The Iliads of Homer. Homer

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       Thus pray'd they; but, with wish'd effects, their pray'rs Jove did

       not grace;

       When Priam said: "Lords of both hosts, I can no longer stay

       To see my lov'd son try his life, and so must take my way

       To wind-exposéd Ilion. Jove yet and heav'n's high States

       Know only, which of these must now pay tribute to the Fates."

       Thus, putting in his coach the lambs, he mounts and reins his

       horse;

       Antenor to him; and to Troy, both take their speedy course.

       Then Hector, Priam's martial son, stepp'd forth, and met the

       ground,

       With wise Ulysses, where the blows of combat must resound;

       Which done, into a helm they put two lots, to let them know

       Which of the combatants should first his brass-pil'd jav'lin throw;

       When all the people standing by, with hands held up to heav'n,

       Pray'd Jove the conquest might not be by force or fortune giv'n,

       But that the man, who was in right the author of most wrong,

       Might feel his justice, and no more these tedious wars prolong,

       But, sinking to the house of death, leave them (as long before)

       Link'd fast in leagues of amity, that might dissolve no more.

       Then Hector shook the helm that held the equal dooms of chance,

       Look'd back, and drew; and Paris first had lot to hurl his lance,

       The soldiers all sat down enrank'd, each by his arms and horse

       That then lay down and cool'd their hoofs. And now th' allotted

       course

       Bids fair-hair'd Helen's husband arm; who first makes fast his

       greaves

       With silver buckles to his legs; then on his breast receives

       The curets that Lycaon wore (his brother) but made fit

       For his fair body; next his sword he took, and fasten'd it,

       All damask'd, underneath his arm; his shield then grave and great

       His shoulders wore; and on his head his glorious helm he set,

       Topp'd with a plume of horse's hair, that horribly did dance,

       And seem'd to threaten as he mov'd; at last he takes his lance,

       Exceeding big, and full of weight, which he with ease could use.

       In like sort, Sparta's warlike king himself with arms indues.

       Thus arm'd at either army both, they both stood bravely in,

       Possessing both hosts with amaze, they came so chin to chin,

       And, with such horrible aspécts, each other did salute.

       A fair large field was made for them; where wraths, for hugeness

       mute,

       And mutual, made them mutually at either shake their darts

       Before they threw. Then Paris first with his long jav'lin parts;

       It smote Atrides' orby targe, but ran not through the brass,

       For in it (arming well the shield) the head reflected was.

       Then did the second combatant apply him to his spear,

       Which ere he threw, he thus besought almighty Jupiter:

       "O Jove! Vouchsafe me now revenge, and that my enemy,

       For doing wrong so undeserv'd, may pay deservedly

       The pains he forfeited; and let these hands inflict those pains,

       By conqu'ring, ay, by conqu'ring dead, him on whom life complains;

       That any now, or anyone of all the brood of men

       To live hereafter, may with fear from all offence abstain,

       Much more from all such foul offence to him that was his host,

       And entertain'd him as the man whom he affected most."

       This said, he shook and threw his lance; which strook through

       Paris' shield,

       And, with the strength he gave to it, it made the curets yield,

       His coat of mail, his breast, and all, and drove his entrails in,

       In that low region where the guts in three small parts begin;

       Yet he, in bowing of his breast, prvented sable death.

       This taint he follow'd with his sword, drawn from a silver sheath,

       Which lifting high, he strook his helm full where his plume did

       stand,

       On which it piecemeal brake, and fell from his unhappy hand.

       At which he sighing stood, and star'd upon the ample sky,

       And said: "O Jove, there is no God giv'n more illiberally

       To those that serve thee than thyself, why have I pray'd in vain?

       I hop'd my hand should have reveng'd, the wrongs I still sustain,

       On him that did them, and still dares their foul defence pursue;

       And now my lance hath miss'd his end, my sword in shivers flew,

       And he 'scapes all." With this, again he rush'd upon his guest,

       And caught him by the horse-hair plume, that dangled on his crest,

       With thought to drag him to the Greeks; which he had surely done,

       And so, besides the victory, had wondrous glory won,

       (Because the needle-painted lace, with which his helm was tied

       Beneath his chin, and so about his dainty throat implied,

       Had strangled him;) but that, in time, the Cyprian seed of Jove

       Did brake the string, with which was lin'd that which the needle

       wove,

       And was the tough thong of a steer; and so the victor's palm

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