Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/209

203—251 In blazing heaps the grove's old honours fall,

And one refulgent ruin levels all:

Before Atrides' rage so sinks the foe,

Whole squadrons vanish, and proud heads lie low.

The steeds fly trembling from his waving sword;

And many a car, now lightened of its lord,

Wide o'er the fields with guideless fury rolls,

Breaking their ranks, and crushing out their souls:

While his keen faulchion drinks the warriors' lives;

More grateful now to vultures than their wives!

Perhaps great Hector then had found his fate,

But Jove and Destiny prolonged his date.

Safe from the darts, the care of heaven, he stood,

Amidst alarms, and death, and dust, and blood.

Now past the tomb where ancient Ilus lay,

Through the mid field the routed urge their way:

Where the wild figs the adjoining summit crown,

That path they take, and speed to reach the town.

As swift Atrides with loud shouts pursued,

Hot with his toil, and bathed in hostile blood.

Now near the beech-tree, and the Scæan gates,

The hero halts, and his associates waits.

Meanwhile, on every side, around the plain,

Dispersed, disordered, fly the Trojan train.

So flies a herd of beeves, that hear dismayed

The lion's roaring through the midnight shade:

On heaps they tumble with successless haste:

The savage seizes, draws, and rends the last:

Not with less fury stern Atrides flew,

Still pressed the rout, and still the hindmost slew;

Hurled from the cars the bravest chiefs are killed,

And rage, and death, and carnage load the field.

Now storms the victor at the Trojan wall;

Surveys the towers, and meditates their fall.

But Jove, descending, shook the Idæan hills,

And down their summits poured a hundred rills:

The unkindled lightning in his hand he took,

And thus the many-coloured Maid bespoke:

"Iris, with haste thy golden wings display,

To godlike Hector thus our word convey:

While Agamemnon wastes the ranks around,

Fights in the front, and bathes with blood the ground,

Bid him give way; but issue forth commands,

And trust the war to less important hands:

But when, or wounded by the spear or dart,

That chief shall mount his chariot and depart:

Then Jove shall string his arm, and fire his breast,

Then to her ships shall flying Greece be pressed,

Till to the main the burning sun descend,