Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/273

554—602 Nor speak him vulgar, nor of vulgar race;

Some lines, methinks, may make his lineage known,

Antenor's brother, or perhaps his son."

He spake, and smiled severe, for well he knew

The bleeding youth: Troy saddened at the view.

But furious Acamas avenged his cause:

As Promachus his slaughtered brother draws,

He pierced his heart—"Such fate attends you all,

Proud Argives! destined by our arms to fall.

Not Troy alone, but haughty Greece, shall share

The toils, the sorrows, and the wounds of war.

Behold your Promachus deprived of breath,

A victim owed to my brave brother's death.

Not unappeased he enters Pluto's gate,

Who leaves a brother to revenge his fate."

Heart-piercing anguish struck the Grecian host,

But touched the breast of bold Peneleus most:

At the proud boaster he directs his course;

The boaster flies, and shuns superior force.

The young Ilioneus received the spear,

Ilioneus, his father's only care,

Phorbas the rich, of all the Trojan train

Whom Hermes loved, and taught the arts of gain:

Full in his eye the weapon chanced to fall,

And from the fibres scooped the rooted ball,

Drove through the neck, and hurled him to the plain:

He lifts his miserable arms in vain!

Swift his broad faulchion fierce Peneleus spread,

And from the spouting shoulders struck his head;

To earth at once the head and helmet fly:

The lance, yet sticking through the bleeding eye,

The victor seized; and as aloft he shook

The gory visage, thus insulting spoke:

"Trojans! your great Ilioneus behold!

Haste, to his father let the tale be told.

Let his high roofs resound with frantic woe,

Such as the house of Promachus must know;

Let doleful tidings greet his mother's ear,

Such as to Promachus' sad spouse we bear,

When we victorious shall to Greece return,

And the pale matron in our triumphs mourn."

Dreadful he spoke, then tossed the head on high;

The Trojans hear, they tremble, and they fly:

Aghast they gaze around the fleet and wall,

And dread the ruin that impends on all.

Daughters of Jove! that on Olympus shine,

Ye all-beholding, all-recording Nine!

O say, when Neptune made proud Ilion yield,

What chief, what hero, first imbrued the field?