Book IV: The Breaking of the Truce, and the First Battle

Meantime the immortal gods with JupiterUpon his golden pavement sat and heldA council. Hebe, honored of them all,Ministered nectar, and from cups of goldThey pledged each other, looking down on Troy.When, purposely to kindle Juno’s moodTo anger, Saturn’s son, with biting wordsThat well betrayed his covert meaning, spake:—

“Two goddesses—the Argive Juno one,The other Pallas, her invincible friend—Take part with Menelaus, yet they sitAloof, content with looking on, while stillVenus, the laughter-loving one, protectsHer Paris, ever near him, warding offThe stroke of fate. Just now she rescued himWhen he was near his death. The victoryBelongs to Menelaus, loved of Mars.Now let us all consider what shall beThe issue—whether we allow the war,With all its waste of life, to be renewed,Or cause the warring nations to sit downIn amity. If haply it shall beThe pleasure and the will of all the gods,Let Priam’s city keep its dwellers still,And Menelaus lead his Helen home.”

He spake, but Juno and Minerva sat,And with closed lips repined, for secretlyThey plotted evil for the Trojan race.Minerva held her peace in bitternessOf heart and sore displeased with Father Jove.But Juno could not curb her wrath, and spake:—

“What words, austere Saturnius, hast thou said!Wilt thou then render vain the toils I bear,And all my sweat? My very steeds even nowAre weary with the mustering of the hostThat threaten woe to Priam and his sons.Yet do thy will; but be at least assuredThat all the other gods approve it not.”

The cloud-compelling Jupiter repliedIn anger: “Pestilent one! What grievous wrongHath Priam done to thee, or Priam’s sons,That thou shouldst persevere to overthrowHis noble city? Shouldst thou through the gatesOf Ilium make thy way, and there devour,Within the ramparts, Priam and his sonsAnd all the men of Troy alive, thy rageHaply might be appeased. Do as thou wilt,So that this difference breed no lasting strifeBetween us. Yet I tell thee this—and thouBear what I say in mind: In time to come,Should I design to level in the dustSome city where men dear to thee are born,Seek not to thwart my vengeance, but submit.For now I fully yield me to thy wish,Though with unwilling mind. Wherever dwellThe race of humankind beneath the sunAnd starry heaven, of all their cities TroyHas been by me most honored—sacred Troy—And Priam, and the people who obeyPriam, the wielder of the ashen spear;For there my altars never lacked their rites—Feasts, incense, and libations duly paid.”

Then Juno, the majestic, with large eyes,Rejoined: “The cities most beloved by meAre three—Mycenae, with her spacious streets,Argos, and Sparta. Raze them to the ground,If they be hateful to thee. I shall ne’erContend to save them, nor repine to seeTheir fall; for, earnestly as I might seekTo rescue them from ruin, all my aidWould not avail, so much the mightier thou.Yet doth it ill become thee thus to makeMy efforts vain. I am a goddess, sprungFrom the same stock with thee; I am the childOf crafty Saturn, and am twice revered—Both for my birth and that I am the spouseOf thee who rulest over all the gods.Now let us each yield somewhat—I to theeAnd thou to me; the other deathless godsWill follow us. Let Pallas be despatchedTo that dread battle-field on which are rangedThe Trojans and Achaians, and stir upThe Trojan warriors first to lift their handsAgainst the elated Greeks and break the league,”

She ended, and the Father of the godsAnd mortals instantly complied, and calledMinerva, and in wingèd accents said:—“Haste to the battle-field, and there, amongThe Trojan and Achaian armies, causeThe Trojan warriors first to lift their handsAgainst the elated Greeks and break the league.”

So saying, Jupiter to Pallas gaveThe charge she wished already. She in hasteShot from the Olympian summits, like a starSent by the crafty Saturn’s son to warnThe seamen or some mighty host in arms—A radiant meteor scattering sparkles round.So came and lighted Pallas on the earthAmidst the armies. All who saw were seizedWith wonder—Trojan knights and well-armed Greeks;And many a one addressed his comrade thus:—

“Sure we shall have the wasting war again,And stubborn combats; or, it may be, Jove,The arbiter of wars among mankind,Decrees that the two nations dwell in peace.”

So Greeks and Trojans said. The goddess wentAmong the Trojan multitude disguised;She seemed Laodocus, Antenor’s son,A valiant warrior, seeking through the ranksFor godlike Pandarus. At length she foundLycaon’s gallant and illustrious son,Standing with bucklered warriors ranged around,Who followed him from where Aesepus flows;And, standing near, she spake these wingèd words:—

“Son of Lycaon! Wilt thou hear my words,Brave as thou art? Then wilt thou aim a shaftAt Menelaus; thus wilt thou have earnedGreat thanks and praise from all the men of Troy,And chiefly from Prince Paris, who will fill,Foremost of all, thy hands with lavish gifts,When he shall look on Menelaus slain—The warlike son of Atreus—by thy hand,And laid upon his lofty funeral pile.Aim now at Menelaus the renownedAn arrow, while thou offerest a vowTo Lycian Phoebus, mighty with the bow,That thou wilt bring to him a hecatombOf firstling lambs, when thou again shalt comeWithin thine own Zeleia’s sacred walls.”

So spake Minerva, and her words o’ercameThe weak one’s purpose. He uncovered straightHis polished bow, made of the elastic hornsOf a wild goat, which, from his lurking-place,As once it left its cavern lair, he smote,And pierced its breast, and stretched it on the rock.Full sixteen palms in length the horns had grownFrom the goat’s forehead. These an artisanHad smoothed, and, aptly fitting each to each,Polished the whole and tipped the work with gold.To bend that bow, the warrior lowered itAnd pressed an end against the earth. His friendsHeld up, meanwhile, their shields before his face,Lest the brave sons of Greece should lift their spearsAgainst him ere the champion of their host,The warlike Menelaus, should have feltThe arrow. Then the Lycian drew asideThe cover from his quiver, taking outA well-fledged arrow that had never flown—A cause of future sorrows. On the stringHe laid that fatal arrow, while he madeTo Lycian Phoebus, mighty with the bow,A vow to sacrifice before his shrineA noble hecatomb of firstling lambsWhen he should come again to his abodeWithin his own Zeleia’s sacred walls.Grasping the bowstring and the arrow’s notch,He drew them back, and forced the string to meetHis breast, the arrow-head to meet the bow,Till the bow formed a circle. Then it twanged.The cord gave out a shrilly sound; the shaftLeaped forth in eager haste to reach the host.

Yet, Menelaus, then the blessed gods,The deathless ones, forgot thee not; and first,Jove’s daughter, gatherer of spoil, who stoodBefore thee, turned aside the deadly shaft.As when a mother, while her child is wrappedIn a sweet slumber, scares away the fly,So Pallas turned the weapon from thy breast,And guided it to where the golden claspsMade fast the belt, and where the corselet’s mailWas doubled. There the bitter arrow struckThe belt, and through its close contexture passed,And fixed within the well-wrought corselet stood,Yet reached the plated quilt which next his skinThe hero wore—his surest guard againstThe weapon’s force—and broke through that alike;And there the arrow gashed the part below,And the dark blood came gushing from the wound.As when some Carian or Maeonian dameTinges with purple the white ivory,To form a trapping for the cheeks of steeds—And many a horseman covets it, yet stillIt lies within her chamber, to becomeThe ornament of some great monarch’s steedAnd make its rider proud—thy shapely thighs,Thy legs, and thy fair ankles thus were stained,O Menelaus! with thy purple blood.

When Agamemnon, king of men, beheldThe dark blood flowing from his brother’s wound,He shuddered. Menelaus, great in war,Felt the like horror; yet, when he perceivedThat still the arrow, neck and barb, remainedWithout the mail, the courage rose againThat filled his bosom. Agamemnon, then,The monarch, sighing deeply, took the handOf Menelaus—while his comrades roundLike him lamented—sighing as he spake:—

“Dear brother, when I sent thee forth aloneTo combat with the Trojans for the Greeks,I ratified a treaty for thy death,Since now the Trojans smite and under footTrample the league. Yet not in vain shall beThe treaty, nor the blood of lambs, nor winePoured to the gods, nor right hands firmly pledged;For though it please not now Olympian JoveTo make the treaty good, he will in timeCause it to be fulfilled, and they shall payDearly with their own heads and with their wivesAnd children for this wrong. And this I knowIn my undoubting mind—a day will comeWhen sacred Troy and Priam and the raceGoverned by Priam, mighty with the spear,Shall perish all. Saturnian Jove, who sitsOn high, a dweller of the upper air,Shall shake his dreadful aegis in the sightOf all, indignant at this treachery.Such the event will be; but I shall grieveBitterly, Menelaus, if thou die,Thy term of life cut short. I shall go backTo my dear Argos with a brand of shameUpon me. For the Greeks will soon againBethink them of their country; we shall thenLeave Argive Helen to remain the boastOf Priam and the Trojans—while thy bonesShall moulder, mingling with the earth of Troy—Our great design abandoned. Then shall saySome haughty Trojan, leaping on the tombOf Menelaus: ‘So in time to comeMay Agamemnon wreak his wrath, as hereHe wreaked it, whither he had vainly ledAn army, and now hastens to his homeAnd his own land, with ships that bear no spoil,And the brave Menelaus left behind.’So shall some Trojan say; but, ere that time,May the earth open to receive my bones!”

The fair-haired Menelaus cheerfullyReplied: “Grieve not, nor be the Greeks alarmedFor me, since this sharp arrow has not foundA vital part, but, ere it reached so far,The embroidered belt, the quilt beneath, and plateWrought by the armorer’s cunning, broke its force.”

King Agamemnon took the word and said:—“Dear Menelaus! Would that it were so,Yet the physician must explore thy wound,And with his balsams soothe the bitter pain.”Then turning to Talthybius, he addressedThe sacred herald: “Hasten with all speed,Talthybius; call Machaon, warrior-sonOf Aesculapius, that much-honored leech,And bring him to the Achaian general,The warlike Menelaus, whom some handOf Trojan or of Lycian, skilled to bendThe bow, hath wounded with his shaft—a deedFor him to exult in, but a grief to us.”

He spake; nor failed the herald to obey,But hastened at the word and passed amongThe squadrons of Achaia, mailed in brass,In search of great Machaon. Him he foundAs midst the valiant ranks of bucklered menHe stood—the troops who followed him to warFrom Triccae, nurse of steeds. Then, drawing near,The herald spake to him in wingèd words:—

“O son of Aesculapius, come in haste.King Agamemnon calls thee to the aidOf warlike Menelaus, whom some handOf Trojan or of Lycian, skilled to bendThe bow, hath wounded with his shaft—a deedFor him to exult in, but a grief to us.”

Machaon’s heart was touched, and forth they wentThrough the great throng, the army of the Greeks.And when they came where Atreus’ warlike sonWas wounded, they perceived the godlike manStanding amid a circle of the chiefs,The bravest of the Achaians, who at onceHad gathered round. Without delay he drewThe arrow from the fairly-fitted belt.The barbs were bent in drawing. Then he loosedThe embroidered belt, the quilted vest beneath,And plate—the armorer’s work—and carefullyO’erlooked the wound where fell the bitter shaft,Cleansed it from blood, and sprinkled over itWith skill the soothing balsams which of yoreThe friendly Chiron to his father gave.

While round the warlike Menelaus thusThe chiefs were busy, all the Trojans movedInto array of battle; they put onTheir armor, and were eager for the fight.Then wouldst thou not have seen, hadst thou been there,King Agamemnon slumbering, or in fear,And skulking from the combat, but alert,Preparing for the glorious tasks of war.His horses, and his chariot bright with brass,He left, and bade Eurymedon, his groom,The son of Ptolemy Piraides,Hold them apart still panting, yet with chargeTo keep them near their master, till the hourWhen he should need them, weary with the toilOf such a vast command. Meantime he wentOn foot among his files of soldiery,And whomsoe’er he found with fiery steedsHasting to battle, thus he cheered them on:—

“O Argives! Let not your hot courage cool,For Father Jove will never take the partOf treachery. Whosoe’er have been the firstTo break the league, upon their lifeless limbsShall vultures feast; and doubt not we shall bearAway in our good ships the wives they loveAnd their young children, when we take their town.”

But whomsoe’er he saw that kept afarFrom the dread field, he angrily rebuked:—

“O Argives! Who with arrows only fight,Base as ye are, have ye no sense of shame?Why stand ye stupefied, like fawns, that, tiredWith coursing the wide pastures, stop at last,Their strength exhausted! Thus ye stand amazed,Nor think of combat. Wait ye for the hourWhen to your ships, with their fair-sculptured prows,Moored on the borders of the hoary deep,The Trojans come, that haply ye may seeIf the great hand of Jove will shield you then?”

Thus Agamemnon, as supreme in power,Threaded the warrior-files, until he cameWhere stood the Cretans. All in arms they stoodAround Idomeneus, the great in war.Like a wild boar in strength, he led the van,And, in the rear, Meriones urged onHis phalanxes. The king of men rejoiced,And blandly thus bespake Idomeneus:—

“Idomeneus! I honor thee aboveThe other knights of Greece, as well in warAs in all other labors, and no lessIn banquets, when the Achaian nobles chargeTheir goblets with the dark-red mingled wineIn sign of honor. All the other GreeksDrink by a certain measure, but thy cupStands ever full, like mine, that thou mayst drinkWhen thou desirest. Hasten to the warWith all the valor thou dost glory in.”

The Cretan chief, Idomeneus, replied:—“Atrides, I remain thy true ally,As I have pledged my faith. But thou exhortThe other long-haired Greeks, and bid them rushTo combat, since the Trojans break their oath.For woe and death must be the lot of thoseWho broke the peace they vowed so solemnly.”

He spake. The son of Atreus, glad at heart,Passed on among the squadrons, till he cameTo where the warriors Ajax formed their ranksFor battle, with a cloud of infantry.As when some goatherd from the hill-top seesA cloud that traverses the deep beforeA strong west wind—beholding it afar,Pitch-black it seems, and bringing o’er the wavesA whirlwind with it; he is seized with fear,And drives his flock to shelter in a cave—So with the warriors Ajax to the warMoved, dense and dark, the phalanxes of youthsTrained for the combat, and their serried filesBristling with spears and shields. The king of menSaw with delight, and spake these wingèd words:—

“O warriors Ajax, leaders of the GreeksIn brazen armor, I enjoin you notTo rouse the courage of your soldiery.Such word would ill become me, for yourselvesHave made your followers eager to engageIn manful combat. Would to Jupiter,To Pallas, and Apollo, that there dweltIn every bosom such a soul as yours!Then would the city of King Priam fallAt once, o’erthrown and levelled by our hands.”

Thus having said, he left them and went onTo others. There he found the smooth of speech,Nestor, the Pylian orator, employedIn marshalling his squadrons. Near to himAlastor and the large-limbed Pelagon,Chromius, and Haemon, prince among his tribe,And Bias, shepherd of the people, stood.The cavalry with steeds and cars he placedIn front. A vast and valiant multitudeOf infantry he stationed in the rear,To be the bulwark of the war. BetweenHe made the faint of spirit take their place,That, though unwillingly, they might be forcedTo combat with the rest. And first he gaveHis orders to the horsemen, bidding themTo keep their coursers reined, nor let them rangeAt random through the tumult of the crowd:—

“And let no man, too vain of horsemanship,And trusting in his valor, dare advanceBeyond the rest to attack the men of Troy,Nor let him fall behind the rest, to makeOur ranks the weaker. Whoso from his carCan reach an enemy’s, let him stand and strikeWith his long spear, for ’tis the shrewder way.By rules like these, which their brave hearts obeyed,The men of yore laid level towns and towers.”

The aged man, long versed in tasks of war,Counselled them thus. King Agamemnon heard,Delighted, and in wingèd words he said:—

“O aged man, would that thy knees were firmAs is thy purpose, and thy strength as great!But age, the common fate of all, has wornThy frame: would that some others had thy age,And thou wert of the number of our youths!”

Then answered Nestor, the Gerenian knight:—“O son of Atreus, I myself could wishThat I were now as when of yore I struckThe high-born Ereuthalion down. The godsBestow not all their gifts on man at once.If I were then a youth, old age in turnIs creeping o’er me. Still I keep amongThe knights, and counsel and admonish them—The office of the aged. Younger men,They who can trust their strength, must wield the spear.”

He spake. The son of Atreus passed him by,Pleased with his words, and, moving onward, cameWhere—with the Athenians, ever prompt to raiseThe war-cry, grouped around him—stood the knightMenestheus, son of Peteus. Near to theseWas wise Ulysses, with his sturdy bandOf Cephalonians. None of these had heardThe clamor of the battle, for the hostsOf Trojan knights and Greeks had just begunTo move, and there they waited for the advanceOf other squadrons marching on to chargeThe Trojans and begin the war anew.The king of men, Atrides, was displeased,And spake, and chid them thus with wingèd words:—

“O son of Peteus, foster-child of Jove,And thou, the man of craft and evil wiles!Why stand ye here aloof, irresolute,And wait for others? Ye should be the firstTo meet the foe and stem the battle’s rage.I bid you first to banquets which the GreeksGive to their leaders, where ye feast at willOn roasted meats and bowls of pleasant wine.Now, ere ye move, ye willingly would seeTen Grecian squadrons join the deadly strife.”

The man of many arts, Ulysses, spake,And frowned: “O Atreus’ son! What words are thoseWhich pass thy lips? How canst thou say that weAvoid the battle? Ever when the GreeksSeek bloody conflict with the Trojan knights,Thou, if thou wilt, and if thou givest heedTo things like these, shalt with thine eyes beholdThe father of Telemachus engagedIn combat with the foremost knights that formThe Trojan van. Thou utterest empty words.”

King Agamemnon, when he saw the chiefOffended, changed his tone, and, smiling, said:—

“Son of Laertes, nobly-born and wiseUlysses! It is not for me to chideNor to exhort thee, for thy heart, I know,Counsels thee kindly toward me, and thy thoughtAgrees with mine. We will discuss all thisHereafter. If just now too harsh a wordWas uttered, may the immortals make it vain!”

So saying, he departed, and went onTo others. By his steeds and by his car,That shone with fastenings of brass, he foundThe son of Tydeus, large-souled Diomed,And Sthenelus, the son of Capaneus,Standing beside him. Looking at them both,King Agamemnon to Tydides spakeIn wingèd words, and thus reproved the chief:—

“O son of Tydeus, that undaunted knight!What is there to appall thee? Why look throughThe spaces that divide the warlike ranks?Not thus did Tydeus feel the touch of fear,But ever foremost of his warriors fought.So they declare who saw his deeds, for IWas never with him, nor have ever seenThe hero. Yet they say that he excelledAll others. Certain is it that he onceEntered Mycenae as a friendly guest,With no array of soldiery, but cameWith godlike Polynices. ’Twas the timeWhen warrior-bands were gathered to besiegeThe sacred walls of Thebes, and earnestlyThey prayed that from Mycenae they might leadRenowned auxiliars to the war, and weWould willingly have given the aid they asked—For we approved the prayer—but Jove, with signsOf angry omen, changed our purposes.The chiefs departed, journeying on to whereAsopus flows through reeds and grass, and thenceThe Achaians sent an embassy to ThebesBy Tydeus. There he met the many sonsOf Cadmus at the banquets in the hallOf valiant Eteocles. Though aloneAmong so many, and a stranger guest,The hero feared them not, but challenged themTo vie with him in games; and easilyHe won the victory, such aid was givenBy Pallas. Then the sons of Cadmus, skilledIn horsemanship, were wroth, and privilySent fifty armed youths to lie in waitFor his return. Two leaders had the band—Maion, the son of Harmon, like a godIn form, and Lycophontes, brave in war,Son of Autophonos. A bloody deathDid Tydeus give the youths. He slew them allSave Maion, whom he suffered to return,Obedient to an omen from the gods.Such was Aetolian Tydeus; but his son,A better speaker, is less brave in war.”

He spake; and valiant Diomed, who heardThe king’s reproof with reverence, answered not.Then spake the son of honored Capaneus:—

“Atrides, speak not falsely, when thou know’stThe truth so well. Assuredly we claimTo be far braver than our fathers were.We took seven-gated Thebes with fewer troopsThan theirs, when, trusting in the omens sentFrom heaven, and in the aid of Jupiter, soWe led our men beneath the city wallsSacred to Mars. Our fathers perished thereThrough their own folly. Therefore never seekTo place them in the same degree with us.”

The brave Tydides with a frown replied:—“Nay, hold thy peace, my friend, and heed my words.Of Agamemnon I will not complain—The shepherd of the people; it is hisTo exhort the well-armed Greeks to gallant deeds.Great glory will attend him if the GreeksShall overcome the Trojans, and shall takeThe sacred Ilium; but his grief will beBitter if we shall fail and be destroyed.Hence think we only of the furious charge!”

He spake, and from his chariot leaped to earthAll armed; the mail upon the monarch’s breastRang terribly as he marched swiftly on.The boldest might have heard that sound with fear.

As when the ocean-billows, surge on surge,Are pushed along to the resounding shoreBefore the western wind, and first a waveUplifts itself, and then against the landDashes and roars, and round the headland peaksTosses on high and spouts its spray afar,So moved the serried phalanxes of GreeceTo battle, rank succeeding rank, each chiefGiving command to his own troops; the restMarched noiselessly: you might have thought no voiceWas in the breasts of all that mighty throng,So silently they all obeyed their chiefs,Their showy armor glittering as they movedIn firm array. But, as the numerous flockOf some rich man, while the white milk is drawnWithin his sheepfold, hear the plaintive callOf their own lambs, and bleat incessantly—Such clamors from the mighty Trojan hostArose; nor was the war-cry one, nor oneThe voice, but words of mingled languages,For they were called from many different climes.These Mars encouraged to the fight; but thoseThe blue-eyed Pallas. Terror too was there,And Fright, and Strife that rages unappeased—Sister and comrade of man-slaying Mars—Who rises small at first, but grows, and liftsHer head to heaven and walks upon the earth.She, striding through the crowd and heighteningThe mutual rancor, flung into the midstContention, source of bale to all alike.

And now, when met the armies in the field,The ox-hide shields encountered, and the spears,And might of warriors mailed in brass; then clashedThe bossy bucklers, and the battle-dinWas loud; then rose the mingled shouts and groansOf those who slew and those who fell; the earthRan with their blood. As when the winter streamsRush down the mountain-sides, and fill, below,With their swift waters, poured from gushing springs,Some hollow vale, the shepherd on the heightsHears the far roar—such was the mingled dinThat rose from the great armies when they met.

Then first Antilochus, advancing, struckThe Trojan champion Echepolus down,Son of Thalysius, fighting in the van.He smote him on the helmet’s cone, where streamedThe horse-hair plume. The brazen javelin stoodFixed in his forehead, piercing through the bone,And darkness gathered o’er his eyes. He fellAs falls a tower before some stubborn siege.Then Elephenor, son of Chalcodon,Prince of the brave Abrantes, by the footSeized the slain chieftain, dragging him beyondThe reach of darts, to strip him of his arms;Yet dropped him soon, for brave Agenor saw,And, as he stooped to drag the body, hurledHis brazen spear and pierced the uncovered sideSeen underneath the shield. At once his limbsRelaxed their hold, and straight the spirit fled.Then furious was the struggle of the GreeksAnd Trojans o’er the slain; they sprang like wolvesUpon each other, and man slaughtered man.

Then by the hand of Ajax TelamonFell Simoisius, in the bloom of youth,Anthemion’s son. His mother once came downFrom Ida, with her parents, to their flocksBeside the Simoïs; there she brought him forthUpon its banks, and gave her boy the nameOf Simoisius. Unrequited nowWas all the care with which his parents nursedHis early years, and short his term of life—Slain by the hand of Ajax, large of soul.For, when he saw him coming, Ajax smoteNear the right pap the Trojan’s breast; the bladePassed through, and out upon the further side.He fell among the dust of earth, as fallsA poplar growing in the watery soilOf some wide marsh—a fair, smooth bole, with boughsOnly on high, which with his gleaming axeSome artisan has felled to bend its trunkInto the circle of some chariot-wheel;Withering it lies upon the river’s bank.So did the high-born Ajax spoil the corpseOf Simoisius, Anthemion’s son.But Antiphus, the son of Priam, cladIn shining armor, saw, and, taking aim,Cast his sharp spear at Ajax through the crowd.The weapon struck him not, but pierced the groinOf one who was Ulysses’ faithful friend—Leucus—as from the spot he dragged the dead;He fell, the body dropping from his hold.Ulysses, stung with fury at his fall,Rushed to the van, arrayed in shining brass,Drew near the foe, and, casting a quick glanceAround him, hurled his glittering spear. The hostOf Trojans, as it left his hand, shrank backUpon each other. Not in vain it flew,But struck Democoön, the spurious sonOf Priam, who, to join the war, had leftAbydos, where he tended the swift mares.Ulysses, to revenge his comrade’s death,Smote him upon the temple with his spear.Through both the temples passed the brazen point,And darkness gathered o’er his eyes; he fell,His armor clashing round him with his fall.Then did the foremost bands, and Hector’s self,Fall back. The Argives shouted, dragging offThe slain, and rushing to the ground they won.Then was Apollo angered, looking downFrom Pergamus, and thus he called aloud:—

“Rally, ye Trojans! Tamers of fleet steeds!Yield not the battle to the Greeks. Their limbsAre not of stone or iron, to withstandThe trenchant steel ye wield. Nor does the sonOf fair-haired Thetis now, Achilles, takePart in the battle, but sits, brooding o’erThe choler that devours him, in his ships.”Thus from the city spake the terrible god.Meantime Tritonian Pallas, glorious childOf Jupiter, went through the Grecian ranksWhere’er they wavered, and revived their zeal.

Diores, son of Amarynceus, thenMet his hard fate. The fragment of a rockWas thrown by hand at his right leg, and struckThe ankle. Piroüs, son of Imbrasus,Who came from Aenus, leading to the warHis Thracian soldiers, flung it; and it crushedTendons and bones, and down the warrior fellIn dust, and toward his comrades stretched his hands,And gasped for breath. But he who gave the wound,Piroüs, came up and pierced him with his spear.Forth gushed the entrails, and the eyes grew dark.

But Piroüs by Aetolian Thoas fell,Who met him with his spear and pierced his breastAbove the pap. The brazen weapon stoodFixed in the lungs. Then Thoas came and pluckedThe massive spear away, and drew his sword,And thrusting through him the sharp blade, he tookHis life away. Yet could he not despoilThe slain man of his armor, for aroundHis comrades thronged, the Thracians, with their tuftsOf streaming hair, and, wielding their long spears,Drove him away. And he, though huge of limb,And valiant and renowned, was forced to yieldTo numbers pressing on him, and withdrew.Thus near each other stretched upon the groundPiroüs, the leader of the Thracian band,And he who led the Epeans, brazen-mailedDiores, lay with many others slain.

Then could no man, who near at hand beheldThe battle of that day, see cause of blameIn aught, although, unwounded and unbruisedBy weapons, Pallas led him by the handIn safety through the midst, and turned asideThe violence of javelins; for that daySaw many a Trojan slain, and many a Greek,Stretched side by side upon the bloody field.