The sun drave down his never-wearying steeds Into the dark west: night streamed o'er the earth, Bidding men cease from toil. The Argives then Acclaimed Achilles' valiant son with praise High as his father's. Mid triumphant mirth He feasted in kings' tents: no battle-toil Had wearied him; for Thetis from his limbs Had charmed all ache of travail, making him As one whom labour had no power to tire. When his strong heart was satisfied with meat, He passed to his father's tent, and over him Sleep's dews were poured. The Greeks slept in the plain Before the ships, by ever-changing guards Watched; for they dreaded lest the host of Troy, Or of her staunch allies, should kindle flame Upon the ships, and from them all cut off Their home-return. In Priam's burg the while By gate and wall men watched and slept in turn, Adread to hear the Argives' onset-shout. BOOK IX How from his long lone exile returned to the war Philoctetes. When ended was night's darkness, and the Dawn Rose from the world's verge, and the wide air glowed With splendour, then did Argos' warrior-sons Gaze o'er the plain; and lo, all cloudless-clear Stood Ilium's towers. The marvel of yesterday Seemed a strange dream. No thought the Trojans had Of standing forth to fight without the wall. A great fear held them thralls, the awful thought That yet alive was Peleus' glorious son. But to the King of Heaven Antenor cried: "Zeus, Lord of Ida and the starry sky, Hearken my prayer! Oh turn back from our town That battle-eager murderous-hearted man, Be he Achilles who hath not passed down To Hades, or some other like to him. For now in heaven-descended Priam's burg By thousands are her people perishing: No respite cometh from calamity: Murder and havoc evermore increase. O Father Zeus, thou carest not though we Be slaughtered of our foes: thou helpest them, Forgetting thy son, godlike Dardanus! But, if this be the purpose of thine heart That Argives shall destroy us wretchedly, Now do it: draw not out our agony!" In passionate prayer he cried; and Zeus from heaven Hearkened, and hasted on the end of all, Which else he had delayed. He granted him This awful boon, that myriads of Troy's sons Should with their children perish: but that prayer He granted not, to turn Achilles' son Back from the wide-wayed town; nay, all the more He enkindled him to war, for he would now Give grace and glory to the Nereid Queen.