Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/289

Book 7. And, what's more strange, with Martial Fury warm'd, And for Encounter all compleatly arm'd; In Rank and File, as they were sow'd, they stand, Impatient for the Signal of Command. No Foe but the Æmonian Youth appears; At him they level their Steel-pointed Spears; His frighted Friends, who triumph'd just before, With Peals of Sighs his desp'rate Case deplore: And where such hardy Warriors are afraid, What must the tender, and enamour'd Maid? Her Spirits sink, the Blood her Cheek forsook; She fears, who for his Safety undertook; She knew the Vertue of the Spells she gave, She knew their Force, and knew her Lover brave; But what's a sigle Champion to an Host? Yet scorning thus to see him tamely lost, Her strong Reserve of secret Arts she brings, And last, her never failing Song she sings. Wonders ensue; among his gazing Foes The massy Fragment of a Rock he throws; This Charm in Civil War engag'd 'em all; By mutual Wounds those Earth-born Brothers fall. The Greeks, transported with the strange Success, Leap from their Seats the Conqu'ror to caress; Commend, and kiss, and clasp him in their Arms: So would the kind Contriver of the Charms; But her, who felt the tenderest Concern, Honour condemns in secret Flames to burn; Committed to a double Guard of Fame, Aw'd by a Virgin's, and a Princess' Name. But Thoughts are free, and Fancy unconfin'd, She kisses, courts, and hugs him in her Mind; To fav'ring Pow'rs her silent Thanks she gives, By whose Indulgence her lov'd Hero lives. One Labour more remains, and, tho' the last, In Danger far surmounting all the past; That