Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/329

561—609 And thick bull-hides the spacious concave lined.

Them Chromius follows, Aretus succeeds,

Each hopes the conquest of the lofty steeds;

In vain, brave youths, with glorious hopes ye burn,

In vain advance I not fated to return.

Unmoved, Automedon attends the fight,

Implores the Eternal, and collects his might.

Then, turning to his friend, with dauntless mind:

"Oh keep the foaming coursers close behind!

Full on my shoulders let their nostrils blow,

For hard the fight, determined is the foe;

'Tis Hector comes; and when he seeks the prize,

War knows no mean: he wins it, or he dies."

Then through the field he sends his voice aloud,

And calls the Ajaces from the warring crowd,

With great Atrides. "Hither turn," he said,

"Turn where distress demands immediate aid;

The dead, encircled by his friends, forgo,

And save the living from a fiercer foe.

Unhelped we stand, unequal to engage

The force of Hector and Æneas' rage:

Yet mighty as they are, my force to prove

Is only mine; the event belongs to Jove."

He spoke, and high the sounding javelin flung,

Which passed the shield of Aretus the young;

It pierced his belt, embossed with curious art;

Then in the lower belly stuck the dart.

As when a ponderous axe, descending full,

Cleaves the broad forehead of some brawny bull;

Struck 'twixt the horns, he springs with many bound,

Then tumbling rolls enormous on the ground:

Thus fell the youth; the air his soul received,

And the spear trembled as his entrails heaved.

Now at Automedon the Trojan foe

Discharged his lance; the meditated blow,

Stooping, he shunned; the javelin idly fled,

And hissed innoxious o'er the hero's head:

Deep rooted in the ground, the forceful spear

In long vibrations spent its fury there.

With clashing faulchions now the chiefs had closed,

But each brave Ajax heard, and interposed;

Nor longer Hector with his Trojans stood,

But left their slain companion in his blood:

His arms Automedon divests, and cries,

"Accept, Patroclus, this means sacrifice.

Thus have I soothed my griefs, and thus have paid,

Poor as it is, some offering to thy shade."

So looks the lion o'er a mangled boar,

All grim with rage, and horrible with gore: