Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/163

399—446 Till great Alastor and Mecistheus bore

The battered archer groaning to the shore.

Troy yet found grace before the Olympian sire;

He armed their hands, and filled 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 marched 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 turned, but still they flew;

Thus following, Hector still the hindmost slew.

When, flying, they had passed 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 withered all their host: like Mars he stood,

Dire as the monster, dreadful as the god!

Their strong distress the wife of Jove surveyed;

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,

Condemned 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 spoke the imperial regent of the skies;

To whom the goddess with the azure eyes:

"Long since had Hector stained these fields with gore,

Stretched 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, distressed

By stern Eurystheus, with long labour pressed?

He begged, with tears he begged, 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;