Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/416

Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,
And, hovering o'er, their stretching shadows sees.
Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize;
But angry Phœbus to Tydides flies,
Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain
His matchless horses' labour on the plain.
Rage fills his eye with anguish, to survey,
Snatched from his hope, the glories of the day.
The fraud celestial Pallas sees with pain,
Springs to her knight, and gives the scourge again,
And fills his steeds with vigour. At a stroke,
She breaks his rival's chariot from the yoke:
No more their way the startled horses held;
The car reversed came rattling on the field;
Shot headlong from his seat, beside the wheel,
Prone on the dust the unhappy master fell;
His battered face and elbows strike the ground;
Nose, mouth, and front one undistinguished wound:
Grief stops his voice, a torrent drowns his eyes;
Before him far the glad Tydides flies;
Minerva's spirit drives his matchless pace,
And crowns him victor of the laboured race.
⁠The next, though distant, Menelaüs succeeds;
While thus young Nestor animates his steeds:
"Now, now, my generous pair, exert your force;
Not that we hope to match Tydides' horse;
Since great Minerva wings their rapid way,
And gives their lord the honours of the day.
But reach Atrides I shall his mare out-go
Your swiftness? vanquished by a female foe?
Through your neglect, if, lagging on the plain,
The last ignoble gift be all we gain,
No more shall Nestor's hand your food supply;
The old man's fury rises, and ye die.
Haste, then! yon narrow road before our sight
Presents the occasion, could we use it right."
⁠Thus he. The coursers at their master's threat
With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat.
And now Antilochus, with nice survey,
Observes the compass of the hollow way.
'Twas where by force of wintry torrents torn,
Fast by the road a precipice was worn:
Here, where but one could pass, to shun the throng,
The Spartan hero's chariot smoked along.
Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep,
Still edging near, and bears him toward the steep.
Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below,
And wonders at the rashness of his foe:

"Hold, stay your steeds—what madness thus to ride