he spoke, and as the wretch prepared With humble blandishment to stroke his beard, Like lightning swift the wrathful falchion flew, Divides the neck, and cuts the nerves in two; One instant ****'d his trembling soul to hell, The head, yet speaking, mutter'd as it fell. The furry helmet from his brow they tear, The wolf's grey hide, the unbended bow and spear; These great Ulysses lifting to the skies, To favouring Pallas dedicates the prize: "Great queen of arms, receive this hostile spoil, And let the Thracian steeds reward our toil; Thee, first of all the heavenly host, we praise; O speed our labours, and direct our ways!" This said, the spoils, with dropping gore defaced, High on a spreading tamarisk he placed; Then heap'd with reeds and gathered boughs the plain, To guide their footsteps to the place again. Through the still night they cross the devious fields, Slippery with blood, o'er arms and heaps of shields, Arriving where the Thracian