Classic Poem

As when the Winds, ascending by degrees,
First move the whitening Surface of the Seas,
The Billows float in order to the Shore,
The Wave behind rolls on the Wave before;
Till, with the growing Storm, the Deeps arise,
Foam o'er the Rocks, and thunder to the Skies.
So to the Fight the thick Battalions throng,
Shields urg'd on Shields, and Men drove Men along.
Sedate and silent move the num'rous Bands;
No Sound, no Whisper, but the Chief's Commands,
Those only heard; with Awe the rest obey,
As if some God had snatch'd their Voice away.
Not so the Trojans, from their Host ascends
A gen'ral Shout that all the Region rends.
As when the fleecy Flocks unnumber'd stand
In wealthy Folds, and wait the Milker's Hand,
The hollow Vales incessant Bleating fills,
The Lambs reply from all the neighb'ring Hills:
Such Clamours rose from various Nations round,
Mix'd was the Murmur, and confus'd the Sound.