Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/203

654—680 "Father! not so," sage Ithacus rejoined,

"The gifts of heaven are of a nobler kind.

Of Thracian lineage are the steeds ye view,

Whose hostile king the brave Tydides slew;

Sleeping he died, with all his guards around,

And twelve beside lay gasping on the ground.

These other spoils from conquered Dolon came,

A wretch, whose swiftness was his only fame;

By Hector sent our forces to explore,

He now lies headless on the sandy shore."

Then o'er the trench the bounding coursers flew;

The joyful Greeks with loud acclaim pursue.

Straight to Tydides' high pavilion borne,

The matchless steeds his ample stalls adorn:

The neighing coursers their new fellows greet,

And the full racks are heaped with generous wheat.

But Dolon's armour to his ships conveyed,

High on the painted stern Ulysses laid,

A trophy destined to the blue-eyed Maid.

Now from nocturnal sweat, and sanguine stain,

They cleanse their bodies in the neighbouring main:

Then in the polished bath, refreshed from toil,

Their joints they supple with dissolving oil,

In due repast indulge the genial hour,

And first to Pallas the libations pour:

They sit rejoicing in her aid divine,

And the crowned goblet foams with floods of wine.