High Ilium against the foes who creep
Nearer and nearer to its sacred walls.
ACHILLES o'er the trenches loudly calls,
In menace fierce, thrasonic in his boast,
His Myrmidons, a mad and motley host,
Mean boundless mischief, the Palladium's gone
If they are not repulsed. It must be done,
Come what, come will. PRIAM has trimmed his sails
To popular winds until the pilot fails
To know the old and carefully charted course.