far to those, As he that thunders to the stream that flows. What rivers can, Scamander might have shown; But Jove he dreads, nor wars against his son. Even Achelous might contend in vain, And all the roaring billows of the main. The eternal ocean, from whose fountains flow The seas, the rivers, and the springs below, The thundering voice of Jove abhors to hear, And in his deep abysses shakes with fear." He said: then from the bank his javelin tore, And left the breathless warrior in his gore. The floating tides the bloody carcase lave, And beat against it, wave succeeding wave; Till, roll'd between the banks, it lies the food Of curling eels, and fishes of the flood. All ****ter'd round the stream (their mightiest slain) The amazed Paeonians scour along the plain; He vents his fury on the flying crew, Thrasius, Astyplus, and Mnesus slew; Mydon, Thersilochus, with Ćnius, fell; And numbers more his lance had plunged to hell, But from the bott