The Gymnasiad. an Epic Poem, Book II

First, to the fight, advanc'd the charioteer, High hopes of glory on his brow appear; Terror vindictive flashes from his eye; (To one the fates the visual ray deny) Fierce glow'd his looks, which spoke his inward rage, He leaps the bar, and bounds upon the stage. The roofs re-echo with exulting cries, And all behold him with admiring eyes. Ill-fated youth, what rash desires could warm Thy manly heart to dare the Triton's arm? Ah! too unequal to these martial deeds, Tho' none more skill'd to rule the foaming steeds. The coursers still obedient to thy rein, Now urge their flight, or now their flight restrain. Had mighty Diomed provok'd the race, Thou far had'st left the Grecian in disgrace, Where'er you drove, each inn confess'd your sway, Maids brought the dram, and ostlers flew with hay. But know, tho' skill'd to guide the rapid car, None wages like thy foe the manual war.

Now Neptune's offspring, dreadfully serene, Of size gigantic, and tremendous mien, Steps forth, and 'midst the fated lists appears, Reverend his form, but yet not worn with years. To him none equal in his youthful day, With feather'd oar to skim the liquid way; Or thro' those streights whose waters stun the ear, The loaded lighter's bulky weight to steer. Soon as the ring their antient warrior view'd, Joy fill'd their hearts, and thundering shouts ensued; Loud as when o'er Thamesis' gentle stood, Superior with the Triton youths he row'd, While far a-head his winged wherry slew, Touch'd the glad shore, and claim'd the badge its due.

Then thus indignant he accosts the foe, (While high disdain sat prideful on his brow.) Long has the laurel wreath victorious spread Its sacred honours round this hoary head; The prize of conquest in each doubtful fray, And dear reward of many a dire-fought day. Now youth's cold wane the vigorous pulse has chas'd, Froze all my blood, and every nerve unbrac'd, Now, from these temples shall the spoils be torn, In scornful triumph by my foe be worn? What then avails my various deeds in arms, If this proud crest thy feeble force disarms. Lost be my glories to recording fame, When foil'd by thee, the coward blasts my name, I, who ere manhood my young joints had knit, First taught the fierce Grettonius to submit; While, drench'd in blood, he prostrate press'd the floor, And inly groan'd the fatal words—'no more.' Allenius too, who every heart dismay'd, Whose blows, like hail, flew rattling round the head; Him oft the ring beheld, with weeping eyes, Stretch'd on the ground, reluctant yield the prize. Then fell the Swain, with whom none e'er could vie, Where Harrow's steeple darts into the sky. Next the bold youth a bleeding victim lay, Whose waving curls the barber's art display. You too this arm's tremendous prowess know, Rash man, to make this arm again thy foe.

This said—the heroes for the fight prepare, Brace their big limbs, and brawny bodies bare. The sturdy sinews all aghast behold, And ample shoulders of Atlean mould; Like Titan's offspring who 'gainst heaven strove, So each, tho' mortal, seem'd a match for Jove. Now round the ring a silent horror reigns, Speechless each tongue, and bloodless all their veins. When lo! the champions give the dreadful sign, And hand in hand in friendly token join; Those iron hands, which soon upon the foe, With giant force, must deal the deathful blow.