The chief, to perish at his people's head. Shook with his fall his brazen armour rung, And fierce, to seize it, conquering Ajax sprung; Around his head an iron tempest rain'd; A wood of spears his ample shield sustain'd: Beneath one foot the yet warm corpse he press'd, And drew his javelin from the bleeding breast: He could no more; the showering darts denied To spoil his glittering arms, and plumy pride. Now foes on foes came pouring on the fields, With bristling lances, and compacted shields; Till in the steely circle straiten'd round, Forced he gives way, and sternly quits the ground. While thus they strive, Tlepolemus the great,(153) Urged by the force of unresisted fate, Burns with desire Sarpedon's strength to prove; Alcides' offspring meets the son of Jove. Sheathed in bright arms each adverse chief came on. Jove's great descendant, and his greater son. Prepared for combat, ere the lance he toss'd, The daring Rhodian vents his haughty boast: "What brings this Lycian counsellor so far, To tremble at our arms, not mix in war! Know thy vain self, nor let their flattery move, Who style thee son of cloud-compelling Jove. How far unlike those chiefs of race divine, How vast the difference of their deeds and thine! Jove got such heroes as my sire, whose soul No fear could daunt, nor earth nor hell control. Troy felt his arm, and yon proud ramparts stand Raised on the ruins of his vengeful hand: With six small ships, and but a slender train, He left the town a wide-deserted plain. But what art thou, who deedless look'st around, While unrevenged thy Lycians bite the ground! Small aid to Troy thy feeble force can be; But wert thou greater, thou must yield to me. Pierced by my spear, to endless darkness go! I make this present to the shades below." The son of Hercules, the Rhodian guide, Thus haughty spoke. The Lycian king replied: "Thy sire, O prince! o'erturn'd the Trojan state,