Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/326

A sanguine torrent steeps the reeking ground;
On heaps the Greeks, on heaps the Trojans bled,
And, thickening round them, rise the hills of dead.
⁠Greece, in close order and collected might,
Yet suffers least, and sways the wavering fight;
Fierce as conflicting fires the combat burns,
And now it rises, now it sinks, by turns.
In one thick darkness all the fight was lost:
The sun, the moon, and all the ethereal host,
Seemed as extinct, day ravished from their eyes,
And all heaven's splendours blotted from the skies.
Such o'er Patroclus' body hung the night,
The rest in sunshine fought, and open light:
Unclouded there, the aerial azure spread;
No vapour rested on the mountain's head;
The golden sun poured forth a stronger ray,
And all the broad expansion flamed with day.
Dispersed around the plain, by fits they fight,
And here, and there, their scattered arrows light:
But death and darkness o'er the carcass spread,
There burned the war, and there the mighty bled.
⁠Meanwhile the sons of Nestor, in the rear,
Their fellows routed, toss the distant spear,
And skirmish wide: so Nestor gave command,
When from the ships he sent the Pylian band.
The youthful brothers thus for fame contend,
Nor knew the fortune of Achilles' friend;
In thought they viewed him still, with martial joy,
Glorious in arms, and dealing deaths to Troy.
But round the corse the heroes pant for breath,
And thick and heavy grows the work of death:
O'erlaboured now, with dust, and sweat, and gore,
Their knees, their legs, their feet, are covered o'er;
Drops follow drops, the clouds on clouds arise,
And carnage clogs their hands, and darkness fills their eyes.
As when a slaughtered bull's yet reeking hide,
Strained with full force, and tugged frpm side to side,
The brawny curriers stretch, and labour o'er
The extended surface, drunk with fat and gore;
So tugging round the corse both armies stood;
The mangled body bathed in sweat and blood:
While Greeks and Ilians equal strength employ,
Now to the ships to force it, now to Troy.
Not Pallas' self, her breast when fury warms,
Nor he whose anger sets the world in arms,
Could blame this scene; such rage, such horror, reigned;
Such Jove to honour the great dead ordained.

⁠Achilles in his ships at distance lay,