No More Learning

To vile reproach what answer can we make?
A goblet or a tripod let us stake,
And be the king the judge. The most unwise
Will learn their rashness, when they pay the price. "

He said: and Ajax, by mad passion borne,
Stern had replied; fierce scorn enhancing scorn
To fell extremes. But Thetis' godlike son
Awful amidst them rose, and thus begun:

"Forbear, ye chiefs! reproachful to contend;
Much would ye blame, should others thus offend:
And lo! the approaching steeds your contest end. "
No sooner had he spoke, but thundering near,
Drives, through a stream of dust, the charioteer.
High o'er his head the circling lash he wields:
His bounding horses scarcely touch the fields:
His car amidst the dusty whirlwind roll'd,
Bright with the mingled blaze of tin and gold,
Refulgent through the cloud: no eye could find
The track his flying wheels had left behind:
And the fierce coursers urged their rapid pace
So swift, it seem'd a flight, and not a race.
Now victor at the goal Tydides stands,
Quits his bright car, and springs upon the sands;
From the hot steeds the sweaty torrents stream;
The well-plied whip is hung athwart the beam:
With joy brave Sthenelus receives the prize,
The tripod-vase, and dame with radiant eyes:
These to the ships his train triumphant leads,
The chief himself unyokes the panting steeds.

Young Nestor follows (who by art, not force,
O'erpass'd Atrides) second in the course.
Behind, Atrides urged the race, more near
Than to the courser in his swift career
The following car, just touching with his heel
And brushing with his tail the whirling wheel:
Such, and so narrow now the space between
The rivals, late so distant on the green;
So soon swift ? the her lost ground regain'd,
One length, one moment, had the race obtain'd.

Merion pursued, at greater distance still,
With tardier coursers, and inferior skill.
Last came, Admetus!
thy unhappy son;
Slow dragged the steeds his batter'd chariot on:
Achilles saw, and pitying thus begun:

"Behold! the man whose matchless art surpass'd
The sons of Greece! the ablest, yet the last!
Fortune denies, but justice bids us pay
(Since great Tydides bears the first away)
To him the second honours of the day. "

The Greeks consent with loud-applauding cries,
And then Eumelus had received the prize,
But youthful Nestor, jealous of his fame,
The award opposes, and asserts his claim.
"Think not (he cries) I tamely will resign,
O Peleus' son! the mare so justly mine.
What if the gods, the skilful to confound,
Have thrown the horse and horseman to the ground?
Perhaps he sought not heaven by sacrifice,
And vows omitted forfeited the prize.
If yet (distinction to thy friend to show,
And please a soul desirous to bestow)
Some gift must grace Eumelus, view thy store
Of beauteous handmaids, steeds, and shining ore;
An ample present let him thence receive,
And Greece shall praise thy generous thirst to give.
But this my prize I never shall forego;
This, who but touches, warriors! is my foe. "

Thus spake the youth; nor did his words offend;
Pleased with the well-turn'd flattery of a friend,
Achilles smiled: "The gift proposed (he cried),
Antilochus! we shall ourself provide.
With plates of brass the corslet cover'd o'er,
(The same renown'd Asteropaeus wore,)
Whose glittering margins raised with silver shine,
(No vulgar gift,) Eumelus! shall be thine.