Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/202

200 Swift to the Trojan camp descends the Power,

And wakes Hippocoön in the morning hour,

On Rhesus' side accustomed to attend,

A faithful kinsman and instructive friend.

He rose, and saw the field deformed with blood,

An empty space where late the coursers stood,

The yet warm Thracians panting on the coast;

For each he wept, but for his Rhesus most.

Now, while on Rhesus' name he calls in vain,

The gathering tumult spreads o'er all the plain;

On heaps the Trojans rush, with wild affright,

And wondering view the slaughter of the night.

Meanwhile the chiefs arriving at the shade

Where late the spoils of Hector's spy were laid,

Ulysses stopped; to him Tydides bore

The trophy, dropping yet with Dolon's gore:

Then mounts again; again their nimble feet

The coursers ply, and thunder towards the fleet.

Old Nestor first perceived the approaching sound,

Bespeaking thus the Grecian peers around:

"Methinks the noise of trampling steeds I hear,

Thickening this way, and gathering on my ear;

Perhaps some horses of the Trojan breed—

So may, ye gods! my pious hopes succeed—

The great Tydides and Ulysses bear,

Returned triumphant with this prize of war.

Yet much I fear, ah may that fear be vain!

The chiefs outnumbered by the Trojan train;

Perhaps, e'en now pursued, they seek the shore;

Or, oh! perhaps those heroes are no more."

Scarce had he spoke, when lo! the chiefs appear,

And spring to earth; the Greeks dismiss their fear:

With words of friendship and extended hands

They greet the kings; and Nestor first demands:

"Say thou, whose praises all our host proclaim,

Thou living glory of the Grecian name!

Say, whence these coursers? by what chance bestowed,

The spoil of foes, or present of a god?

Not those fair steeds so radiant and so gay,

That draw the burning chariot of the day.

Old as I am, to age I scorn to yield,

And daily mingle in the martial field;

But sure till now no coursers struck my sight

Like these, conspicuous through the ranks of fight.

Some god, I deem, conferred the glorious prize,

Blessed as ye are, and favourites of the skies:

The care of him who bids the thunder roar,

And her, whose fury bathes the world with gore."