And feared the Greeks, though Fate forbade her fall.[1]
Back to Olympus, from the war's alarms,
Return the shining bands of gods in arms;
Some proud in triumph, some with rage on fire;
And take their thrones around the ethereal sire.
Through blood, through death, Achilles still proceeds,
O'er slaughtered heroes, and o'er rolling steeds.
As when avenging flames, with fury driven,
On guilty towns exert the wrath of heaven;
The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly;
And the red vapors purple all the sky:
So raged Achilles: death, and dire dismay,
And toils, and terror, filled the dreadful day.
High on a turret hoary Priam stands,
And marks the waste of his destructive hands;
Views, from his arm, the Trojans' scattered flight,
And the near hero rising on his sight!
No stop, no check, no aid! With feeble pace,
And settled sorrow on his aged face,
Fast as he could, he sighing quits the walls,
And thus, descending, on the guards he calls:
"You, to whose care our city gates belong,
Set wide your portals to the flying throng.
For lo! he comes, with unresisted sway;
He comes, and desolation marks his way!
But when within the walls our troops take breath,
Lock fast the brazen bars, and shut out death."
Thus charged the reverend monarch: wide were flung
The opening folds; the sounding hinges rung.
Phœbus rushed forth, the flying bands to meet,
Struck slaughter back, and covered the retreat.
On heaps the Trojans crowd to gain the gate,
And gladsome see their last escape from fate:
Thither, all parched with thirst, a heartless train,
Hoary with dust, they beat the hollow plain;
And gasping, panting, fainting, labour on
With heavier strides, that lengthen toward the town.
Enraged Achilles follows with his spear,
Wild with revenge, insatiable of war.
Then had the Greeks eternal praise acquired,
And Troy inglorious to her walls retired;
But he, the god who darts ethereal flame,
Shot down to save her, and redeem her fame.
To young Agenor force divine he gave,
Antenor's offspring, haughty, bold, and brave:
In aid of him, beside the beach he sat,
And, wrapt in clouds, restrained the hand of Fate.
When now the generous youth Achilles spies
- ↑ Compare Book XX., line 42, page 361.
