Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/211

Then near the corselet, at the monarch's heart,
With all his strength the youth directs his dart:
But the broad belt, with plates of silver bound,
The point rebated, and repelled the wound.
Encumbered with the dart, Atrides stands,
Till, grasped with force, he wrenched it from his hands.
At once his weighty sword discharged a wound
Full on his neck, that felled him to the ground.
Stretched in the dust the unhappy warrior lies,
And sleep eternal seals his swimming eyes.
Oh worthy better fate! oh early slain!
Thy country's friend; and virtuous, though in vain!
No more the youth shall join his consort's side,
At once a virgin, and at once a bride!
No more with presents her embraces meet,
Or lay the spoils of conquest at her feet,
On whom his passion, lavish of his store,
Bestowed so much, and vainly promised more!
Unwept, uncovered, on the plain he lay,
While the proud victor bore his arms away.
⁠Coön, Antenor's eldest hope, was nigh:
Tears at the sight came starting from his eye,
While pierced with grief the much-loved youth he viewed,
And the pale features now deformed with blood.
Then with his spear, unseen, his time he took,
Aimed at the king, and near his elbow struck.
The thrilling steel transpierced the brawny part,
And through his arm stood forth the barbed dart.
Surprised the monarch feels, yet void of fear
On Coön rushes with his lifted spear:
His brother's corpse the pious Trojan draws,
And calls his country to assert his cause,
Defends him breathless on the sanguine field,
And o'er the body spreads his ample shield.
Atrides, marking an unguarded part,
Transfixed the warrior with his brazen dart;
Prone on his brother's bleeding breast he lay,
The monarch's faulchion lopped his head away:
The social shades the same dark journey go,
And join each other in the realms below.
⁠The vengeful victor rages round the fields,
With every weapon art or fury yields:
By the long lance, the sword, or ponderous stone,
Whole ranks are broken, and whole troops o'erthrown:
This while, yet warm, distilled the purple flood;
But when the wound grew stiff with clotted blood,
Then grinding tortures his strong bosom rend;
Less keen those darts the fierce Ilythiæ send,

The powers that cause the teeming matron's throes,