The phantom said; then vanish’d from his sight, Resolves to air, and mixes with the night. A thousand schemes the monarch’s mind employ; Elate in thought he sacks untaken Troy: Vain as he was, and to the future blind, Nor saw what Jove and secret fate design’d, What mighty toils to either host remain, What scenes of grief, and numbers of the slain! Eager he rises, and in fancy hears The voice celestial murmuring in his ears. First on his limbs a slender vest he drew, Around him next the regal mantle threw, The embroider’d sandals on his feet were tied; The starry falchion glitter’d at his side; And last, his arm the massy sceptre loads, Unstain’d, immortal, and the gift of gods.