Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/219

693—741 Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands;

Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly,

And threats his followers with retorted eye.

Fixed as the bar between two warring powers,

While hissing darts descend in iron showers:

In his broad buckler many a weapon stood,

Its surface bristled with a quivering wood;

And many a javelin, guiltless on the plain,

Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain.

But bold Eurypylus his aid imparts,

And dauntless springs beneath a cloud of darts;

Whose eager javelin launched against the foe,

Great Apisaon felt the fatal blow;

From his torn liver the red current flowed,

And his slack knees desert their dying load.

The victor rushing to despoil the dead,

From Paris' bow a vengeful arrow fled:

Fixed in his nervous thigh the weapon stood,

Fixed was the point, but broken was the wood.

Back to the lines the wounded Greek retired,

Yet thus, retreating, his associates fired:

"What god, O Grecians! has your hearts dismayed?

Oh, turn to arms; 'tis Ajax claims your aid:

This hour he stands the mark of hostile rage,

And this the last brave battle he shall wage:

Haste, join your forces; from the gloomy grave

The warrior rescue, and your country save."

Thus urged the chief; a generous troop appears,

Who spread their bucklers, and advance their spears,

To guard their wounded friend: while thus they stand

With pious care, great Ajax joins the band;

Each takes new courage at the hero's sight;

The hero rallies and renews the fight.

Thus raged both armies like conflicting fires,

While Nestor's chariot far from fight retires:

His coursers, steeped in sweat, and stained with gore,

The Greeks' preserver, great Machaon, bore.

That hour, Achilles, from the topmost height

Of his proud fleet, o'erlooked the fields of fight;

His feasted eyes beheld around the plain

The Grecian rout, the slaying and the slain.

His friend Machaon singled from the rest,

A transient pity touched his vengeful breast.

Straight to Menœtius' much-loved son he sent;

Graceful as Mars, Patroclus quits his tent:

In evil hour! then fate decreed his doom;

And fixed the date of all his woes to come.

" Why calls my friend? thy loved injunctions lay; Whate'er thy will, Patroclus shall obey."