Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/389

Thick beats his heart, the troubled motions rise:
So ere a storm, the waters heave and roll:
He stops, and questions thus his mighty soul:
⁠"What! shall I fly this terror of the plain?
Like others fly, and be like others slain?
Vain hope! to shun him by the self-same road
Yon line of slaughtered Trojans lately trod.
No: with the common heap I scorn to fall—
What if they passed me to the Trojan wall,
While I decline to yonder path that leads
To Ida's forests and surrounding shades?
So may I reach, concealed, the cooling flood,
From my tired body wash the dirt and blood,
And, soon as night her dusky veil extends,
Return in safety to my Trojan friends.
What if—? But wherefore all this vain debate?
Stand I to doubt within the reach of Fate?
E'en now, perhaps, ere yet I turn the wall,
The fierce Achilles sees me, and I fall:
Such is his swiftness, 'tis in vain to fly,
And such his valour, that who stands must die.
Howe'er, 'tis better, fighting for the state,
Here, and in public view, to meet my fate.
Yet sure he too is mortal; he may feel,
Like all the sons of earth, the force of steel:
One only soul informs that dreadful frame;
And Jove's sole favour gives him all his fame."
⁠He said, and stood, collected in his might;
And all his beating bosom claimed the fight.
So from some deep-grown wood a panther starts,
Roused from his thicket by a storm of darts:
Untaught to fear or fly, he hears the sounds
Of shouting hunters, and of clamorous hounds;
Though struck, though wounded, scarce perceives the pain,
And the barbed javelin stings his breast in vain;
On their whole war, untamed the savage flies;
And tears his hunter, or beneath him dies.
Not less resolved Antenor's valiant heir
Confronts Achilles, and awaits the war,
Disdainful of retreat: high-held before,
His shield, a broad circumference, he bore;
Then, graceful as he stood, in act to throw
The lifted javelin, thus bespoke the foe:
⁠"How proud Achilles glories in his fame!
And hopes this day to sink the Trojan name
Beneath her ruins! Know, that hope is vain;
A thousand woes, a thousand toils, remain.

Parents and children our just arms employ,