race: 
  A hundred of the same stupendous size,
  A hundred Cyclops live among the hills,
  Gigantic brotherhood, that stalk along
  With horrid strides o’er the high mountains’ tops,
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  Enormous in their gait; I oft have heard
  Their voice and tread, oft seen them as they passed,
  Sculking and cowering down, half dead with fear. 
  Thrice has the moon washed all her orb in light,
  Thrice travelled o’er, in her obscure sojourn,
  The realms of night inglorious, since I’ve lived
  Amidst these woods, gleaning from thorns and shrubs
  A wretched sustenance.’  As thus he spoke,
  We saw descending from a neighbouring hill
  Blind Polypheme; by weary steps and slow
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  The groping giant with a trunk of pine
  Explored his way; around, his woolly flocks
  Attended grazing; to the well-known shore
  He bent his course, and on the margin stood,
  A hideous monster, terrible, deformed;
  Full in the midst of his high front there gaped
  The spacious hollow where his eye-ball rolled,
  A ghastly orifice:  he rinsed the wound,
  And washed away the strings and clotted blood
  That caked within; then, stalking through the deep,
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  He fords the ocean, while the topmost wave
  Scarce reaches up his middle side; we stood
  Amazed, be sure; a sudden horror chill
  Ran through each nerve, and thrilled in every vein,
  Till, using all the force of winds and oars,
  We sped away; he heard us in our course,
  And with his outstretched arms around him groped,
  But finding nought within his reach, he raised
  Such hideous shouts that all the ocean shook. 
  Even Italy, though many a league remote,
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  In distant echoes answered; AEtna roared,
  Through all its inmost winding caverns roared. 
     Roused with the sound, the mighty family
  Of one-eyed brothers hasten to the shore,
  And gather round the bellowing Polypheme,
  A dire assembly:  we with eager haste
  Work every one, and from afar behold
  A host of giants covering all the shore. 
     So stands a forest tall of mountain oaks
  Advanced to mighty growth:  the traveller
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  Hears from the humble valley where he rides
  The hollow murmurs of the winds that blow
  Amidst the boughs, and at the distance sees
  The shady tops of trees unnumbered rise,
  A stately prospect, waving in the clouds.

THE CAMPAIGN, A POEM.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

                      Rheni paeator et Istri. 

Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit
Ordinibus; laectatur eques, plauditque senator,
Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori. 

          
                                                                                CLAUD.  DE LAUD.  STILIC.