o'er Tenedos reign'st with fame! O Smintheus, hear my prayer! If ever with wreaths I adorned—O Phœbus! Thy beauteous fane: If ever thine altars smoked with offerings—from the flocks and herds of Chryses: If me thou regardest in ought—O Phœbus, hear my Prayer! Punish Greece for these tears of mine. Send thy deadly arrow abroad.”
He praying spoke. Apollo heard. He descended from heaven, enraged in soul. On his shoulders his bow is hung: His quiver filled with deadly shafts: Which harshly rattled, as he strode in his wrath. Like Night he is borne along: Then darkly-sitting, apart from the host—he sends an arrow abroad. The bright bow emits a dreadful sound—as the shaft flies, unseen, from the string. Mules, first, the angry god invades: Then fleetly-bounding dogs are slain: Soon, on the heroes themselves—the death-devoting arrow falls. The frequent piles are flaming to heaven. Nine days rush the shafts of the god. But when the tenth arose in light—Achilles called to council the host. A goddess raised the thought within: The white-armed spouse of thundering Jove. Her favoured Argives command her care: Whom devoted to death she beheld. When the host were all convened: Tall, in the midst, Achilles rose. They listened forward, as he spoke.
“Now, son of Atreus, I now perceive—that fortune has left our side. Now, we must return, disgraced—should death permit us to return. A double rain invades the host. Disease has joined its rage to war. The times demand a sudden aid. Let us consult some holy seer—Some priest, some diviner of dreams: For dreams, they say, descend from Jove! Let us
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