I war not with the highest. All above

Submit and tremble at the hand of Jove.”

Now godlike Hector, to whose matchless might

Jove gave the glory of the destined fight,

Squadrons on squadrons drives, and fills the fields

With close-ranged chariots, and with thicken’d shields.

Where the deep trench in length extended lay,

Compacted troops stand wedged in firm array,

A dreadful front! they shake the brands, and threat

With long-destroying flames the hostile fleet.

The king of men, by Juno’s self inspired,

Toil’d through the tents, and all his army fired.

Swift as he moved, he lifted in his hand

His purple robe, bright ensign of command.

High on the midmost bark the king appear’d:

There, from Ulysses’ deck, his voice was heard:

To Ajax and Achilles reach’d the sound,

Whose distant ships the guarded navy bound.

“O Argives! shame of human race! (he cried:

The hollow vessels to his voice replied,)

Where now are all your glorious boasts of yore,

Your hasty triumphs on the Lemnian shore?

Each fearless hero dares a hundred foes,

While the feast lasts, and while the goblet flows;

But who to meet one martial man is found,

When the fight rages, and the flames surround?

O mighty Jove! O sire of the distress’d!

Was ever king like me, like me oppress’d?

With power immense, with justice arm’d in vain;

My glory ravish’d, and my people slain!

To thee my vows were breathed from every shore;

What altar smoked not with our victims’ gore?

With fat of bulls I fed the constant flame,

And ask’d destruction to the Trojan name.

Now, gracious god! far humbler our demand;

Give these at least to ’scape from Hector’s hand,

And save the relics of the Grecian land!”

Thus pray’d the king, and heaven’s great father heard

His vows, in bitterness of soul preferr’d:

The wrath appeased, by happy signs declares,

And gives the people to their monarch’s prayers.

His eagle, sacred bird of heaven! he sent,

A fawn his talons truss’d, (divine portent!)

High o’er the wondering hosts he soar’d above,

Who paid their vows to Panomphaean Jove;

Then let the prey before his altar fall;

The Greeks beheld, and transport seized on all:

Encouraged by the sign, the troops revive,

And fierce on Troy with doubled fury drive.

Tydides first, of all the Grecian force,

O’er the broad ditch impell’d his foaming horse,

Pierced the deep ranks, their strongest battle tore,

And dyed his javelin red with Trojan gore.

Young Agelaus (Phradmon was his sire)

With flying coursers shunn’d his dreadful ire;

Struck through the back, the Phrygian fell oppress’d;

The dart drove on, and issued at his breast:

Headlong he quits the car: his arms resound;

His ponderous buckler thunders on the ground.

Forth rush a tide of Greeks, the passage freed;

The Atridae first, the Ajaces next succeed:

Meriones, like Mars in arms renown’d,

And godlike Idomen, now passed the mound;

Evaemon’s son next issues to the foe,

And last young Teucer with his bended bow.

Secure behind the Telamonian shield

The skilful archer wide survey’d the field,

With every shaft some hostile victim slew,

Then close beneath the sevenfold orb withdrew:

The conscious infant so, when fear alarms,

Retires for safety to the mother’s arms.

Thus Ajax guards his brother in the field,

Moves as he moves, and turns the shining shield.

Who first by Teucer’s mortal arrows bled?

Orsilochus; then fell Ormenus dead:

The godlike Lycophon next press’d the plain,

With Chromius, Daetor, Ophelestes slain:

Bold Hamopaon breathless sunk to ground;

The bloody pile great Melanippus crown’d.

Heaps fell on heaps, sad trophies of his art,

A Trojan ghost attending every dart.

Great Agamemnon views with joyful eye

The ranks grow thinner as his arrows fly:

“O youth forever dear! (the monarch cried)

Thus, always thus, thy early worth be tried;

Thy brave example shall retrieve our host,

Thy country’s saviour, and thy father’s boast!

Sprung from an alien’s bed thy sire to grace,

The vigorous offspring of a stolen embrace:

Proud of his boy, he own’d the generous flame,

And the brave son repays his cares with fame.

Now hear a monarch’s vow: If heaven’s high powers

Give me to raze Troy’s long-defended towers;

Whatever treasures Greece for me design,

The next rich honorary gift be thine:

Some golden tripod, or distinguished car,

With coursers dreadful in the ranks of war:

Or some fair captive, whom thy eyes approve,

Shall recompense the warrior’s toils with love.”

To this the chief: “With praise the rest inspire,

Nor urge a soul already fill’d with fire.

What strength I have, be now in battle tried,

Till every shaft in Phrygian blood be dyed.

Since rallying from our wall we forced the foe,

Still aim’d at Hector have I bent my bow:

Eight forky arrows from this hand have fled,

And eight bold heroes by their points lie dead:

But sure some god denies me to destroy

This fury of the field, this dog of Troy.”

He said, and twang’d the string. The weapon flies

At Hector’s breast, and sings along the skies:

He miss’d the mark; but pierced Gorgythio’s heart,

And drench’d in royal blood the thirsty dart.

(Fair Castianira, nymph of form divine,

This offspring added to king Priam’s line.)

As full-blown poppies, overcharged with rain,¹⁹⁶

Decline the head, and drooping kiss the plain;

So sinks the youth: his beauteous head, depress’d

Beneath his helmet, drops upon his breast.

Another shaft the raging archer drew,

That other shaft with erring fury flew,

(From Hector, Phoebus turn’d the flying wound,)

Yet fell not dry or guiltless to the ground:

Thy breast, brave Archeptolemus! it tore,

And dipp’d its feathers in no vulgar gore.

Headlong he falls: his sudden fall alarms

The steeds, that startle at his sounding arms.

Hector with grief his charioteer beheld

All pale and breathless on the sanguine field:

Then bids Cebriones direct the rein,

Quits his bright car, and issues on the plain.

Dreadful he shouts: from earth a stone he took,

And rush’d on Teucer with the lifted rock.

The youth already strain’d the forceful yew;

The shaft already to his shoulder drew;

The feather in his hand, just wing’d for flight,

Touch’d where the neck and hollow chest unite;

There, where the juncture knits the channel bone,

The furious chief discharged the craggy stone:

The bow-string burst beneath the ponderous blow,

And his numb’d hand dismiss’d his useless bow.

He fell: but Ajax his broad shield display’d,

And screen’d his brother with the mighty shade;

Till great Alaster, and Mecistheus, bore

The batter’d archer groaning to the shore.

Troy yet found grace before the Olympian sire,

He arm’d their hands, and fill’d their breasts with fire.

The Greeks repulsed, retreat behind their wall,

Or in the trench on heaps confusedly fall.

First of the foe, great Hector march’d along,

With terror clothed, and more than mortal strong.

As the bold hound, that gives the lion chase,

With beating bosom, and with eager pace,

Hangs on his haunch, or fastens on his heels,

Guards as he turns, and circles as he wheels;

Thus oft the Grecians turn’d, but still they flew;

Thus following, Hector still the hindmost slew.

When flying they had pass’d the trench profound,

And many a chief lay gasping on the ground;

Before the ships a desperate stand they made,

And fired the troops, and called the gods to aid.

Fierce on his rattling chariot Hector came:

His eyes like Gorgon shot a sanguine flame

That wither’d all their host: like Mars he stood:

Dire as the monster, dreadful as the god!

Their strong distress the wife of Jove survey’d;

Then pensive thus, to war’s triumphant maid:

“O daughter of that god, whose arm can wield

The avenging bolt, and shake the sable shield!

Now, in this moment of her last despair,

Shall wretched Greece no more confess our care,

Condemn’d to suffer the full force of fate,

And drain the dregs of heaven’s relentless hate?

Gods! shall one raging hand thus level all?

What numbers fell! what numbers yet shall fall!

What power divine shall Hector’s wrath assuage?

Still swells the slaughter, and still grows the rage!”

So spake the imperial regent of the skies;

To whom the goddess with the azure eyes:

“Long since had Hector stain’d these fields with gore,

Stretch’d by some Argive on his native shore:

But he above, the sire of heaven, withstands,

Mocks our attempts, and slights our just demands;

The stubborn god, inflexible and hard,

Forgets my service and deserved reward:

Saved I, for this, his favourite son distress’d,

By stern Eurystheus with long labours press’d?

He begg’d, with tears he begg’d, in deep dismay;

I shot from heaven, and gave his arm the day.

Oh had my wisdom known this dire event,

When to grim Pluto’s gloomy gates he went;

The triple dog had never felt his chain,

Nor Styx been cross’d, nor hell explored in vain.

Averse to me of all his heaven of gods,

At Thetis’ suit the partial Thunderer nods;

To grace her gloomy, fierce, resenting son,

My hopes are frustrate, and my Greeks undone.

Some future day, perhaps, he may be moved

To call his blue-eyed maid his best beloved.

Haste, launch thy chariot, through yon ranks to ride;

Myself will arm, and thunder at thy side.

Then, goddess! say, shall Hector glory then?

(That terror of the Greeks, that man of men)

When Juno’s self, and Pallas shall appear,