HKB
shield, Of wondrous art, by Didymaon wrought, Long since from Neptune’s bars in triumph brought. This giv’n to Nisus, he divides the rest, And equal justice in his gifts express’d.
The race thus ended, and rewards bestow’d, Once more the prince bespeaks th’ attentive crowd: “If there be here, whose dauntless courage dare In gauntlet fight, with limbs and body bare, His opposite sustain in open view, Stand forth the champion, and the games renew. Two prizes I propose, and thus divide: A bull with gilded horns, and fillets tied, Shall be the portion of the conqu’ring chief; A sword and helm shall cheer the loser’s grief.”
Then haughty Dares in the lists appears; Stalking he strides, his head erected bears: His nervous arms the weighty gauntlet wield, And loud applauses echo thro’ the field. Dares alone in combat us’d to stand The match of mighty Paris, hand to hand; The same, at Hector’s fun’rals, undertook Gigantic Butes, of th’ Amycian stock, And, by the stroke of his resistless hand, Stretch’d the vast bulk upon the yellow sand. Such Dares was; and such he strode along, And drew the wonder of the gazing throng. His brawny back and ample breast he shows, His lifted arms around his head he throws, And deals in whistling air his empty blows. His match is sought; but, thro’ the trembling band, Not one dares answer to the proud demand. Presuming of his force, with sparkling eyes Already he devours the promis’d prize. He claims the bull with awless insolence, And having seiz’d his horns, accosts the prince: “If none my matchless valour dares oppose, How long shall Dares wait his dastard foes? Permit me, chief, permit without delay, To lead this uncontended gift away.” The crowd assents, and with redoubled cries For the proud challenger demands the prize.
Acestes, fir’d with just disdain, to see The palm usurp’d without a victory, Reproach’d Entellus thus, who sate beside, And heard and saw, unmov’d, the Trojan’s pride: “Once, but in vain, a champion of renown, So tamely can you bear the ravish’d crown, A prize in triumph borne before your sight, And shun, for fear, the danger of the fight? Where is our Eryx now, the boasted name, The god who taught your thund’ring arm the game? Where now your baffled honour? Where the spoil That fill’d your house, and fame that fill’d our isle?” Entellus, thus: “My soul is still the same, Unmov’d with fear, and mov’d with martial fame; But my chill blood is curdled in my veins, And scarce the shadow of a man remains. O could I turn to that fair prime again, That prime of which this boaster is so vain, The brave, who this decrepid age defies, Should feel my force, without the promis’d prize.”