Shall Hector thunder at your ships again?

Lo! still he vaunts, and threats the fleet with fires,

While stern Achilles in his wrath retires.

One hero’s loss too tamely you deplore,

Be still yourselves, and ye shall need no more.

Oh yet, if glory any bosom warms,

Brace on your firmest helms, and stand to arms:

His strongest spear each valiant Grecian wield,

Each valiant Grecian seize his broadest shield;

Let to the weak the lighter arms belong,

The ponderous targe be wielded by the strong.

Thus arm’d, not Hector shall our presence stay;

Myself, ye Greeks! myself will lead the way.”

The troops assent; their martial arms they change:

The busy chiefs their banded legions range.

The kings, though wounded, and oppress’d with pain,

With helpful hands themselves assist the train.

The strong and cumbrous arms the valiant wield,

The weaker warrior takes a lighter shield.

Thus sheath’d in shining brass, in bright array

The legions march, and Neptune leads the way:

His brandish’d falchion flames before their eyes,

Like lightning flashing through the frighted skies.

Clad in his might, the earth-shaking power appears;

Pale mortals tremble, and confess their fears.

Troy’s great defender stands alone unawed,

Arms his proud host, and dares oppose a god:

And lo! the god, and wondrous man, appear:

The sea’s stern ruler there, and Hector here.

The roaring main, at her great master’s call,

Rose in huge ranks, and form’d a watery wall

Around the ships: seas hanging o’er the shores,

Both armies join: earth thunders, ocean roars.

Not half so loud the bellowing deeps resound,

When stormy winds disclose the dark profound;

Less loud the winds that from the Æolian hall

Roar through the woods, and make whole forests fall;

Less loud the woods, when flames in torrents pour,

Catch the dry mountain, and its shades devour;

With such a rage the meeting hosts are driven,

And such a clamour shakes the sounding heaven.

The first bold javelin, urged by Hector’s force,

Direct at Ajax’ bosom winged its course;

But there no pass the crossing belts afford,

(One braced his shield, and one sustain’d his sword.)

Then back the disappointed Trojan drew,

And cursed the lance that unavailing flew:

But ’scaped not Ajax; his tempestuous hand

A ponderous stone upheaving from the sand,

(Where heaps laid loose beneath the warrior’s feet,

Or served to ballast, or to prop the fleet,)

Toss’d round and round, the missive marble flings;

On the razed shield the fallen ruin rings,

Full on his breast and throat with force descends;

Nor deaden’d there its giddy fury spends,

But whirling on, with many a fiery round,

Smokes in the dust, and ploughs into the ground.

As when the bolt, red-hissing from above,

Darts on the consecrated plant of Jove,

The mountain-oak in flaming ruin lies,

Black from the blow, and smokes of sulphur rise;

Stiff with amaze the pale beholders stand,

And own the terrors of the almighty hand!

So lies great Hector prostrate on the shore;

His slacken’d hand deserts the lance it bore;

His following shield the fallen chief o’erspread;

Beneath his helmet dropp’d his fainting head;

His load of armour, sinking to the ground,

Clanks on the field, a dead and hollow sound.

Loud shouts of triumph fill the crowded plain;

Greece sees, in hope, Troy’s great defender slain:

All spring to seize him; storms of arrows fly,

And thicker javelins intercept the sky.

In vain an iron tempest hisses round;

He lies protected, and without a wound.²³⁸

Polydamas, Agenor the divine,

The pious warrior of Anchises’ line,

And each bold leader of the Lycian band,

With covering shields (a friendly circle) stand,

His mournful followers, with assistant care,

The groaning hero to his chariot bear;

His foaming coursers, swifter than the wind,

Speed to the town, and leave the war behind.

When now they touch’d the mead’s enamell’d side,

Where gentle Xanthus rolls his easy tide,

With watery drops the chief they sprinkle round,

Placed on the margin of the flowery ground.

Raised on his knees, he now ejects the gore;

Now faints anew, low-sinking on the shore;

By fits he breathes, half views the fleeting skies,

And seals again, by fits, his swimming eyes.

Soon as the Greeks the chief’s retreat beheld,

With double fury each invades the field.

Oilean Ajax first his javelin sped,

Pierced by whose point the son of Enops bled;

(Satnius the brave, whom beauteous Neis bore

Amidst her flocks on Satnio’s silver shore;)

Struck through the belly’s rim, the warrior lies

Supine, and shades eternal veil his eyes.

An arduous battle rose around the dead;

By turns the Greeks, by turns the Trojans bled.

Fired with revenge, Polydamas drew near,

And at Prothoenor shook the trembling spear;

The driving javelin through his shoulder thrust,

He sinks to earth, and grasps the bloody dust.

“Lo thus (the victor cries) we rule the field,

And thus their arms the race of Panthus wield:

From this unerring hand there flies no dart

But bathes its point within a Grecian heart.

Propp’d on that spear to which thou owest thy fall,

Go, guide thy darksome steps to Pluto’s dreary hall.”

He said, and sorrow touch’d each Argive breast:

The soul of Ajax burn’d above the rest.

As by his side the groaning warrior fell,

At the fierce foe he launch’d his piercing steel;

The foe, reclining, shunn’d the flying death;

But fate, Archilochus, demands thy breath:

Thy lofty birth no succour could impart,

The wings of death o’ertook thee on the dart;

Swift to perform heaven’s fatal will, it fled

Full on the juncture of the neck and head,

And took the joint, and cut the nerves in twain:

The dropping head first tumbled on the plain.

So just the stroke, that yet the body stood

Erect, then roll’d along the sands in blood.

“Here, proud Polydamas, here turn thy eyes!

(The towering Ajax loud-insulting cries:)

Say, is this chief extended on the plain

A worthy vengeance for Prothoenor slain?

Mark well his port! his figure and his face

Nor speak him vulgar, nor of vulgar race;

Some lines, methinks, may make his lineage known,

Antenor’s brother, or perhaps his son.”

He spake, and smiled severe, for well he knew

The bleeding youth: Troy sadden’d at the view.

But furious Acamas avenged his cause;

As Promachus his slaughtered brother draws,

He pierced his heart—“Such fate attends you all,

Proud Argives! destined by our arms to fall.

Not Troy alone, but haughty Greece, shall share

The toils, the sorrows, and the wounds of war.

Behold your Promachus deprived of breath,

A victim owed to my brave brother’s death.

Not unappeased he enters Pluto’s gate,

Who leaves a brother to revenge his fate.”

Heart-piercing anguish struck the Grecian host,

But touch’d the breast of bold Peneleus most;

At the proud boaster he directs his course;

The boaster flies, and shuns superior force.

But young Ilioneus received the spear;

Ilioneus, his father’s only care:

(Phorbas the rich, of all the Trojan train

Whom Hermes loved, and taught the arts of gain:)

Full in his eye the weapon chanced to fall,

And from the fibres scoop’d the rooted ball,

Drove through the neck, and hurl’d him to the plain;

He lifts his miserable arms in vain!

Swift his broad falchion fierce Peneleus spread,

And from the spouting shoulders struck his head;

To earth at once the head and helmet fly;

The lance, yet sticking through the bleeding eye,

The victor seized; and, as aloft he shook

The gory visage, thus insulting spoke:

“Trojans! your great Ilioneus behold!

Haste, to his father let the tale be told:

Let his high roofs resound with frantic woe,

Such as the house of Promachus must know;

Let doleful tidings greet his mother’s ear,

Such as to Promachus’ sad spouse we bear,

When we victorious shall to Greece return,

And the pale matron in our triumphs mourn.”

Dreadful he spoke, then toss’d the head on high;

The Trojans hear, they tremble, and they fly:

Aghast they gaze around the fleet and wall,

And dread the ruin that impends on all.

Daughters of Jove! that on Olympus shine,

Ye all-beholding, all-recording nine!

O say, when Neptune made proud Ilion yield,

What chief, what hero first embrued the field?

Of all the Grecians what immortal name,

And whose bless’d trophies, will ye raise to fame?

Thou first, great Ajax! on the unsanguined plain

Laid Hyrtius, leader of the Mysian train.

Phalces and Mermer, Nestor’s son o’erthrew,

Bold Merion, Morys and Hippotion slew.

Strong Periphaetes and Prothoon bled,

By Teucer’s arrows mingled with the dead,

Pierced in the flank by Menelaus’ steel,

His people’s pastor, Hyperenor fell;

Eternal darkness wrapp’d the warrior round,

And the fierce soul came rushing through the wound.

But stretch’d in heaps before Oileus’ son,

Fall mighty numbers, mighty numbers run;

Ajax the less, of all the Grecian race

Skill’d in pursuit, and swiftest in the chase.