Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/200

160 Lycaon's utmost skill had grac'd the steel,

For friends to envy and for foes to feel:

A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil,

Slain 'midst the forest in the hunter's toil,

Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows,

And old Alethes' casque defends his brows;

Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembl'd train,

To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain.

More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,

Iulus holds amidst the chiefs his place:

His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,

Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale?

The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night,

Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight.

When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er?

Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more!

Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen,

And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between:

Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine;

A mingled Chaos this of war and wine.

"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,

With me the conquest and the labour share:

Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,