Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/373

I know thy force to mine superior far;
But heaven alone confers success in war;
Mean as I am, the gods may guide my dart,
And give it entrance in a braver heart."
⁠Then parts the lance : but Pallas' heavenly breath
Far from Achilles wafts the winged death:
The bidden dart again to Hector flies,
And at the feet of its great master lies.
Achilles closes with his hated foe,
His heart and eyes with flaming fury glow:
But, present to his aid, Apollo shrouds
The favoured hero in a veil of clouds.
Thrice struck Pelides with indignant heart,
Thrice in impassive air he plunged the dart:
The spear a fourth time buried in the cloud,
He foams with fury, and exclaims aloud:
⁠"Wretch! thou hast 'scaped again, once more thy flight
Has saved thee, and the partial god of light.
But long thou shalt not thy just fate withstand,
If any power assist Achilles' hand.
Fly then inglorious; but thy flight this day
Whole hecatombs of Trojan ghosts shall pay."
⁠With that he gluts his rage on numbers slain:
Then Dryops tumbled to the ensanguined plain
Pierced through the neck: he left him panting there,
And stopped Demuchus, great Philetor's heir,
Gigantic chief! deep gashed the enormous blade,
And for the soul an ample passage made.
Laogonus and Dardanus expire,
The valiant sons of an unhappy sire;
Both in one instant from the chariot hurled,
Sunk in one instant to the nether world;
This difference only their sad fates afford,
That one the spear destroyed, and one the sword.
⁠Nor less unpitied, young Alastor bleeds;
In vain his youth, in vain his beauty pleads:
In vain he begs thee, with a suppliant's moan,
To spare a form and age so like thy own!
Unhappy boy! no prayer, no moving art
E'er bent that fierce inexorable heart!
While yet he trembled at his knees, and cried,
The ruthless faulchion oped his tender side;
The panting liver pours a flood of gore,
That drowns his bosom till he pants no more.
⁠Through Mulius' head then drove the impetuous spear;
The warrior falls transfixed from ear to ear.
Thy life, Echeclus I next the sword bereaves;
Deep through the front the ponderous faulchion cleaves;

Warmed in the brain the smoking weapon lies,