Classic Poem

This Tale by Nestor told did much displease
Tlepolemus the Seed of Hercules :
For, often he had heard his Father say,
That he himself was present at the Fray;
And more than shar'd the Glories of the Day.
Old Chronicle, he said, among the rest,
You might have nam'd Alcides at the least:
Is he not worth your Praise? The Pylian Prince
Sigh'd ere he spoke; then made this proud Defence.
My former Woes in long Oblivion drown'd,
I wou'd have lost; but you renew the Wound:
Better to pass him o'er, than to relate
The Cause I have your mighty Sire to hate.
His Fame has fill'd the World, and reach'd the Sky;
(Which, Oh, I wish, with Truth, I cou'd deny!)
We praise not Hector ; though his Name, we know,
Is great in Arms; 'tis hard to praise a Foe.
He, your great Father, levell'd to the Ground
Messenia 's Tow'rs: Nor better Fortune found
Elis , and Pylos ; That a neighb'ring State,
And This my own: Both guiltless of their Fate.
To pass the rest, twelve, wanting one, he slew;
My Brethren, who their Birth from Neleus drew.
All Youths of early Promise, had they liv'd;
By him they perish'd: I alone surviv'd.
The rest were casie Conquest: But the Fate
Of Periclymenos , is wondrous to relate.
To him, our common Grandsire of the Main,
Had giv'n to change his Form, and chang'd, resume again.
Vary'd at Pleasure, every Shape he try'd;
And in all Beasts Alcides still defy'd:
Vanquish'd on Earth, at length he soar'd above;
Chang'd to the Bird, that bears the Bolt of Jove :
The new-dissembled Eagle, now endu'd
With Beak and Pounces, Hercules pursu'd,
And cuff'd his manly Cheeks, and tore his Face;
Then, safe retir'd, and tour'd in empty space.
Alcides bore not long his flying Foe;
But bending his inevitable Bow,
Reach'd him in Air, suspended as he stood;
And in his Pinion fix'd the feather'd Wood.
Light was the Wound; but in the Sinew hung
The Point; and his disabled Wing unstrung.
He wheel'd in Air, and stretch'd his Vans in vain;
His Vans no longer cou'd his Flight sustain:
For while one gather'd Wind, one unsupply'd
Hung drooping down, nor pois'd his other Side.
He fell: The Shaft that slightly was impress'd,
Now from his heavy Fall with weight increas'd,
Drove through his Neck, aslant; he spurns the Ground,
And the Soul issues through the Weazon's Wound.
Now, brave Commander of the Rhodian Seas,
What Praise is due from me, to Hercules ?
Silence is all the Vengeance I decree
For my slain Brothers; but 'tis Peace with thee.
Thus with a flowing Tongue old Nestor spoke:
Then, to full Bowls each other they provoke:
At length, with Weariness and Wine oppress'd,
They rise from Table; and withdraw to Rest.