ODE XV. —The Sea-God's Warning to Paris.

As the Shepherd of Troy, wafting over the deep
Sad Perfidy's freightage, bore Helen along,
Old Nereus uprose, hushed the breezes to sleep,
And the secrets of doom thus revealed in his song.

Ah! homeward thou bringest, with omen of dread,
One whom Greece will reclaim !—for her millions have sword
Not to rest till they tear the false bride from thy bed,
Or till Priam's old throne their revenge overturn.

See the struggle! how foam covers horsemen and steeds!
See thy Ilion consigned to the bloodiest of sieges!
Mark, arrayed in her helmet, Minerva, who speeds
To prepare for the battle her car and her ægis!

Too fondly thou deemest that Venus will vouch
For a life which thou spendest in trimming thy curls,
Or, in tuning, reclined on an indolent couch,
An effeminate lyre to an audience of girls.

Though awhile in voluptuous pastime employed,
Far away from the contest, the truant of lust
May baffie the bowmen, and Ajax avoid,
Thy adulterous ringlets are doomed to the dust!

See'st thou him of Ithaca, scourge of thy race?
Gallant Teucer of Salamis? Nestor the wise?
How, urging his ear on thy cowardly trace,
Swift Sthenelus poises his lance as he flies?

Swift Sthenelus, Diomed's brave charioteer,
Accomplished in combat like Merion the Cretan,
Fierce, towering aloft see his master appear,
Of a breed that in battle has never been beaten.

Whom thou, like a fawn, when a wolf in the valley
The delicate pasture compels him to leave,
Wilt fly, faint and breathless—though flight may not tally
With all thy beloved heard thee boast to achieve.

Achilles, retired in his angry pavilion,
Shall cause a short respite to Troy and her games;
Yet a few winters more, and the turrets of Ilion
Must sink mid the roar of retributive flames!