The wonted weapons; those my tent can give; Spears I have store, (and Trojan lances all,) That shed a lustre round the illumined wall, Though I, disdainful of the distant war, Nor trust the dart, nor aim the uncertain spear, Yet hand to hand I fight, and spoil the slain; And thence these trophies, and these arms I gain. Enter, and see on heaps the helmets roll'd, And high-hung spears, and shields that flame with gold." "Nor vain (said Merion) are our martial toils; We too can boast of no ignoble spoils: But those my ship contains; whence distant far, I fight conspicuous in the van of war, What need I more? If any Greek there be Who knows not Merion, I appeal to thee." To this, Idomeneus: "The fields of fight Have proved thy valour, and unconquer'd might: And were some ambush for the foes design'd, Even there thy courage would not lag behind: In that sharp service, singled from the rest, The fear of each, or valour, stands confess'd. No force, no firmness, the pale coward shows; He shifts his place: his colour comes and goes: A dropping sweat creeps cold on every part; Against his bosom beats his quivering heart; Terror and death in his wild eye-balls stare; With chattering teeth he stands, and stiffening hair, And looks a bloodless image of despair! Not so the brave--still dauntless, still the same, Unchanged his colour, and unmoved his frame: Composed his thought, determined is his eye, And fix'd his soul, to conquer or to die: If aught disturb the tenour of his breast, 'Tis but the wish to strike before the rest. "In such assays thy blameless worth is known, And every art of dangerous war thy own. By chance of fight whatever wounds you bore, Those wounds were glorious all, and all before; Such as may teach, 'twas still thy brave delight T'oppose thy bosom where thy foremost fight. But why, like infants, cold to honour's charms, Stand we to talk, when glory calls to arms? Go--