Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/319

72—120 And see his jaws distil with smoking gore;

All pale with fear, at distance scattered round,

They shout incessant, and the vales resound.

Meanwhile Apollo viewed with envious eyes,

And urged great Hector to dispute the prize:

In Mentes' shape, beneath whose martial care

The rough Ciconians learned the trade of war:

"Forbear" he cried, "with fruitless speed to chase

Achilles' coursers, of ethereal race;

They stoop not, these, to mortal man's command,

Or stoop to none but great Achilles' hand.

Too long amused with a pursuit so vain,

Turn, and behold the brave Euphorbus slain,

By Sparta slain; for ever now suppressed

The fire which burned in that undaunted breast!"

Thus having spoke, Apollo winged his flight,

And mixed with mortals in the toils of fight:

His words infixed unutterable care

Deep in great Hector's soul : through all the war

He darts his anxious eye : and instant viewed

The breathless hero in his blood imbrued,

Forth welling from the wound, as prone he lay,

And in the victor's hand the shining prey.

Sheathed in bright arms, through cleaving ranks he flies,

And sends his voice in thunder to the skies:

Fierce as a flood of flame by Vulcan sent,

It flew, and fired the nations as it went.

Atrides from the voice the storm divined,

And thus explored his own unconquered mind:

"Then shall I quit Patroclus on the plain,

Slain in my cause, and for my honour slain,

Desert the arms, the relics of my friend,

Or singly Hector and his troops attend?

Sure, where such partial favour heaven bestowed,

To brave the hero were to brave the god:

Forgive me, Greece, if once I quit the field;

'Tis not to Hector, but to heaven, I yield;

Yet, not the god nor heaven should give me fear,

Did but the voice of Ajax reach my ear:

Still would we turn, still battle on the plains,

And give Achilles all that yet remains

Of his and our Patroclus." This, no more,

The time allowed: Troy thickened, on the shore;

A sable scene! The terrors Hector led;

Slow he recedes, and sighing quits the dead.

So from the fold the unwilling lion parts,

Forced by loud clamours, and a storm of darts;

He flies indeed, but threatens as he flies,

With heart indignant and retorted eyes.