Resistless when he raged, and, when he stopped, unmoved.

On him the war is bent, the darts are shed,
And all their falchions wave around his head :
Repulsed he stands, nor from his stand retires;
But with repeated shouts his army fires.
“ Trojans ! be firm; this arm shall make your way
Through yon square body, and that black array:
Stand, and my spear shall route their scattering power,
Strong as they seem, embattled like a tower;
For he that Juno's heavenly bosom warms,
The first of gods, this day inspires our arms.”
He said; and roused the soul in every

breast:
Urged with desire of fame, beyond the rest,
Forth march'd Deïphobus; but, marching, held
Before his wary steps his ample shield.
Bold Merion aim'd a stroke (nor aim'd it wide);
The glittering javelin pierced the tough bull-hide ;
But pierced not through : unfaithful to his hand,
The point broke short, and sparkled in the sand.
The Trojan warrior, touch'd with timely fear,
On the raised orb to distance bore the spear.
The Greek, retreating, mourn’d his frustrate blow,
And cursed the treacherous lance that spared a foc;
Then to the ships with surly speed he went,
To seek a surer javelin in his tent.

Meanwhile with rising rage the battle glows,
The tumult thickens, and the clamor grows.
By Teucer's arm the warlike Imbrius bleeds,
The son of Mentor, rich in generous steeds.
Ere yet to Troy the sons of Greece were led,
In fair Pedæus' verdant pastures bred,
The youth had dwelt, remote from war's alarms,
And blest in bright Medesicaste's arms
(This nymph, the fruit of Priam's ravish'd joy,
Allied the warrior to the house of Troy):
To Troy, when glory call’d his arms, he came,
And match'd the bravest of her chiefs in fame :
With Priam's sons, a guardian of the throne,
He lived, beloved and honor'd as his own.
Him Teucer pierced between the throat and ear:
He groans beneath the Telamonian spear.
As from some far-seen mountain's airy crown,
Subdued by steel, a tall ash tumbles down,

Hath broke the naturall band it had within the roughftey rock,
Flies jumping all adoune the woods, resounding everie shocke,
And on, uncheckt, it headlong leaps till in a plaine it stay,
And then (tho' never so impelled), it stirs not any way :-

So Hector."

And soils its verdant tresses on the ground;
So falls the youth ; his arms the fall resound.
Then Teucer rushing to despoil the dead,
From Hector's hand a shining javelin fled :
He saw, and shunn'd the death ; the forceful dart
Sung on, and pierced Amphimachus's heart,
Cteatus' son, of Neptune's forceful line;
Vain was his courage, and his race divine !
Prostrate he falls; his clanging arms resound,
And his broad buckler thunders on the ground.
To seize his beamy helm the victor flies,
And just had fastened on the dazzling prize,
When Ajax' manly arm a javelin flung;
Full on the shield's round boss the weapon rung;
He felt the shock, nor more was doom'd to feel,
Secure in mail, and sheath'd in shining steel.
Repulsed he yields; the victor Greeks obtain
The spoils contested, and bear off the slain.
Between the leaders of the Athenian line
(Stichius the brave, Menestheus the divine),
Deplored Amphimachus, sad object ! lies;
Imbrius remains the fierce Ajaces' prize.
As two grim lions bear across the lawn,
Snatch'd from devouring hounds, a slaughter'd faron,
In their fell jaws high-lifting through the wood,
And sprinkling all the shrubs with drops of blood;
So these, the chief: great Ajax from the dead
Strips his bright arms; Oïleus lops his head :
Toss'd like a ball, and whirl'd in air away,
At Hector's feet the gory visage lay.

The god of ocean, fired with stern disdain,
And pierced with sorrow for his grandson slain,
Inspires the Grecian hearts, confirms their hands,
And breathes destruction on the Trojan bands.
Swift as a whirlwind rushing to the fleet,
He finds the lance-famed Idomen of Crete,
His pensive brow the generous care express'd
With which a wounded soldier touch'd his breast,
Whom in the chance of war a javelin tore,
And his sad comrades from the battle bore;
Him to the surgeons of the camp he sent;
That office paid, he issued from his tent
Fierce for the fight : to whom the god begun,
In Thoäs' voice, Andræmon's valiant son,
Who ruled where Calydon's white rocks arise,
And Pleuron's chalky cliffs emblaze the skies :

“Where's now the imperious vaunt, the daring boast,

Of Greece victorious, and proud Ilion lost?”
To whom the king : “On Greece no blame be thrown;
Arms are her trade, and war is all her own.
Her hardy heroes from the well-fought plains
Nor fear withholds, nor shameful sloth detains :
'Tis heaven, alas ! and Jove's all-powerful doom,
That far, far distant from our native home
Wills us to fall inglorious! Oh, my friend !
Once foremost in the fight, still prone to lend
Or arms or counsels, now perform thy best,
And what thou canst not singly, urge the rest.”

Thus he: and thus the god whose force can make
The solid globe's eternal basis shake :
“Ah! never may he see his native land,
But feed the vultures on this hateful strand,
Who seeks ignobly in his ships to stay,
Nor dares to combat on this signal day!
For this, behold! in horrid arms I shine,
And urge thy soul to rival acts with mine.
Together let us battle on the plain ;
Two, not the worst; nor even this succor vain:
Not vain the weakest, if their force unite ;
But ours, the bravest have confess’d in fight.'

This said, he rushes where the combat burns:
Swift to his tent the Cretan king returns :
From thence, two javelins glittering in his hand,
And clad in arms that lighten'd all the strand,
Fierce on the foe the impetuous hero drove,
Like lightning bursting from the arm of Jove,
Which to pale man the wrath of heaven declares,
Or terrifies the offending world with wars ;
In streamy sparkles, kindling all the skies,
From pole to pole the trail of glory flies:
Thus his bright armor o'er the dazzled throng
Gleam'd dreadful, as the monarch flash'd along.

Him, near his tent, Meriones attends ;
Whom thus he questions : “Ever best of friends!
9 say, in every art of battle skill'd,
What holds thy courage from so brave a field?
On some important message art thou bound,
Or bleeds my friend by some unhappy wound?
Inglorious here, my soul abhors to stay,
And glows with prospects of th' approaching day."

“O prince ! (Meriones replies) whose care
Leads forth the embattled sons of Crete to war ;
This speaks my grief: this headless lance I wield;
The rest lies rooted in a Trojan shield.”