they give their wishes, hearts, and eyes, And send their souls before him as he flies. Now three times turn'd in prospect of the goal, The panting chief to Pallas lifts his soul: "Assist, O goddess!" thus in thought he pray'd! And present at his thought descends the maid. Buoy'd by her heavenly force, he seems to swim, And feels a pinion lifting every limb. All fierce, and ready now the prize to gain, Unhappy Ajax stumbles on the plain (O'erturn'd by Pallas), where the slippery shore Was clogg'd with slimy dung and mingled gore. (The self-same place beside Patroclus' pyre, Where late the slaughter'd victims fed the fire.) Besmear'd with filth, and blotted o'er with clay, Obscene to sight, the rueful racer lay; The well-fed bull (the second prize) he shared, And left the urn Ulysses' rich reward. Then, grasping by the horn the mighty beast, The baffled hero thus the Greeks address'd: "Accursed fate! the conquest I forego; A mortal I, a goddess was my foe; She urged her favourite on the rapid way, And Pallas, not Ulysses, won the day." Thus sourly wail'd he, sputtering dirt and gore; A burst of laughter echoed through the shore. Antilochus, more humorous than the rest, Takes the last prize, and takes it with a jest: "Why with our wiser elders should we strive? The gods still love them, and they always thrive. Ye see, to Ajax I must yield the prize: He to Ulysses, still more aged and wise; (A green old age unconscious of decays, That proves the hero born in better days!) Behold his vigour in this active race! Achilles only boasts a swifter pace: For who can match Achilles? He who can, Must yet be more than hero, more than man." The effect succeeds the speech. Pelides cries, "Thy artful praise deserves a better prize. Nor Greece in vain shall hear thy friend extoll'd; Receive a talent of the purest gold." The youth departs content. The host admire The son of Nestor, worthy of his