“Bold was thy aim, and glorious was the prize, (Ulysses, with a scornful smile, replies,) Far other rulers those proud steeds demand, And scorn the guidance of a vulgar hand; Even great Achilles scarce their rage can tame, Achilles sprung from an immortal dame. But say, be faithful, and the truth recite! Where lies encamp’d the Trojan chief to-night? Where stand his coursers? in what quarter sleep Their other princes? tell what watch they keep: Say, since this conquest, what their counsels are; Or here to combat, from their city far, Or back to Ilion’s walls transfer the war?”