Nor doubt the fame Succefs, as when before
The Phrygian Prophet to these Tents I bore,
Surpriz'd by Night, and forc'd him to declare
In what was plac'd the Fortune of the War,
Heav'ns dark Decrees, and Answers to display,
And how to take the Town, and where the Se-
cręt lay:
Yet this I compass'd, and from Troy convey'd
The fatal Image of their Guardian-Maid ;
That Work was mine; for Pallas, though our
Friend,
Yet while fhe was in Troy did Troy defend.
Now what has Ajax done, or what defign'd?
A noifie Nothing, and an empty Wind.
If he be what he promises in Show,
Why was I fent, and why fear'd he to go?
Our boasting Champion thought the Task not light
To pafs the Guards, commit himself to Night;
Not only through a hostile Town to pass,
But fcale, with fteep Afcent, the facred Place;
With wand'ring Steps to fearch the Cittadel,
And from the Priefts their Patronefs to fteal;
Then through furrounding Foes to force my way,
And bear in Triumph home the heav'nly Prey;
Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held,
Before that monftrous Bulk, his fev❜nfold Shield.
That Night to conquer Tray I might be said,
When Troy was liable to Conqueft made.
Why point'st thou to my Partner of the War?
Tydides had indeed a worthy fhare
In all my Toil, and Praife; but when thy Might
Our Ships protected, did'ft thou fingly fight?
All join'd, and thou of many wert but one;
I ask'd no Friend, nor had, but him alone:
Who, had he not been well affur'd, that Art
And Conduct were of War the better part,
And more avail'd than Strength, my valiant Friend
Had urg'd a better Right, than Ajax can pretend :
As good at lealt Euripylus may claim,
And the more moderate Ajax of the Name:
The Cretan King, and his brave Charioteer,
And Menelaus bold with Sword and Spear:
All these had been my Rivals in the Shield,
And yet all thefe to my Pretenfions yield.
Thy boist'rous Hands are then of use, when I
With this directing Head those Hands apply.
Brawn without Brain is thine : My prudent Care
Foresees, provides, administers the War:
Thy Province is to Fight; but when shall be
The time to Fight, the King consults with me:
No dram of Judgment with thy Force is join'd;
Thy Body is of Profit, and
my
Mind. But how much more the Ship her Safety owes To him who steers, than him that only rows, By how much more the Captain merits Praise Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys ; But so much greater is my Worth than thine, Who canft but execute what I design. What gain'st thou, brutal Man, if I confess Thy Strength superior, when thy Wit is less : Mind is the Man: I claim my whole Desert, From the Mind's Vigour, and th’immortal Part. But you,
O Grecian Chiefs, reward my Care, Be grateful to your Watchman of the War: For all my Labours in so long a space, Sure I may plead a Title to your Grace:
Enter the Town; I then unbarr'd the Gates,
When I remov'd their tutelary Fates.
By all our common Hopes, if Hopes they be
Which I have now reduc'd to Certainty;
By falling Troy, by yonder tott'ring Tow'rs,
And by their taken Gods, which now are ours;
Or if there yet a farther Task remains,
To be perform'd by Prudence or by Pains;
If yet fome desp'rate Action rests behind,
That asks high Conduct, and a dauntless Mind;
If ought be wanting to the Trojan Doom,
Which none but I can manage and o'ercome,
Award, thofe Arms I ask, by your Decree:
Or give to this what you refuse to me.
He ceas'd: And ceafing 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 unmafter'd Grief sustain,
But yields to Rage, to Madness, and Disdain;
Then fnatching out his Fauchion, Thou, faid He,
Art mine; Vlyffes 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 faid, and with fo good a Will to die
Did to his Breast 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, fo fix'd it stood,
Till out it rush'd, expell'd by Streams of spouting
Blood.
The fruitfulBlood produc'd aFlow'r, which grew.
On a green Stem; and of a Purple Hue:
Like his, whom unaware Apollo flew :
Infcrib'd in both, the Letters are the fame,
But those express the Grief, and these the Name.
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