When straight the royal Cretan’s dart in his mid breast appear’d;
It brake the curets that were proof to every other dart,
Yet now they cleft and rung, the lance stuck shaking in his heart:
His heart with panting made it shake. But Mars did now remit
The greatness of it, and the king, now quitting the brag fit
Of glory in Deiphobus, thus terribly exclaim’d:
‘Deiphobus, now may we think that we are evenly fam’d,
That three for one have sent to Dis. But come, change blows with me;
Thy vaunts for him thou slew’st were vain. Come, wretch, that thou may’st see
What issue Jove hath; Jove begot Minos, the strength of Crete;
Minos begot Deucalion; Deucalion did beget
Me Idomen, now Creta’s king, that here my ships have brought,
To bring thyself, thy father, friends, all Ilion’s pomp to nought.’
Deiphobus at two ways stood, in doubt to call some one
(With some retreat) to be his aid, or try the chance alone.
At last, the first seem’d best to him, and back he went to call
Anchises’ son to friend; who stood in troop the last of all,
Where still he serv’d: which made him still incense against the king,
That being amongst his best their peer, he grac’d not anything
His wrong’d deserts. Deiphobus spake to him, standing near:
‘Aeneas, prince of Troÿans, if any touch appear
Of glory in thee, thou must now assist thy sister’s lord,
And one that to thy tend’rest youth did careful guard afford,
Alcathous, whom Creta’s king hath chiefly slain to thee,
His right most challenging thy hand: come, therefore, follow me.’
This much excited his good mind, and set his heart on fire,
Against the Cretan: who, child-like, dissolv’d not in his ire,
But stood him firm; as when in hills a strength-relying boar,
Alone and hearing hunters come, whom tumult flies before,
Up thrusts his bristles, whets his tusks, sets fire on his red eyes,
And in his brave prepar’d repulse doth dogs and men despise:
So stood the famous-for-his-lance, nor shunn’d the coming charge
That resolute Aeneas brought; yet since the odds was large,
He call’d with good right to his aid war-skill’d Ascalaphus,
Aphareus, Meriones, the strong Deipyrus,
And Nestor’s honourable son: ‘Come near, my friends,’ said he,
‘And add your aids to me alone. Fear taints me worthily,
Though firm I stand, and show it not: Aeneas great in fight,
And one that bears youth in his flow’r (that bears the greatest might)
Comes on, with aim direct at me: had I his youthful limb
To bear my mind, he should yield fame, or I would yield it him.’
This said, all held, in many souls, one ready helpful mind,
Clapp’d shields and shoulders, and stood close. Aeneas (not inclin’d
With more presumption than the king) call’d aid as well as he –
Divine Agenor, Helen’s love, who follow’d instantly,
And all their forces following them, as after bell-wethers
The whole flocks follow to their drink; which sight the shepherd cheers:
Nor was Aeneas’ joy less mov’d to see such troops attend
His honour’d person; and all these fought close about his friend.
But two of them, past all the rest, had strong desire to shed
The blood of either: Idomen, and Cytherea’s seed.
Aeneas first bestow’d his lance, which th’ other seeing shunn’d,
And that, thrown from an idle hand, stuck trembling in the ground.
But Idomen’s, discharg’d at him, had no such vain success,
Which Oemomaus’ entrails found, in which it did impress
His sharp pile to his fall: his palms tore his returning earth.
Idomeneus straight stepp’d in, and pluck’d his javelin forth,
But could not spoil his goodly arms, they press’d him so with darts.
And now the long toil of the fight had spent his vigorous parts,
And made them less apt to avoid the foe that should advance,
Or (when himself advanc’d again) to run and fetch his lance.
And therefore in stiff fights of stand he spent the cruel day:
When coming softly from the slain Deiphobus gave way
To his bright javelin at the king, whom he could never brook,
But then he lost his envy too: his lance yet deadly took
Ascalaphus, the son of Mars; quite through his shoulder flew
The violent head, and down he fell. Nor yet by all means knew
Wide-throated Mars his son was fall’n, but in Olympus’ top
Sat canopied with golden clouds. Jove’s counsel had shut up
Both him and all the other gods from that time’s equal task,
Which now about Ascalaphus Strife set: his shining casque
Deiphobus had forc’d from him, but instantly leap’d in
Mars-swift Meriones, and struck, with his long javelin,
The right arm of Deiphobus, which made his hand let fall
The sharp-topp’d helmet, the press’d earth resounding therewithal.
When, vulture-like, Meriones rush’d in again and drew,
From out the low parts of his arm his javelin, and then flew
Back to his friends. Deiphobus (faint with the blood’s excess
Fall’n from his wound) was carefully convey’d out of the press,
By his kind brother by both sides, Polites, till they gat
Hi
s horse and chariot, that were still set fit for his retreat
And bore him now to Ilion. The rest fought fiercely on,
And set a mighty fight on foot. When next Anchises’ son
Aphareus Caletorides (that ran upon him) strook
Just in the throat with his keen lance, and straight his head forsook
His upright carriage, and his shield, his helm, and all with him
Fell to the earth, where ruinous death made prize of every limb.
Antilochus (discovering well that Thoön’s heart took check)
Let fly, and cut the hollow vein that runs up to his neck
Along his back part, quite in twain: down in the dust he fell,
Upwards, and, with extended hands, bade all the world farewell.
Antilochus rush’d nimbly in, and, looking round, made prize
Of his fair arms; in which affair his round-set enemies
Let fly their lances, thundering on his advanced targe,
But could not get his flesh: the god that shakes the earth took charge
Of Nestor’s son and kept him safe: who never was away,
But still amongst the thickest foes his busy lance did play,
Observing ever when he might, far off or near, offend.
And watching Asius’ son, in prease, he spied him, and did send
(Close coming on) a dart at him, that smote in midst his shield,
In which the sharp head of the lance the blue-hair’d god made yield,
Not pleas’d to yield his pupil’s life, in whose shield half the dart
Stuck like a truncheon burn’d with fire; on earth lay th’ other part.
He, seeing no better end of all, retir’d in fear of worse;
But him Meriones pursu’d, and his lance found full course
To th’ other’s life: it wounded him betwixt the privy parts
And navel, where (to wretched men, that war’s most violent smarts
Must undergo) wounds chiefly vex. His dart Meriones
Pursu’d, and Adamas so striv’d with it, and his misease,
As doth a bullock puff and storm, whom in disdained bands
The upland herdsmen strive to cast: so, fall’n beneath the hands
Of his stern foe, Asiades did struggle, pant, and rave,
But no long time; for when the lance was pluck’d out, up he gave
His tortur’d soul. Then Troy’s turn came, when with a Thracian sword
The temples of Deipyrus did Hellenus afford
So huge a blow, it struck all light out of his cloudy eyes,
And cleft his helmet; which a Greek, there fighting, made his prize
(It fell so full beneath his feet). Atrides griev’d to see
That sight; and, threat’ning, shook a lance at Hellenus, and he
A bow half drew at him; at once out flew both shaft and lance:
The shaft Atrides’ curets struck, and far away did glance:
Atrides’ dart of Hellenus the thrust-out bow-hand struck,
And through the hand stuck in the bow; Agenor’s hand did pluck
From forth the nailed prisoner the javelin quickly out,
And fairly with a little wool, enwrapping round about
The wounded hand, within a scarf he bore it, which his squire
Had ready for him: yet the wound would need he should retire.
Pisander, to revenge his hurt, right on the king ran he.
A bloody fate suggested him, to let him run on thee,
O Menelaus, that he might, by thee, in dangerous war
Be done to death. Both coming on, Atrides’ lance did err:
Pisander struck Atrides’ shield, that brake at point the dart,
Not running through, yet he rejoic’d as playing a victor’s part:
Atrides, drawing his fair sword, upon Pisander flew;
Pisander from beneath his shield his goodly weapon drew –
Two-edg’d, with right sharp steel, and long, the handle olive-tree,
Well polish’d – and to blows they go; upon the top struck he
Atrides’ horse-hair’d feather’d helm; Atrides on his brow
(Above th’ extreme part of the nose) laid such a heavy blow
That all the bones crash’d under it, and out his eyes did drop
Before his feet in bloody dust; he after, and shrunk up
His dying body: which the foot of his triumphing foe
Opened, and stood upon his breast, and off his arms did go,
This insultation us’d the while: ‘At length forsake our fleet
Thus (ye false Trojans) to whom war never enough is sweet:
Nor want ye more impieties, with which ye have abus’d
Me, ye bold dogs, that your chief friends so honourably us’d:
Nor fear you hospitable Jove that lets such thunders go:
But build upon’t, he will unbuild your tow’rs, that clamber so,
For ravishing my goods and wife, in flow’r of all her years,
And without cause; nay, when that fair and liberal hand of hers
Had us’d you so most lovingly; and now again ye would
Cast fire into our fleet, and kill our princes if ye could.
Go to, one day you will be curb’d (though never so ye thirst
Rude war) by war. O father Jove, they say thou art the first
In wisdom of all gods and men; yet all this comes from thee,
And still thou gratifiest these men, how lewd so e’er they be,
Though never they be cloy’d with sins, nor can be satiate,
As good men should, with this vile war. Satiety of state,
Satiety of sleep and love, satiety of ease,
Of music, dancing, can find place; yet harsh war still must please
Past all these pleasures, even past these. They will be cloy’d with these
Before their war joys: never war gives Troy satieties.’
This said, the bloody arms were off, and to his soldiers thrown,
He mixing in first fight again: and then Harpalion,
Kind king Pylemen’s son, gave charge; who to those wars of Troy
His loved father followed, nor ever did enjoy
His country’s sight again; he struck the targe of Atreus’ son
Full in the midst; his javelin’s steel yet had no power to run
The target through, nor had himself the heart to fetch his lance,
But took him to his strength, and cast on every side a glance,
Lest any his dear sides should dart: but Merion, as he fled,
Sent after him a brazen lance that ran his eager head
Through his right hip, and all along the bladder’s region
Beneath the bone; it settled him, and set his spirit gone
Amongst the hands of his best friends; and like a worm he lay
Stretch’d on the earth, with his black blood imbrued and flow’d away.
His corse the Paphlagonians did sadly wait upon
(Repos’d in his rich chariot) to sacred Ilion,
The king his father following, dissolv’d in kindly tears,
And no wreak sought for his slain son. But at his slaughterers
Incensed Paris spent a lance (since he had been a guest
To many Paphlagonians) and through the press it press’d.
There was a certain augur’s son, that did for wealth excel,
And yet was honest; he was born and did at Corinth dwell:
Who (though he knew his harmful fate) would needs his ship ascend:
His father, Polyidus, oft would tell him that his end
Would either seize him at his house, upon a sharp disease,
Or else amongst the Grecian ships, by Trojans slain. Both these
Together he desir’d to shun; but the disease (at last,
And ling’ring death in it) he left, and war’s quick stroke embrac’d:
The lance betwixt his ear and cheek ran in, and drave the mind
Of both those bitter fortunes out. Night struck his whole pow’rs blind.
Thus fought they like the spirit of fire, nor Jove-lov’d Hector knew
How in the fleet’s left wing the Greeks his down-put soldiers slew
Almost to victory: the god that shakes the earth so well
Help’d with his own strength, and the Greeks so fiercely did impell.
Yet Hector made the first place good, where both the ports and wall,
The thick rank of the Greek shields broke, he enter’d, and did skall,
Where on the gray sea’s shore were drawn (the wall being there but slight)
Protesilaus’ ships, and those of Ajax, where the fight
Of men and horse were sharpest set. There the Boeotian bands,
Long-rob’d Iaons, Locrians, and (brave men of their hands)
The Phthian and Epeian troops did spritefully assail
The god-like Hector rushing in, and yet could not prevail
To his repulse, though choicest men of Athens there made head:
Amongst whom was Menestheus chief, whom Phidias followed,
Stichius and Bias, huge in strength. Th’ Epeian troops were led