from the door. Soon as the prospect open'd to his view, His wounded eyes the scene of sorrow knew; Dire disarray! the tumult of the fight, The wall in ruins, and the Greeks in flight. As when old ocean's silent surface sleeps, The waves just heaving on the purple deeps: While yet the expected tempest hangs on high, Weighs down the cloud, and blackens in the sky, The m**** of waters will no wind obey; Jove sends one gust, and bids them roll away. While wavering counsels thus his mind engage, Fluctuates in doubtful thought the Pylian sage, To join the host, or to the general haste; Debating long, he fixes on the last: Yet, as he moves, the sight his bosom warms, The field rings dreadful with the clang of arms, The gleaming falchions flash, the javelins fly; Blows echo blows, and all or kill or die. Him, in his march, the wounded princes meet, By tardy steps ascending from the fleet: The king of men, Ulysses the divine, And who to Tydeus owes