The Iliad - 18

Nor stopp’d the fury of his vengeful hand,
Till twelve lay breathless of the Thracian band.
Ulysses following, as his partner slew,
Back by the foot each slaughter’d warrior drew;
The milk-white coursers studious to convey
Safe to the ships, he wisely cleared the way:
Lest the fierce steeds, not yet to battles bred,
Should start, and tremble at the heaps of dead.
Now twelve despatch’d, the monarch last they found;
Tydides’ falchion fix’d him to the ground.
Just then a deathful dream Minerva sent,
A warlike form appear’d before his tent,
Whose visionary steel his bosom tore:
So dream’d the monarch, and awaked no more.[218]
Ulysses now the snowy steeds detains,
And leads them, fasten’d by the silver reins;
These, with his bow unbent, he lash’d along;
(The scourge forgot, on Rhesus’ chariot hung;)
Then gave his friend the signal to retire;
But him, new dangers, new achievements fire;
Doubtful he stood, or with his reeking blade
To send more heroes to the infernal shade,
Drag off the car where Rhesus’ armour lay,
Or heave with manly force, and lift away.
While unresolved the son of Tydeus stands,
Pallas appears, and thus her chief commands:
“Enough, my son; from further slaughter cease,
Regard thy safety, and depart in peace;
Haste to the ships, the gotten spoils enjoy,
Nor tempt too far the hostile gods of Troy.”
The voice divine confess’d the martial maid;
In haste he mounted, and her word obey’d;
The coursers fly before Ulysses’ bow,
Swift as the wind, and white as winter-snow.
Not unobserved they pass’d: the god of light
Had watch’d his Troy, and mark’d Minerva’s flight,
Saw Tydeus’ son with heavenly succour bless’d,
And vengeful anger fill’d his sacred breast.
Swift to the Trojan camp descends the power,
And wakes Hippocoon in the morning-hour;
(On Rhesus’ side accustom’d to attend,
A faithful kinsman, and instructive friend;)
He rose, and saw the field deform’d with blood,
An empty space where late the coursers stood,
The yet-warm Thracians panting on the coast;
For each he wept, but for his Rhesus most:
Now while on Rhesus’ name he calls in vain,
The gathering tumult spreads o’er all the plain;
On heaps the Trojans rush, with wild affright,
And wondering view the slaughters of the night.
Meanwhile the chiefs, arriving at the shade
Where late the spoils of Hector’s spy were laid,
Ulysses stopp’d; to him Tydides bore
The trophy, dropping yet with Dolon’s gore:
Then mounts again; again their nimbler feet
The coursers ply, and thunder towards the fleet.

[Illustration: ] DIOMED AND ULYSSES RETURNING WITH THE SPOILS OF RHESUS

Old Nestor first perceived the approaching sound,
Bespeaking thus the Grecian peers around:
“Methinks the noise of trampling steeds I hear,
Thickening this way, and gathering on my ear;
Perhaps some horses of the Trojan breed
(So may, ye gods! my pious hopes succeed)
The great Tydides and Ulysses bear,
Return’d triumphant with this prize of war.
Yet much I fear (ah, may that fear be vain!)
The chiefs outnumber’d by the Trojan train;
Perhaps, even now pursued, they seek the shore;
Or, oh! perhaps those heroes are no more.”
Scarce had he spoke, when, lo! the chiefs appear,
And spring to earth; the Greeks dismiss their fear:
With words of friendship and extended hands
They greet the kings; and Nestor first demands:
“Say thou, whose praises all our host proclaim,
Thou living glory of the Grecian name!
Say whence these coursers? by what chance bestow’d,
The spoil of foes, or present of a god?
Not those fair steeds, so radiant and so gay,
That draw the burning chariot of the day.
Old as I am, to age I scorn to yield,
And daily mingle in the martial field;
But sure till now no coursers struck my sight
Like these, conspicuous through the ranks of fight.
Some god, I deem, conferred the glorious prize,
Bless’d as ye are, and favourites of the skies;
The care of him who bids the thunder roar,
And her, whose fury bathes the world with gore.”
“Father! not so, (sage Ithacus rejoin’d,)
The gifts of heaven are of a nobler kind.
Of Thracian lineage are the steeds ye view,
Whose hostile king the brave Tydides slew;
Sleeping he died, with all his guards around,
And twelve beside lay gasping on the ground.
These other spoils from conquer’d Dolon came,
A wretch, whose swiftness was his only fame;
By Hector sent our forces to explore,
He now lies headless on the sandy shore.”
Then o’er the trench the bounding coursers flew;
The joyful Greeks with loud acclaim pursue.
Straight to Tydides’ high pavilion borne,
The matchless steeds his ample stalls adorn:
The neighing coursers their new fellows greet,
And the full racks are heap’d with generous wheat.
But Dolon’s armour, to his ships convey’d,
High on the painted stern Ulysses laid,
A trophy destin’d to the blue-eyed maid.
Now from nocturnal sweat and sanguine stain
They cleanse their bodies in the neighb’ring main:
Then in the polished bath, refresh’d from toil,
Their joints they supple with dissolving oil,
In due repast indulge the genial hour,
And first to Pallas the libations pour:
They sit, rejoicing in her aid divine,
And the crown’d goblet foams with floods of wine.


BOOK XI.

ARGUMENT

THE THIRD BATTLE, AND THE ACTS OF AGAMEMNON.

Agamemnon, having armed himself, leads the Grecians to battle; Hector
prepares the Trojans to receive them, while Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva
give the signals of war. Agamemnon bears all before him and Hector is
commanded by Jupiter (who sends Iris for that purpose) to decline the
engagement, till the king shall be wounded and retire from the field.
He then makes a great slaughter of the enemy. Ulysses and Diomed put a
stop to him for a time but the latter, being wounded by Paris, is
obliged to desert his companion, who is encompassed by the Trojans,
wounded, and in the utmost danger, till Menelaus and Ajax rescue him.
Hector comes against Ajax, but that hero alone opposes multitudes, and
rallies the Greeks. In the meantime Machaon, in the other wing of the
army, is pierced with an arrow by Paris, and carried from the fight in
Nestor’s chariot. Achilles (who overlooked the action from his ship)
sent Patroclus to inquire which of the Greeks was wounded in that
manner; Nestor entertains him in his tent with an account of the
accidents of the day, and a long recital of some former wars which he
remembered, tending to put Patroclus upon persuading Achilles to fight
for his countrymen, or at least to permit him to do it, clad in
Achilles’ armour. Patroclus, on his return, meets Eurypylus also
wounded, and assists him in that distress.
This book opens with the eight-and-twentieth day of the poem, and
the same day, with its various actions and adventures is extended
through the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth,
seventeenth, and part of the eighteenth books. The scene lies in
the field near the monument of Ilus.

The saffron morn, with early blushes spread,[219]
Now rose refulgent from Tithonus’ bed;
With new-born day to gladden mortal sight,
And gild the courts of heaven with sacred light:
When baleful Eris, sent by Jove’s command,
The torch of discord blazing in her hand,
Through the red skies her bloody sign extends,
And, wrapt in tempests, o’er the fleet descends.
High on Ulysses’ bark her horrid stand
She took, and thunder’d through the seas and land.
Even Ajax and Achilles heard the sound,
Whose ships, remote, the guarded navy bound,
Thence the black fury through the Grecian throng
With horror sounds the loud Orthian song:
The navy shakes, and at the dire alarms
Each bosom boils, each warrior starts to arms.
No more they sigh, inglorious to return,
But breathe revenge, and for the combat burn.

[Illustration: ] THE DESCENT OF DISCORD

The king of men his hardy host inspires
With loud command, with great example fires!
Himself first rose, himself before the rest
His mighty limbs in radiant armour dress’d,
And first he cased his manly legs around
In shining greaves with silver buckles bound;
The beaming cuirass next adorn’d his breast,
The same which once king Cinyras possess’d:
(The fame of Greece and her assembled host
Had reach’d that monarch on the Cyprian coast;
’Twas then, the friendship of the chief to gain,
This glorious gift he sent, nor sent in vain:)
Ten rows of azure steel the work infold,
Twice ten of tin, and twelve of ductile gold;
Three glittering dragons to the gorget rise,
Whose imitated scales against the skies
Reflected various light, and arching bow’d,
Like colour’d rainbows o’er a showery cloud
(Jove’s wondrous bow, of three celestial dies,
Placed as a sign to man amidst the skies).
A radiant baldric, o’er his shoulder tied,
Sustain’d the sword that glitter’d at his side:
Gold was the hilt, a silver sheath encased
The shining blade, and golden hangers graced.
His buckler’s mighty orb was next display’d,
That round the warrior cast a dreadful shade;
Ten zones of brass its ample brim surround,
And twice ten bosses the bright convex crown’d:
Tremendous Gorgon frown’d upon its field,
And circling terrors fill’d the expressive shield:
Within its concave hung a silver thong,
On which a mimic serpent creeps along,
His azure length in easy waves extends,
Till in three heads the embroider’d monster ends.
Last o’er his brows his fourfold helm he placed,
With nodding horse-hair formidably graced;
And in his hands two steely javelins wields,
That blaze to heaven, and lighten all the fields.
That instant Juno, and the martial maid,
In happy thunders promised Greece their aid;
High o’er the chief they clash’d their arms in air,
And, leaning from the clouds, expect the war.
Close to the limits of the trench and mound,
The fiery coursers to their chariots bound
The squires restrain’d: the foot, with those who wield
The lighter arms, rush forward to the field.
To second these, in close array combined,
The squadrons spread their sable wings behind.
Now shouts and tumults wake the tardy sun,
As with the light the warriors’ toils begun.
Even Jove, whose thunder spoke his wrath, distill’d
Red drops of blood o’er all the fatal field;[220]
The woes of men unwilling to survey,
And all the slaughters that must stain the day.
Near Ilus’ tomb, in order ranged around,
The Trojan lines possess’d the rising ground:
There wise Polydamas and Hector stood;
Æneas, honour’d as a guardian god;
Bold Polybus, Agenor the divine;
The brother-warriors of Antenor’s line:
With youthful Acamas, whose beauteous face
And fair proportion match’d the ethereal race.
Great Hector, cover’d with his spacious shield,
Plies all the troops, and orders all the field.
As the red star now shows his sanguine fires
Through the dark clouds, and now in night retires,
Thus through the ranks appear’d the godlike man,
Plunged in the rear, or blazing in the van;
While streamy sparkles, restless as he flies,
Flash from his arms, as lightning from the skies.
As sweating reapers in some wealthy field,
Ranged in two bands, their crooked weapons wield,
Bear down the furrows, till their labours meet;
Thick fall the heapy harvests at their feet:
So Greece and Troy the field of war divide,
And falling ranks are strow’d on every side.
None stoop’d a thought to base inglorious flight;[221]
But horse to horse, and man to man they fight,
Not rabid wolves more fierce contest their prey;
Each wounds, each bleeds, but none resign the day.
Discord with joy the scene of death descries,
And drinks large slaughter at her sanguine eyes:
Discord alone, of all the immortal train,
Swells the red horrors of this direful plain:
The gods in peace their golden mansions fill,
Ranged in bright order on the Olympian hill:
But general murmurs told their griefs above,
And each accused the partial will of Jove.
Meanwhile apart, superior, and alone,
The eternal Monarch, on his awful throne,
Wrapt in the blaze of boundless glory sate;
And fix’d, fulfill’d the just decrees of fate.
On earth he turn’d his all-considering eyes,
And mark’d the spot where Ilion’s towers arise;
The sea with ships, the fields with armies spread,
The victor’s rage, the dying, and the dead.
Thus while the morning-beams, increasing bright,
O’er heaven’s pure azure spread the glowing light,
Commutual death the fate of war confounds,
Each adverse battle gored with equal wounds.
But now (what time in some sequester’d vale
The weary woodman spreads his sparing meal,
When his tired arms refuse the axe to rear,
And claim a respite from the sylvan war;
But not till half the prostrate forests lay
Stretch’d in long ruin, and exposed to day)
Then, nor till then, the Greeks’ impulsive might
Pierced the black phalanx, and let in the light.
Great Agamemnon then the slaughter led,
And slew Bienor at his people’s head:
Whose squire Oïleus, with a sudden spring,
Leap’d from the chariot to revenge his king;
But in his front he felt the fatal wound,
Which pierced his brain, and stretch’d him on the ground.
Atrides spoil’d, and left them on the plain:
Vain was their youth, their glittering armour vain:
Now soil’d with dust, and naked to the sky,
Their snowy limbs and beauteous bodies lie.
Two sons of Priam next to battle move,
The product, one of marriage, one of love:[222]
In the same car the brother-warriors ride;
This took the charge to combat, that to guide:
Far other task, than when they wont to keep,
On Ida’s tops, their father’s fleecy sheep.
These on the mountains once Achilles found,
And captive led, with pliant osiers bound;
Then to their sire for ample sums restored;
But now to perish by Atrides’ sword:
Pierced in the breast the base-born Isus bleeds:
Cleft through the head his brother’s fate succeeds,
Swift to the spoil the hasty victor falls,
And, stript, their features to his mind recalls.
The Trojans see the youths untimely die,
But helpless tremble for themselves, and fly.
So when a lion ranging o’er the lawns,
Finds, on some grassy lair, the couching fawns,
Their bones he cracks, their reeking vitals draws,
And grinds the quivering flesh with bloody jaws;
The frighted hind beholds, and dares not stay,
But swift through rustling thickets bursts her way;
All drown’d in sweat, the panting mother flies,
And the big tears roll trickling from her eyes.
Amidst the tumult of the routed train,
The sons of false Antimachus were slain;
He who for bribes his faithless counsels sold,
And voted Helen’s stay for Paris’ gold.
Atrides mark’d, as these their safety sought,
And slew the children for the father’s fault;
Their headstrong horse unable to restrain,
They shook with fear, and dropp’d the silken rein;
Then in the chariot on their knees they fall,
And thus with lifted hands for mercy call:
“O spare our youth, and for the life we owe,
Antimachus shall copious gifts bestow:
Soon as he hears, that, not in battle slain,
The Grecian ships his captive sons detain,
Large heaps of brass in ransom shall be told,
And steel well-tempered, and persuasive gold.”
These words, attended with the flood of tears,
The youths address’d to unrelenting ears:
The vengeful monarch gave this stern reply:
“If from Antimachus ye spring, ye die;
The daring wretch who once in council stood
To shed Ulysses’ and my brother’s blood,
For proffer’d peace! and sues his seed for grace?
No, die, and pay the forfeit of your race.”
This said, Pisander from the car he cast,
And pierced his breast: supine he breathed his last.
His brother leap’d to earth; but, as he lay,
The trenchant falchion lopp’d his hands away;
His sever’d head was toss’d among the throng,
And, rolling, drew a bloody train along.
Then, where the thickest fought, the victor flew;
The king’s example all his Greeks pursue.
Now by the foot the flying foot were slain,
Horse trod by horse, lay foaming on the plain.
From the dry fields thick clouds of dust arise,
Shade the black host, and intercept the skies.
The brass-hoof’d steeds tumultuous plunge and bound,
And the thick thunder beats the labouring ground,
Still slaughtering on, the king of men proceeds;
The distanced army wonders at his deeds,
As when the winds with raging flames conspire,
And o’er the forests roll the flood of fire,
In blazing heaps the grove’s old honours fall,
And one refulgent ruin levels all:
Before Atrides’ rage so sinks the foe,
Whole squadrons vanish, and proud heads lie low.
The steeds fly trembling from his waving sword,
And many a car, now lighted of its lord,
Wide o’er the field with guideless fury rolls,
Breaking their ranks, and crushing out their souls;
While his keen falchion drinks the warriors’ lives;
More grateful, now, to vultures than their wives!
Perhaps great Hector then had found his fate,
But Jove and destiny prolong’d his date.
Safe from the darts, the care of heaven he stood,
Amidst alarms, and death, and dust, and blood.
Now past the tomb where ancient Ilus lay,
Through the mid field the routed urge their way:
Where the wild figs the adjoining summit crown,
The path they take, and speed to reach the town.
As swift, Atrides with loud shouts pursued,
Hot with his toil, and bathed in hostile blood.
Now near the beech-tree, and the Scæan gates,
The hero halts, and his associates waits.
Meanwhile on every side around the plain,
Dispersed, disorder’d, fly the Trojan train.
So flies a herd of beeves, that hear dismay’d
The lion’s roaring through the midnight shade;
On heaps they tumble with successless haste;
The savage seizes, draws, and rends the last.
Not with less fury stern Atrides flew,
Still press’d the rout, and still the hindmost slew;
Hurl’d from their cars the bravest chiefs are kill’d,
And rage, and death, and carnage load the field.
Now storms the victor at the Trojan wall;
Surveys the towers, and meditates their fall.
But Jove descending shook the Idaean hills,
And down their summits pour’d a hundred rills:
The unkindled lightning in his hand he took,
And thus the many-coloured maid bespoke:
“Iris, with haste thy golden wings display,
To godlike Hector this our word convey—
While Agamemnon wastes the ranks around,
Fights in the front, and bathes with blood the ground,
Bid him give way; but issue forth commands,
And trust the war to less important hands:
But when, or wounded by the spear or dart,
That chief shall mount his chariot, and depart,
Then Jove shall string his arm, and fire his breast,
Then to her ships shall flying Greece be press’d,
Till to the main the burning sun descend,
And sacred night her awful shade extend.”
He spoke, and Iris at his word obey’d;
On wings of winds descends the various maid.
The chief she found amidst the ranks of war,
Close to the bulwarks, on his glittering car.
The goddess then: “O son of Priam, hear!
From Jove I come, and his high mandate bear.
While Agamemnon wastes the ranks around,
Fights in the front, and bathes with blood the ground,
Abstain from fight; yet issue forth commands,
And trust the war to less important hands:
But when, or wounded by the spear or dart,
The chief shall mount his chariot, and depart,
Then Jove shall string thy arm, and fire thy breast,
Then to her ships shall flying Greece be press’d,
Till to the main the burning sun descend,
And sacred night her awful shade extend.”
She said, and vanish’d. Hector, with a bound,
Springs from his chariot on the trembling ground,
In clanging arms: he grasps in either hand
A pointed lance, and speeds from band to band;
Revives their ardour, turns their steps from flight,
And wakes anew the dying flames of fight.
They stand to arms: the Greeks their onset dare,
Condense their powers, and wait the coming war.
New force, new spirit, to each breast returns;
The fight renew’d with fiercer fury burns:
The king leads on: all fix on him their eye,
And learn from him to conquer, or to die.
Ye sacred nine! celestial Muses! tell,
Who faced him first, and by his prowess fell?
The great Iphidamas, the bold and young,
From sage Antenor and Theano sprung;
Whom from his youth his grandsire Cisseus bred,
And nursed in Thrace where snowy flocks are fed.
Scarce did the down his rosy cheeks invest,
And early honour warm his generous breast,
When the kind sire consign’d his daughter’s charms
(Theano’s sister) to his youthful arms.
But call’d by glory to the wars of Troy,
He leaves untasted the first fruits of joy;
From his loved bride departs with melting eyes,
And swift to aid his dearer country flies.
With twelve black ships he reach’d Percope’s strand,
Thence took the long laborious march by land.
Now fierce for fame, before the ranks he springs,
Towering in arms, and braves the king of kings.
Atrides first discharged the missive spear;
The Trojan stoop’d, the javelin pass’d in air.
Then near the corslet, at the monarch’s heart,
With all his strength, the youth directs his dart:
But the broad belt, with plates of silver bound,
The point rebated, and repell’d the wound.
Encumber’d with the dart, Atrides stands,
Till, grasp’d with force, he wrench’d it from his hands;
At once his weighty sword discharged a wound
Full on his neck, that fell’d him to the ground.
Stretch’d in the dust the unhappy warrior lies,
And sleep eternal seals his swimming eyes.
Oh worthy better fate! oh early slain!
Thy country’s friend; and virtuous, though in vain!
No more the youth shall join his consort’s side,
At once a virgin, and at once a bride!
No more with presents her embraces meet,
Or lay the spoils of conquest at her feet,
On whom his passion, lavish of his store,
Bestow’d so much, and vainly promised more!
Unwept, uncover’d, on the plain he lay,
While the proud victor bore his arms away.
Coon, Antenor’s eldest hope, was nigh:
Tears, at the sight, came starting from his eye,
While pierced with grief the much-loved youth he view’d,
And the pale features now deform’d with blood.
Then, with his spear, unseen, his time he took,
Aim’d at the king, and near his elbow strook.
The thrilling steel transpierced the brawny part,
And through his arm stood forth the barbed dart.
Surprised the monarch feels, yet void of fear
On Coon rushes with his lifted spear:
His brother’s corpse the pious Trojan draws,
And calls his country to assert his cause;
Defends him breathless on the sanguine field,
And o’er the body spreads his ample shield.
Atrides, marking an unguarded part,
Transfix’d the warrior with his brazen dart;
Prone on his brother’s bleeding breast he lay,
The monarch’s falchion lopp’d his head away:
The social shades the same dark journey go,
And join each other in the realms below.
The vengeful victor rages round the fields,
With every weapon art or fury yields:
By the long lance, the sword, or ponderous stone,
Whole ranks are broken, and whole troops o’erthrown.
This, while yet warm distill’d the purple flood;
But when the wound grew stiff with clotted blood,
Then grinding tortures his strong bosom rend,
Less keen those darts the fierce Ilythiae send:
(The powers that cause the teeming matron’s throes,
Sad mothers of unutterable woes!)
Stung with the smart, all-panting with the pain,
He mounts the car, and gives his squire the rein;
Then with a voice which fury made more strong,
And pain augmented, thus exhorts the throng:
“O friends! O Greeks! assert your honours won;
Proceed, and finish what this arm begun:
Lo! angry Jove forbids your chief to stay,
And envies half the glories of the day.”
He said: the driver whirls his lengthful thong;
The horses fly; the chariot smokes along.
Clouds from their nostrils the fierce coursers blow,
And from their sides the foam descends in snow;
Shot through the battle in a moment’s space,
The wounded monarch at his tent they place.
No sooner Hector saw the king retired,
But thus his Trojans and his aids he fired:
“Hear, all ye Dardan, all ye Lycian race!
Famed in close fight, and dreadful face to face:
Now call to mind your ancient trophies won,
Your great forefathers’ virtues, and your own.
Behold, the general flies! deserts his powers!
Lo, Jove himself declares the conquest ours!
Now on yon ranks impel your foaming steeds;
And, sure of glory, dare immortal deeds.”
With words like these the fiery chief alarms
His fainting host, and every bosom warms.
As the bold hunter cheers his hounds to tear
The brindled lion, or the tusky bear:
With voice and hand provokes their doubting heart,
And springs the foremost with his lifted dart:
So godlike Hector prompts his troops to dare;
Nor prompts alone, but leads himself the war.
On the black body of the foe he pours;
As from the cloud’s deep bosom, swell’d with showers,
A sudden storm the purple ocean sweeps,
Drives the wild waves, and tosses all the deeps.
Say, Muse! when Jove the Trojan’s glory crown’d,
Beneath his arm what heroes bit the ground?
Assaeus, Dolops, and Autonous died,
Opites next was added to their side;
Then brave Hipponous, famed in many a fight,
Opheltius, Orus, sunk to endless night;
Æsymnus, Agelaus; all chiefs of name;
The rest were vulgar deaths unknown to fame.
As when a western whirlwind, charged with storms,
Dispels the gather’d clouds that Notus forms:
The gust continued, violent and strong,
Rolls sable clouds in heaps on heaps along;
Now to the skies the foaming billows rears,
Now breaks the surge, and wide the bottom bares:
Thus, raging Hector, with resistless hands,
O’erturns, confounds, and scatters all their bands.
Now the last ruin the whole host appals;
Now Greece had trembled in her wooden walls;
But wise Ulysses call’d Tydides forth,
His soul rekindled, and awaked his worth.
“And stand we deedless, O eternal shame!
Till Hector’s arm involve the ships in flame?
Haste, let us join, and combat side by side.”
The warrior thus, and thus the friend replied:
“No martial toil I shun, no danger fear;
Let Hector come; I wait his fury here.
But Jove with conquest crowns the Trojan train:
And, Jove our foe, all human force is vain.”
He sigh’d; but, sighing, raised his vengeful steel,
And from his car the proud Thymbraeus fell:
Molion, the charioteer, pursued his lord,
His death ennobled by Ulysses’ sword.
There slain, they left them in eternal night,
Then plunged amidst the thickest ranks of fight.
So two wild boars outstrip the following hounds,
Then swift revert, and wounds return for wounds.
Stern Hector’s conquests in the middle plain
Stood check’d awhile, and Greece respired again.
The sons of Merops shone amidst the war;
Towering they rode in one refulgent car:
In deep prophetic arts their father skill’d,
Had warn’d his children from the Trojan field.
Fate urged them on: the father warn’d in vain;
They rush’d to fight, and perish’d on the plain;
Their breasts no more the vital spirit warms;
The stern Tydides strips their shining arms.
Hypirochus by great Ulysses dies,
And rich Hippodamus becomes his prize.
Great Jove from Ide with slaughter fills his sight,
And level hangs the doubtful scale of fight.
By Tydeus’ lance Agastrophus was slain,
The far-famed hero of Pæonian strain;
Wing’d with his fears, on foot he strove to fly,
His steeds too distant, and the foe too nigh:
Through broken orders, swifter than the wind,
He fled, but flying left his life behind.
This Hector sees, as his experienced eyes
Traverse the files, and to the rescue flies;
Shouts, as he pass’d, the crystal regions rend,
And moving armies on his march attend.
Great Diomed himself was seized with fear,
And thus bespoke his brother of the war:
“Mark how this way yon bending squadrons yield!
The storm rolls on, and Hector rules the field:
Here stand his utmost force.”—The warrior said;
Swift at the word his ponderous javelin fled;