“Forbear, ye chiefs! reproachful to contend; Much would ye blame, should others thus offend: And lo! the approaching steeds your contest end.” No sooner had he spoke, but thundering near, Drives, through a stream of dust, the charioteer. High o’er his head the circling lash he wields: His bounding horses scarcely touch the fields: His car amidst the dusty whirlwind roll’d, Bright with the mingled blaze of tin and gold, Refulgent through the cloud: no eye could find The track his flying wheels had left behind: And the fierce coursers urged their rapid pace So swift, it seem’d a flight, and not a race. Now victor at the goal Tydides stands, Quits his bright car, and springs upon the sands; From the hot steeds the sweaty torrents stream; The well-plied whip is hung athwart the beam: With joy brave Sthenelus receives the prize, The tripod-vase, and dame with radiant eyes: These to the ships his train triumphant leads, The chief himself unyokes the panting steeds.