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Nor to a backward step could move

The hero who with deadly blow

Against the sides his javelin drove,

Impetuous of the wary foe;

While Jove who dwells on Ida's head

Brandish'd his bolt of smoky red,

And fired the hapless pair.

Mortals in arduous strife engage,

Who with superior force to wage

Unequal contest dare.

To aid his fainting brother's might

Tyndarides resumed his flight;

And found him not subdued by death,

But gasping out his fitful breath.

Then pouring forth a fervid tide

Of tears, with mingled sighs he cried,

"Saturnian father! what relief

Shall terminate my bitter grief?

The stroke, oh king, that slays my friend

At thy behest on me descend!

He whom the social train have left,

Of honour is at once bereft;

And few of mortals will sustain

A faithful share in others' pain."

He said—when Jove his form display'd,

And this consoling answer made:

"Thou art my son; while of terrestrial race

He to a hero must his lineage trace:

Then take the proffer'd boon, for I

Give thee detested age and death to fly:

To dwell with Pallas on Olympus' height,

And Mars, who shakes his sable spear in fight.

This choice is thine: but if the strife

Still arm thee for thy brother's life,