So spake the old king; but Polydamas, The prudent-hearted, thought not good to war Thus endlessly, and spake his patriot rede: "If Memnon have beyond all shadow of doubt Pledged him to thrust dire ruin far from us, Then do I gainsay not that we await The coming of that godlike man within Our walls--yet, ah, mine heart misgives me, lest, Though he with all his warriors come, he come But to his death, and unto thousands more, Our people, nought but misery come thereof; For terribly against us leaps the storm Of the Achaeans' might. But now, go to, Let us not flee afar from this our Troy To wander to some alien land, and there, In the exile's pitiful helplessness, endure All flouts and outrage; nor in our own land Abide we till the storm of Argive war O'erwhelm us. Nay, even now, late though it be, Better it were for us to render back Unto the Danaans Helen and her wealth, Even all that glory of women brought with her From Sparta, and add other treasure--yea, Repay it twofold, so to save our Troy And our own souls, while yet the spoiler's hand Is laid not on our substance, and while yet Troy hath not sunk in gulfs of ravening flame. I pray you, take to heart my counsel! None Shall, well I wot, be given to Trojan men Better than this. Ah, would that long ago Hector had hearkened to my pleading, when I fain had kept him in the ancient home!" So spake Polydamas the noble and strong, And all the listening Trojans in their hearts Approved; yet none dared utter openly The word, for all with trembling held in awe Their prince and Helen, though for her sole sake Daily they died. But on that noble man Turned Paris, and reviled him to his face: "Thou dastard battle-blencher Polydamas! Not in thy craven bosom beats a heart That bides the fight, but only fear and panic. Yet dost thou vaunt thee--quotha!--still our best In counsel!--no man's soul is base as thine! Go to, thyself shrink shivering from the strife! Cower, coward, in thine halls! But all the rest, We men, will still go armour-girt, until We wrest from this our truceless war a peace That shall not shame us! 'Tis with travail and toil Of strenuous war that brave men win renown; But flight?--weak women choose it, and young babes! Thy spirit is like to theirs. No whit I trust Thee in the day of battle--thee, the man Who maketh faint the hearts of all the host!"