Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/108

106 If e'er with life I quit the Trojan plain,

If e'er I see my spouse and sire again,

This bow, unfaithful to my glorious aims,

Broke by my hand, shall feed the blazing flames."

To whom the leader of the Dardan race:

"Be calm, nor Phœbus' honoured gift disgrace.

The distant dart be praised, though here we need

The rushing chariot, and the bounding steed.

Against yon hero let us bend our course,

And, hand to hand, encounter force with force.

Now mount my seat, and from the chariot's height

Observe my father's steeds, renowned in fight;

Practised alike to turn, to stop, to chase,

To dare the shock, or urge the rapid race:

Secure with these, through fighting fields we go,

Or safe to Troy, if Jove assist the foe.

Haste, seize the whip, and snatch the guiding rein;

The warrior's fury let this arm sustain:

Or if to combat thy bold heart incline,

Take thou the spear, the chariot's care be mine."

"O prince!" Lycaon's valiant son replied,

"As thine the steeds, be thine the task to guide;

The horses, practised to their lord's command,

Shall bear the rein and answer to thy hand.

But if, unhappy, we desert the fight,

Thy voice alone can animate their flight:

Else shall our fates be numbered with the dead,

And these, the victor's prize, in triumph led.

Thine be the guidance then: with spear and shield

Myself will charge this terror of the field."

And now both heroes mount the glittering car;

The bounding coursers rush amidst the war.

Their fierce approach bold Sthenelus espied,

Who thus, alarmed, to great Tydides cried:

"O friend! two chiefs of force immense I see,

Dreadful they come, and bend their rage on thee,

Lo the brave heir of old Lycaon's line,

And great Æneas, sprung from race divine!

Enough is given to fame. Ascend thy car;

And save a life, the bulwark of our war."

At this the hero cast a gloomy look,

Fixed on the chief with scorn, and thus he spoke:

"Me dost thou bid to shun the coming fight?

Me wouldst thou move to base, inglorious flight?

Know, 'tis not honest in my soul to fear,

Nor was Tydides born to tremble here.

I hate the cumbrous chariot's slow advance,

And the long distance of the flying lance: