Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/107

Thy winged arrows and unerring bow,
Thy matchless skill, thy yet unrivalled fame,
And boasted glory of the Lycian name?
Oh pierce that mortal! if we mortal call
That wondrous force by which whole armies fall;
Or god incensed, who quits the distant skies
To punish Troy for slighted sacrifice;
Which, oh avert from our unhappy state!
For what so dreadful as celestial hate?
Whoe'er he be, propitiate Jove with prayer;
If man, destroy; if god, entreat to spare."
⁠To him the Lycian: "Whom your eyes behold,
If right I judge, is Diomed the bold.
Such coursers whirl him o'er the dusty field,
So towers his helmet, and so flames his shield.
If 'tis a god, he wears that chief's disguise;
Or if that chief, some guardian of the skies,
Involved in clouds, protects him in the fray,
And turns unseen the frustrate dart away.
I winged an arrow, which not idly fell;
The stroke had fixed him to the gates of hell;
And, but some god, some angry god withstands,
His fate was due to these unerring hands.
Skilled in the bow, on foot I sought the war,
Nor joined swift horses to the rapid car.
Ten polished chariots I possessed at home,
And still they grace Lycaon's princely dome:
There veiled in spacious coverlets they stand;
And twice ten coursers wait their lord's command.
The good old warrior bade me trust to these,
When first for Troy I sailed the sacred seas,
In fields, aloft, the whirling car to guide,
And through the ranks of death triumphant ride.
But, vain with youth, and yet to thrift inclined,
I heard his counsels with unheedful mind,
And thought the steeds, your large supplies unknown,
Might fail of forage in the straitened town:
So took my bow and pointed darts in hand,
And left the chariots in my native land.
⁠" Too late, O friend! my rashness I deplore;
These shafts, once fatal, carry death no more.
Tydeus' and Atreus' sons their points have found,
And undissembled gore pursued the wound.
In vain they bled: this unavailing bow
Serves not to slaughter, but provoke the foe.
In evil hour these bended horns I strung,
And seized the quiver where it idly hung.
Cursed be the fate that sent me to the field,

Without a warrior's arms, the spear and shield!