Before the father and the conquering son
Heaps rush on heaps, they fight, they drop, they run
Now by the sword, and now the javelin, fall
The rebel race, and death had swallow’d all;
But from on high the blue-eyed virgin cried;
Her awful voice detain’d the headlong tide: 
“Forbear, ye nations, your mad hands forbear
From mutual slaughter; Peace descends to spare.” 
Fear shook the nations:  at the voice divine
They drop their javelins, and their rage resign. 
All scatter’d round their glittering weapons lie;
Some fall to earth, and some confusedly fly. 
With dreadful shouts Ulysses pour’d along,
Swift as an eagle, as an eagle strong. 
But Jove’s red arm the burning thunder aims: 
Before Minerva shot the livid flames;
Blazing they fell, and at her feet expired;
Then stopped the goddess, trembled and retired.

“Descended from the gods!  Ulysses, cease;
Offend not Jove:  obey, and give the peace.”

So Pallas spoke:  the mandate from above
The king obey’d.  The virgin-seed of Jove,
In Mentor’s form, confirm’d the full accord,
And willing nations knew their lawful lord.