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His figure such as might his soul proclaim: One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame; His mountain shoulders half his breast o'erspread, Thin hairs bestrew'd his long misshapen head; Spleen to mankind his envious heart possessed, And much he hated all but most, the best. Ulysses or Achilles still his theme; But royal scandal his delight supreme.
Their reeking limbs bestrew'd the slippery strand. Shall he for this resign his vital breath? What! shall the hero's recompense be death? But who will dare a threatening step advance, What earthly power can bear his withering glance? Should he to Zábul fired with wrongs return, The plunder'd land will long in sorrow mourn!
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