fate foresee, and mystic dreams unfold; The youths return'd not from the doubtful plain, And the sad father tried his arts in vain; No mystic dream could make their fates appear, Though now determined by Tydides' spear. Young Xanthus next, and Thoon felt his rage; The joy and hope of Phaenops' feeble age: Vast was his wealth, and these the only heirs Of all his labours and a life of cares. Cold death o'ertakes them in their blooming years, And leaves the father unavailing tears: To strangers now descends his heapy store, The race forgotten, and the name no more. Two sons of Priam in one chariot ride, Glittering in arms, and combat side by side. As when the lordly lion seeks his food Where grazing heifers range the lonely wood, He leaps amidst them with a furious bound, Bends their strong necks, and tears them to the ground: So from their seats the brother chiefs are torn, Their steeds and chariot to the navy borne. With deep concern divine Ćneas view'd The foe prevailing, and his friends pursued; Through the thick storm of singing spears he flies, Exploring Pandarus with careful eyes. At length he found Lycaon's mighty son; To whom the chief of Venus' race begun: "Where, Pandarus, are all thy honours now, Thy winged arrows and unerring bow, Thy matchless skill, thy yet unrivall'd fame, And boasted glory of the Lycian name? O pierce that mortal! if we mortal call That wondrous force by which whole armies fall; Or god incensed, who quits the distant skies To punish Troy for slighted sacrifice; (Which, oh avert from our unhappy state! For what so dreadful as celestial hate)? Whoe'er he be, propitiate Jove with prayer; If man, destroy; if god, entreat to spare." To him the Lycian: "Whom your eyes behold, If right I judge, is Diomed the bold: Such coursers whirl him o'er the dusty field, So towers his helmet, and so flames his shield. If 'tis a god, he wears that chief's disguise: