And hung War’s chances on the wistful ken
Of her ’mongst all Lyrnessian spoil the flower,
Whose charms drew eyes from Ilion’s loftiest tower.
Thus to Achilles’ arms the maid restored
Was stript o’ the robes that swept Atrides’ bower,
And decked anew in livery of her lord,
To show no tyrant folds should float o’er his adored.
XVIII.
And well too fought thy warriors, Lusitain,
Who, led by Britons, clomb the further breach,