If ought be wanting to the Trojan Doom,
Which none but I can manage, and o'ercome,
Award, those Arms I ask, by your Decree:
Or give to this, what you refuse to me.
He ceas'd: And ceasing with Respect he bow'd,
And with his Hand at once the fatal Statue show'd.
Heav'n, Air and Ocean rung, with loud Applause,
And by the gen'ral Vote he gain'd his Cause.
Thus Conduct won the Prize, when Courage fail'd,
And Eloquence o'er brutal Force prevail'd.
The Death of Ajax.
He who cou'd often, and alone, withstand
The Foe, the Fire, and Jove's own partial Hand,
Now cannot his unmaster'd Grief sustain,
But yields to Rage, to Madness, and Disdain;
Then snatching out his Fauchion, thou, said he,
Art mine; Ulysses lays no Claim to thee.
O often try'd, and ever trusty Sword,
Now do thy last kind Office to thy Lord:
'Tis Ajax who requests thy Aid, to show
None but himself, himself cou'd overthrow:
He said, and with so good a Will to die,
Did to his Bread the fatal Point apply,
It found his Heart, a way till then unknown,
Where never Weapon enter'd, but his own.
No Hands cou'd force it thence, so fix'd it stood,
Till out it rush'd, expell'd by Streams of spouting Blood.
The fruitful Blood produc'd a Flow'r, which grew
On a green Stem; and of a Purple Hue:
Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew:
Inscrib'd in both, the Letters are the same,
But those express the Grief, and these the Name.
