aright
Th' invenom'd Shaft; and wings the fatal Flight.
Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian Name;
And he, the base Adult'rer, boasts the Fame.
A Spectacle to glad the Trojan Train;
And please old Priam, after Hector slain.
If by a Female Hand he had foreseen
He was to die, his Wish had rather been
The Lance, and double Ax of the fair Warriour Queen
And now the Terror of the Trojan Field,
The Grecian Honour, Ornament, and Shield,
High on a Pile, th' Unconquer'd Chief is plac'd,
The God that arm'd him first, consum'd at last.
Of all the mighty Man, the small Remains
A little Urn, and scarcely fill'd, contains.
Yet great in Homer still Achilles lives;
And equal to himself, himself survives.
His Buckler owns its former Lord; and brings
New cause of Strife, betwixt contending Kings;
Who Worthi'st after him, his Sword to wield,
Or wear his Armour, or sustain his Shield.
Ev'n Diomede sate mute, with down-cast Eyes;
Conscious of wanted Worth to win the Prize:
Nor Menelaus presum'd these Arms to claim,
Nor he the King of Men, a greater Name.
Two Rivals only rose: Laertes' Son,
And the vast Bulk of Ajax Telemon:
The King, who cherish'd each, with equal Love,
And from himself all Envy wou'd remove,
Left both to be determin'd by the Laws;
And to the Grecian Chiefs transferr'd the Cause.
The End of the Twelfth Book.
