Without a sigh his sword the brave man draws,
And asks no omen but his country's cause.
But why should'st thou suspect the war's success?
None fears it more, as none promotes it less.
Tho' all our ships amid yon ships expire,
Trust thy own cowardice to escape the fire.
Troy and her sons may find a general grave,
But thou canst live, for thou canst be a slave.
Yet should the fears that wary mind suggests
Spread their cold poison through our soldiers' breasts,
My javelin can revenge so base a part,
And free the soul that quivers in thy heart.
The six volumes of the Iliad were published during the years 1715-1720,
and were closed by a dedication to Congreve, who, as an eminent man of
letters, not too closely connected with either Whigs or Tories, was the
most appropriate recipient of such a compliment. Pope was enriched by
his success, and no doubt wearied by his labours. But his restless
intellect would never leave him to indulge in prolonged repose, and,
though not avaricious, he was not more averse than other men to
increasing his fortune. He soon undertook two sufficiently laborious
works. The first was an edition of Shakspeare, for which he only
received 217_l._ 10_s._, and which seems to have been regarded as a
failure. It led, like his other publications, to a quarrel to be
hereafter mentioned, but need not detain us at present. It appeared in
1725, when he was already deep in another project.
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