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With brazen arms and steeds elate

The crowd rush'd on to open fate;

And vanquish'd on Ismenus' banks,

Cut off from hope of sweet return,

The bodies of their slaughtered ranks,

Fattening the lurid volumes, burn;

For, placed on seven funereal pyres,

The youthful heroes feed the fires.

Jove the earth's solid bosom broke

By his all-potent thunder stroke,

And low Amphiaraus laid

In chariot with the steeds array'd,

Ere, Periclymenus, thy spear

Controll'd his warlike mind's career,

And on his wounded back a trace

Fix'd of indelible disgrace.

For when the gods with fears excite,

Their very sons are moved to flight.

Oh! that my prayers, Saturnian Jove,

The dire essay and warlike boast

That rouses the Phœnician host

Could far from Ætna's walls remove,

Of thee a long and prosperous fate

I for her children supplicate;

Whose favour can the people crown

With civic honour and renown.

A race of men inhabit there,

Well pleased the generous steed to train,

Who an exalted spirit bear,

That soars above the thirst of gain.

Incredible my words must prove

For shame and glory's noble fire,

Quench'd in unequal strife, expire

With lucre's mercenary love.

Oh! hadst thou stood by Chromius' side

In the pedestrian battle's tide,