Who sheathed in brass the Paphlagonians led.

Atrides mark’d him where sublime he stood;

Fix’d in his throat the javelin drank his blood.

The faithful Mydon, as he turn’d from fight

His flying coursers, sunk to endless night;

A broken rock by Nestor’s son was thrown:

His bended arm received the falling stone;

From his numb’d hand the ivory-studded reins,

Dropp’d in the dust, are trail’d along the plains:

Meanwhile his temples feel a deadly wound;

He groans in death, and ponderous sinks to ground:

Deep drove his helmet in the sands, and there

The head stood fix’d, the quivering legs in air,

Till trampled flat beneath the coursers’ feet:

The youthful victor mounts his empty seat,

And bears the prize in triumph to the fleet.

Great Hector saw, and, raging at the view,

Pours on the Greeks: the Trojan troops pursue:

He fires his host with animating cries,

And brings along the furies of the skies,

Mars, stern destroyer! and Bellona dread,

Flame in the front, and thunder at their head:

This swells the tumult and the rage of fight;

That shakes a spear that casts a dreadful light.

Where Hector march’d, the god of battles shined,

Now storm’d before him, and now raged behind.

Tydides paused amidst his full career;

Then first the hero’s manly breast knew fear.

As when some simple swain his cot forsakes,

And wide through fens an unknown journey takes:

If chance a swelling brook his passage stay,

And foam impervious ’cross the wanderer’s way,

Confused he stops, a length of country pass’d,

Eyes the rough waves, and tired, returns at last.

Amazed no less the great Tydides stands:

He stay’d, and turning thus address’d his bands:

“No wonder, Greeks! that all to Hector yield;

Secure of favouring gods, he takes the field;

His strokes they second, and avert our spears.

Behold where Mars in mortal arms appears!

Retire then, warriors, but sedate and slow;

Retire, but with your faces to the foe.

Trust not too much your unavailing might;

’Tis not with Troy, but with the gods ye fight.”

Now near the Greeks the black battalions drew;

And first two leaders valiant Hector slew:

His force Anchialus and Mnesthes found,

In every art of glorious war renown’d;

In the same car the chiefs to combat ride,

And fought united, and united died.

Struck at the sight, the mighty Ajax glows

With thirst of vengeance, and assaults the foes.

His massy spear with matchless fury sent,

Through Amphius’ belt and heaving belly went;

Amphius Apaesus’ happy soil possess’d,

With herds abounding, and with treasure bless’d;

But fate resistless from his country led

The chief, to perish at his people’s head.

Shook with his fall his brazen armour rung,

And fierce, to seize it, conquering Ajax sprung;

Around his head an iron tempest rain’d;

A wood of spears his ample shield sustain’d:

Beneath one foot the yet warm corpse he press’d,

And drew his javelin from the bleeding breast:

He could no more; the showering darts denied

To spoil his glittering arms, and plumy pride.

Now foes on foes came pouring on the fields,

With bristling lances, and compacted shields;

Till in the steely circle straiten’d round,

Forced he gives way, and sternly quits the ground.

While thus they strive, Tlepolemus the great,¹⁵³

Urged by the force of unresisted fate,

Burns with desire Sarpedon’s strength to prove;

Alcides’ offspring meets the son of Jove.

Sheathed in bright arms each adverse chief came on.

Jove’s great descendant, and his greater son.

Prepared for combat, ere the lance he toss’d,

The daring Rhodian vents his haughty boast:

“What brings this Lycian counsellor so far,

To tremble at our arms, not mix in war!

Know thy vain self, nor let their flattery move,

Who style thee son of cloud-compelling Jove.

How far unlike those chiefs of race divine,

How vast the difference of their deeds and thine!

Jove got such heroes as my sire, whose soul

No fear could daunt, nor earth nor hell control.

Troy felt his arm, and yon proud ramparts stand

Raised on the ruins of his vengeful hand:

With six small ships, and but a slender train,

He left the town a wide-deserted plain.

But what art thou, who deedless look’st around,

While unrevenged thy Lycians bite the ground!

Small aid to Troy thy feeble force can be;

But wert thou greater, thou must yield to me.

Pierced by my spear, to endless darkness go!

I make this present to the shades below.”

The son of Hercules, the Rhodian guide,

Thus haughty spoke. The Lycian king replied:

“Thy sire, O prince! o’erturn’d the Trojan state,

Whose perjured monarch well deserved his fate;

Those heavenly steeds the hero sought so far,

False he detain’d, the just reward of war.

Nor so content, the generous chief defied,

With base reproaches and unmanly pride.

But you, unworthy the high race you boast,

Shall raise my glory when thy own is lost:

Now meet thy fate, and by Sarpedon slain,

Add one more ghost to Pluto’s gloomy reign.”

He said: both javelins at an instant flew;

Both struck, both wounded, but Sarpedon’s slew:

Full in the boaster’s neck the weapon stood,

Transfix’d his throat, and drank the vital blood;

The soul disdainful seeks the caves of night,

And his seal’d eyes for ever lose the light.

Yet not in vain, Tlepolemus, was thrown

Thy angry lance; which piercing to the bone

Sarpedon’s thigh, had robb’d the chief of breath;

But Jove was present, and forbade the death.

Borne from the conflict by his Lycian throng,

The wounded hero dragg’d the lance along.

(His friends, each busied in his several part,

Through haste, or danger, had not drawn the dart.)

The Greeks with slain Tlepolemus retired;

Whose fall Ulysses view’d, with fury fired;

Doubtful if Jove’s great son he should pursue,

Or pour his vengeance on the Lycian crew.

But heaven and fate the first design withstand,

Nor this great death must grace Ulysses’ hand.

Minerva drives him on the Lycian train;

Alastor, Cronius, Halius, strew’d the plain,

Alcander, Prytanis, Noemon fell:¹⁵⁴

And numbers more his sword had sent to hell,

But Hector saw; and, furious at the sight,

Rush’d terrible amidst the ranks of fight.

With joy Sarpedon view’d the wish’d relief,

And, faint, lamenting, thus implored the chief:

“O suffer not the foe to bear away

My helpless corpse, an unassisted prey;

If I, unbless’d, must see my son no more,

My much-loved consort, and my native shore,

Yet let me die in Ilion’s sacred wall;

Troy, in whose cause I fell, shall mourn my fall.”

He said, nor Hector to the chief replies,

But shakes his plume, and fierce to combat flies;

Swift as a whirlwind, drives the scattering foes;

And dyes the ground with purple as he goes.

Beneath a beech, Jove’s consecrated shade,

His mournful friends divine Sarpedon laid:

Brave Pelagon, his favourite chief, was nigh,

Who wrench’d the javelin from his sinewy thigh.

The fainting soul stood ready wing’d for flight,

And o’er his eye-balls swam the shades of night;

But Boreas rising fresh, with gentle breath,

Recall’d his spirit from the gates of death.

The generous Greeks recede with tardy pace,

Though Mars and Hector thunder in their face;

None turn their backs to mean ignoble flight,

Slow they retreat, and even retreating fight.

Who first, who last, by Mars’ and Hector’s hand,

Stretch’d in their blood, lay gasping on the sand?

Tenthras the great, Orestes the renown’d

For managed steeds, and Trechus press’d the ground;,

Next OEnomaus and OEnops’ offspring died;

Oresbius last fell groaning at their side:

Oresbius, in his painted mitre gay,

In fat Boeotia held his wealthy sway,

Where lakes surround low Hyle’s watery plain;

A prince and people studious of their gain.

The carnage Juno from the skies survey’d,

And touch’d with grief bespoke the blue-eyed maid: