Then as the mountain oak, or poplar tall, Or pine (fit mast for some great admiral) Nods to the axe, till with a groaning sound It sinks, and spreads its honours on the ground, Thus fell the king; and laid on earth supine, Before his chariot stretch'd his form divine: He grasp'd the dust distain'd with streaming gore, And, pale in death, lay groaning on the shore. So lies a bull beneath the lion's paws, While the grim savage grinds with foamy jaws The trembling limbs, and sucks the smoking blood; Deep groans, and hollow roars, rebellow through the wood. Then to the leader of the Lycian band The dying chief address'd his last command; "Glaucus, be bold; thy task be first to dare The glorious dangers of destructive war, To lead my troops, to combat at their head, Incite the living, and supply the dead. Tell them, I charged them with my latest breath Not unrevenged to bear Sarpedon's death. What grief, what shame, must Glaucus undergo, If these spoil'd arms adorn a Grecian foe! Then as a friend, and as a warrior fight; Defend my body, conquer in my right: That, taught by great examples, all may try Like thee to vanquish, or like me to die." He ceased; the Fates suppress'd his labouring breath, And his eyes darken'd with the shades of death. The insulting victor with disdain bestrode The prostrate prince, and on his bosom trod; Then drew the weapon from his panting heart, The reeking fibres clinging to the dart; From the wide wound gush'd out a stream of blood, And the soul issued in the purple flood. His flying steeds the Myrmidons detain, Unguided now, their mighty master slain. All-impotent of aid, transfix'd with grief, Unhappy Glaucus heard the dying chief: His painful arm, yet useless with the smart Inflicted late by Teucer's deadly dart, Supported on his better hand he stay'd: To Phoebus then ('twas all he could) he pray'd: "All-seeing monarch! whether Lycia's coast, Or sac