Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/282

280 When lo! a lion shoots across the way!

They fly, at once the chasers and the prey:

So Greece, that late in conquering troops pursued,

And marked their progress through the ranks in blood,

Soon as they see the furious chief appear,

Forget to vanquish, and consent to fear.

Thoas with grief observed his dreadful course,

Thoas, the bravest of the Ætolian force;

Skilled to direct the javelin's distant flight,

And bold to combat in the standing fight;

Nor more in counsels famed for solid sense,

Than winning words and heavenly eloquence.

"Gods! what portent," he cried, "these eyes invades?

Lo, Hector rises from the Stygian shades!

We saw him, late, by thundering Ajax killed;

What god restores him to the frighted field,

And not content that half of Greece lie slain,

Pours new destruction on her sons again?

He comes not, Jove, without thy powerful will;

Lo! still he lives, pursues, and conquers still;

Yet hear my counsel, and his worst withstand;

The Greeks' main body to the fleet command:

But let the few whom brisker spirits warm,

Stand the first onset, and provoke the storm:

Thus point your arms; and when such foes appear,

Fierce as he is, let Hector learn to fear."

The warriors spoke, the listening Greeks obey,

Thickening their ranks, and form a deep array.

Each Ajax, Teucer, Merion gave command,

The valiant leader of the Cretan band,

And Mars-like Meges: these the chiefs excite,

Approach the foe, and meet the coming fight.

Behind, unnumbered multitudes attend

To flank the navy, and the shores defend.

Full on the front the pressing Trojans bear,

And Hector first came towering to the war.

Phœbus himself the rushing battle led;

A veil of clouds involved his radiant head:

High-held before him, Jove's enormous shield

Portentous shone, and shaded all the field:

Vulcan to Jove the immortal gift consigned,

To scatter hosts, and terrify mankind.

The Greeks expect the shock; the clamours rise

From different parts, and mingle in the skies.

Dire was the hiss of darts, by heroes flung,

And arrows leaping from the bow-string sung;

These drink the life of generous warriors slain;

Those guiltless fall, and thirst for blood in vain.

As long as Phœbus bore unmoved the shield,