Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/318

316 Nor thus the boar, those terrors of the plain;

Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.

But, far the vainest of the boastful kind,

These sons of Panthus vent their haughty mind.

Yet 'twas but late, beneath my conquering steel,

This boaster's brother, Hyperenor, fell:

Against our arm, which rashly he defied,

Vain was his vigour, and as vain his pride.

These eyes beheld him on the dust expire,

No more to cheer his spouse, or glad his sire.

Presumptuous youth! like his shall be thy doom

Go, wait thy brother to the Stygian gloom;

Or, while thou mayest, avoid the threatened fate;

Fools stay to feel it, and are wise too late."

Unmoved, Euphorbus thus: "That action known,

Gome, for my brother's blood repay thy own.

His weeping father claims thy destined head,

And spouse, a widow in her bridal bed.

On these thy conquered spoils I shall bestow,

To soothe a consort's and a parent's woe.

No longer then defer the glorious strife,

Let heaven decide our fortune, fame, and life."

Swift as the word the missile lance he flings,

The well-aimed weapon on the buckler rings,

But, blunted by the brass, innoxious falls:

On Jove, the father, great Atrides calls;

Nor flies the javelin from his arm in vain;

It pierced his throat, and bent him to the plain;

Wide through the neck appears the grizly wound,

Prone sinks the warrior, and his arms resound.

The shining circlets of his golden hair,

Which e'en the Graces might be proud to wear,

Instarred with gems and gold, bestrew the shore,

With dust dishonoured, and deformed with gore.

As the young olive, in some sylvan scene,

Crowned by fresh fountains with eternal green,

Lifts the gay head, in snowy flowerets fair,

And plays and dances to the gentle air;

When lo! a whirlwind from high heaven invades

The tender plant, and withers all its shades;

It lies uprooted from its genial bed,

A lovely ruin now defaced and dead:

Thus young, thus beautiful, Euphorbus lay,

While the fierce Spartan tore his arms away.

Proud of his deed, and glorious in the prize,

Affrighted Troy the towering victor flies;

Flies, as before some mountain lion's ire

The village curs and trembling swains retire,

When o'er the slaughtered bull they hear him roat,