the grim lion his retreat maintains, Beset with watchful dogs, and shouting swains; Repulsed by numbers from the nightly stalls, Though rage impels him, and though hunger calls, Long stands the showering darts, and missile fires; Then sourly slow the indignant beast retires: So turn'd stern Ajax, by whole hosts repell'd, While his swoln heart at every step rebell'd. As the slow beast, with heavy strength endued, In some wide field by troops of boys pursued, Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain, Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain; Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound, The patient animal maintains his ground, Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased, And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last: On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung, The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung; Confiding now in bulky strength he stands, Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands; Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly, And threats his followers with retorted eye. Fix'd as the bar between two warring powers, While hissing darts descend in iron showers: In his broad buckler many a weapon stood, Its surface bristled with a quivering wood; And many a javelin, guiltless on the plain, Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain. But bold Eurypylus his aid imparts, And dauntless springs beneath a cloud of darts; Whose eager javelin launch'd against the foe, Great Apisaon felt the fatal blow; From his torn liver the red current flow'd, And his slack knees desert their dying load. The victor rushing to despoil the dead, From Paris' bow a vengeful arrow fled; Fix'd in his nervous thigh the weapon stood, Fix'd was the point, but broken was the wood. Back to the lines the wounded Greek retired, Yet thus retreating, his associates fired: "What god, O Grecians! has your hearts dismay'd? Oh, turn to arms; 'tis Ajax claims your aid. This hour he stands the mark of