Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/255

E'en the sweet charms of sacred numbers tire.
But Troy for ever reaps a dire delight
In thirst of slaughter, and in lust of fight."
⁠This said, he seized, while yet the carcase heaved,
The bloody armour, which his train received:
Then sudden mixed among the warring crew,
And the bold son of Pylæmenes slew.
Harpalion had through Asia travelled far,
Following his martial father to the war;
Through filial love he left his native shore,
Never, ah never, to behold it more!
His unsuccessful spear he chanced to fling
Against the target of the Spartan king;
Thus of his lance disarmed, from death he flies,
And turns around his apprehensive eyes.
Him, through the hip transpiercing as he fled,
The shaft of Merion mingled with the dead;
Beneath the bone the glancing point descends,
And, driving down, the swelling bladder rends:
Sunk in his sad companions' arms he lay,
And in short pantings sobbed his soul away,
Like some vile worm extended on the ground,
While life's red torrent gushed from out the wound.
⁠Him on his car the Paphlagonian train
In slow procession bore from off the plain.
The pensive father, father now no more!
Attends the mournful pomp along the shore;
And unavailing tears profusely shed,
And unrevenged deplored his offspring dead.
⁠Paris from far the moving sight beheld,
With pity softened, and with fury swelled:
His honoured host, a youth of matchless grace,
And loved of all the Paphlagonian race!
With his full strength he bent his angry bow,
And winged the feathered vengeance at the foe.
A chief there was, the brave Euchenor named,
For riches much, and more for virtue, famed,
Who held his seat in Corinth's stately town;
Polydus' son, a seer of old renown.
Oft had the father told his early doom,
By arms abroad, or slow disease at home:
He climbed his vessel, prodigal of breath,
And chose the certain glorious path to death.
Beneath his ear the pointed arrow went;
The soul came issuing at the narrow vent;
His limbs, unnerved, drop useless on the ground,
And everlasting darkness shades him round.
⁠Nor knew great Hector how his legions yield,

Wrapped in the cloud and tumult of the field: