Troy yet found grace before the Olympian sire, He arm’d their hands, and fill’d their breasts with fire. The Greeks repulsed, retreat behind their wall, Or in the trench on heaps confusedly fall. First of the foe, great Hector march’d along, With terror clothed, and more than mortal strong. As the bold hound, that gives the lion chase, With beating bosom, and with eager pace, Hangs on his haunch, or fastens on his heels, Guards as he turns, and circles as he wheels; Thus oft the Grecians turn’d, but still they flew; Thus following, Hector still the hindmost slew. When flying they had pass’d the trench profound, And many a chief lay gasping on the ground; Before the ships a desperate stand they made, And fired the troops, and called the gods to aid. Fierce on his rattling chariot Hector came: His eyes like Gorgon shot a sanguine flame That wither’d all their host: like Mars he stood: Dire as the monster, dreadful as the god! Their strong distress the wife of Jove survey’d; Then pensive thus, to war’s triumphant maid: “O daughter of that god, whose arm can wield The avenging bolt, and shake the sable shield! Now, in this moment of her last despair, Shall wretched Greece no more confess our care, Condemn’d to suffer the full force of fate, And drain the dregs of heaven’s relentless hate? Gods! shall one raging hand thus level all? What numbers fell! what numbers yet shall fall! What power divine shall Hector’s wrath assuage? Still swells the slaughter, and still grows the rage!” So spake the imperial regent of the skies; To whom the goddess with the azure eyes: “Long since had Hector stain’d these fields with gore, Stretch’d by some Argive on his native shore: But he above, the sire of heaven, withstands, Mocks our attempts, and slights our just demands; The stubborn god, inflexible and hard, Forgets my service and deserved reward: Saved I, for this, his favourite son distress’d, By stern Eurystheus with long labours press’d? He begg’d, with tears he begg’d, in deep dismay; I shot from heaven, and gave his arm the day. Oh had my wisdom known this dire event, When to grim Pluto’s gloomy gates he went; The triple dog had never felt his chain, Nor Styx been cross’d, nor hell explored in vain. Averse to me of all his heaven of gods, At Thetis’ suit the partial Thunderer nods; To grace her gloomy, fierce, resenting son, My hopes are frustrate, and my Greeks undone. Some future day, perhaps, he may be moved To call his blue-eyed maid his best beloved. Haste, launch thy chariot, through yon ranks to ride; Myself will arm, and thunder at thy side. Then, goddess! say, shall Hector glory then? (That terror of the Greeks, that man of men) When Juno’s self, and Pallas shall appear, All dreadful in the crimson walks of war! What mighty Trojan then, on yonder shore, Expiring, pale, and terrible no more, Shall feast the fowls, and glut the dogs with gore?”