Ere yet the tempest roars, Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars; Contract your swelling sails, and luff to wind.
So hot th’ assault, so high the tumult rose, While ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose As all the Dardan and Argolic race Had been contracted in that narrow space; Or as all Ilium else were void of fear, And tumult, war, and slaughter, only there.
My dying son contracted no such band; The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand.
From this coarse mixture of terrestrial parts, Desire and fear by turns possess their hearts, And grief, and joy; nor can the groveling mind, In the dark dungeon of the limbs confin’d, Assert the native skies, or own its heav’nly kind: Nor death itself can wholly wash their stains; But long-contracted filth ev’n in the soul remains.
Soon as the field inclos’d she had in view, And from afar her destin’d quarry knew, Contracted, to the boding bird she turns, Which haunts the ruin’d piles and hallow’d urns, And beats about the tombs with nightly wings, Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.