In bonds of adamant, and the eagle tare His liver unconsumed--he seemed to groan! All these Hephaestus' cunning hands had wrought For Hercules; and these to Poeas' son, Most near of friends and dear, he gave to bear. So glorying in those arms he smote the foe. But Paris at the last to meet him sprang Fearlessly, bearing in his hands his bow And deadly arrows--but his latest day Now met himself. A flying shaft he sped Forth from the string, which sang as leapt the dart, Which flew not vainly: yet the very mark It missed, for Philoctetes swerved aside A hair-breadth, and it smote above the breast Cleodorus war-renowned, and cleft a path Clear through his shoulder; for he had not now The buckler broad which wont to fence from death Its bearer, but was falling back from fight, Being shieldless; for Polydamas' massy lance Had cleft the shoulder-belt whereby his targe Hung, and he gave back therefore, fighting still With stubborn spear. But now the arrow of death Fell on him, as from ambush leaping forth. For so Fate willed, I trow, to bring dread doom On noble-hearted Lernus' scion, born Of Amphiale, in Rhodes the fertile land. But soon as Poeas' battle-eager son Marked him by Paris' deadly arrow slain, Swiftly he strained his bow, shouting aloud: "Dog! I will give thee death, will speed thee down To the Unseen Land, who darest to brave me! And so shall they have rest, who travail now For thy vile sake. Destruction shall have end When thou art dead, the author of our bane." Then to his breast he drew the plaited cord. The great bow arched, the merciless shaft was aimed Straight, and the terrible point a little peered Above the bow, in that constraining grip. Loud sang the string, as the death-hissing shaft Leapt, and missed not: yet was not Paris' heart Stilled, but his spirit yet was strong in him; For that first arrow was not winged with death: It did but graze the fair flesh by his wrist. Then once again the avenger drew the bow, And the barbed shaft of Poeas' son had plunged, Ere he could swerve, 'twixt flank and groin. No more He abode the fight, but swiftly hasted back As hastes a dog which on a lion rushed At first, then fleeth terror-stricken back. So he, his very heart with agony thrilled, Fled from the war. Still clashed the grappling hosts, Man slaying man: aye bloodier waxed the fray As rained the blows: corpse upon corpse was flung Confusedly, like thunder-drops, or flakes Of snow, or hailstones, by the wintry blast At Zeus' behest strewn over the long hills And forest-boughs; so by a pitiless doom Slain, friends with foes in heaps on heaps were strown.