Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/214

And thus bespoke his brother of the war:
"Mark how this way yon bending squadrons yield!
The storm rolls on, and Hector rules the field:
Here stand his utmost force." The warrior said:
Swift at the word his ponderous javelin fled;
Nor missed its aim, but, where the plumage danced,
Razed the smooth cone, and thence obliquely glanced.
Safe in his helm, the gift of Phœbus' hands,
Without a wound the Trojan hero stands,
But yet so stunned, that, staggering on the plain,
His arm and knee his sinking bulk sustain;
O'er his dim sight the misty vapours rise,
And a short darkness shades his swimming eyes.
Tydides followed to regain his lance;
While Hector rose, recovered from the trance,
Remounts his car, and herds amidst the crowd;
The Greek pursues him, and exults aloud:
"Once more thank Phœbus for thy forfeit breath,
Or thank that swiftness which outstrips the death.
Well by Apollo are thy prayers repaid,
And oft that partial power has lent his aid.
Thou shalt not long the death deserved withstand,
If any god assist Tydides' hand.
Fly then, inglorious! but thy flight, this day,
Whole hecatombs of Trojan ghosts shall pay."
Him, while he triumphed, Paris eyed from far,
The spouse of Helen, the fair cause of war:
Around the fields his feathered shafts he sent,
From ancient Ilus' ruined monument;
Behind the column placed, he bent his bow,
And winged an arrow at the unwary foe:
Just as he stooped, Agastrophus's crest
To seize, and draw the corselet from his breast,
The bow-string twanged; nor flew the shaft in vain,
But pierced his foot, and nailed it to the plain.
The laughing Trojan, with a joyful spring,
Leaps from his ambush, and insults the king:
"He bleeds!" he cries, "some god has sped my dart;
Would the same god had fixed it in his heart!
So Troy, relieved from that wide-wasting hand,
Should breathe from slaughter, and in combat stand,
Whose sons now tremble at his darted spear,
As scattered lambs the rushing lion fear."
He dauntless thus: "Thou conqueror of the fair,
Thou woman-warrior with the curling hair;
Vain archer! trusting to the distant dart,
Unskilled in arms to act a manly part!
Thou hast but done what boys or women can;
Such hands may wound, but not incense a man.