Classic Poem

Thus at the panting Dove a Falcon flies,
(The swiftest Racer of the liquid Skies)
Just when he holds or thinks he holds his Prey,
Obliquely wheeling thro' th' aerial Way;
With open Beak and shrilling Cries he springs,
And aims his Claws, and shoots upon his Wings:
No less fore-right the rapid Chace they held,
One urg'd by Fury, one by Fear impell'd;
Now circling round the Walls their Course maintain,
Where the high Watch-tow'r overlooks the Plain;
Now where the Fig-trees spread their Umbrage broad,
(A wider Compass) smoak along the Road.
Next by Scamander's double Source they bound,
Where two fam'd Fountains burst the parted Ground;
This hot thro' scorching Clefts is seen to rise,
With Exhalations steaming to the Skies;
That the green Banks in Summer's Heat o'erflows,
Like Crystal clear, and cold as Winter-Snows.
Each gushing Fount a marble Cistern fills,
Whose polish'd Bed receives the falling Rills;
Where Trojan Dames, (e'er yet alarm'd by Greece,)
Wash'd their fair Garments in the Days of Peace.
By these they past, one chasing, one in Flight,
(The Mighty fled, pursu'd by stronger Might)
Swift was the Course; No vulgar Prize they play,
No vulgar Victim must reward the Day,
(Such as in Races crown the speedy Strife)
The Prize contended was great Hector's Life.