Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/399

365—412 I shall not fall a fugitive at least,

My soul shall bravely issue from my breast.

But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart

End all my country's woes, deep buried in thy heart!"

The weapon flew, its course unerring held;

Unerring, but the heavenly shield repelled

The mortal dart; resulting with a bound

From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground.

Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain,

Nor other lance nor other hope remain;

He calls Deïphobus, demands a spear

In vain, for no Deïphobus was there.

All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh,

"'Tis so—heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh!

I deemed Deïphobus had heard my call,

But he secure lies guarded in the wall.

A god deceived me; Pallas, 'twas thy deed:

Death and black fate approach! 'tis I must bleed:

No refuge now, no succour from above,

Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove,

Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate!

'Tis true I perish, yet I perish great:

Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,

Let future ages hear it, and admire!"

Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew,

And, all collected, on Achilles flew.

So Jove's bold bird, high balanced in the air,

Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare.

Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares;

Before his breast the flaming shield he bears,

Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone

The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun,

Nodding at every step, Vulcanian frame!

And as he moved, his figure seemed on flame.

As radiant Hesper shines with keener light,

Far-beaming o'er the silver host of night,

When all the starry train emblaze the sphere:

So shone the point of great Achilles' spear.

In his right hand he waves the weapon round,

Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound:

But the rich mail Patroclus lately wore,

Securely cased the warrior's body o'er.

One place at length he spies, to let in fate,

Where 'twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate

Gave entrance: through that penetrable part

Furious he drove the well-directed dart

Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power

Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour.