Pallas (this said) her hero’s bosom warms, Breathed in his heart, and strung his nervous arms; Where’er he pass’d, a purple stream pursued His thirsty falchion, fat with hostile blood, Bathed all his footsteps, dyed the fields with gore, And a low groan remurmur’d through the shore. So the grim lion, from his nightly den, O’erleaps the fences, and invades the pen, On sheep or goats, resistless in his way, He falls, and foaming rends the guardless prey; Nor stopp’d the fury of his vengeful hand, Till twelve lay breathless of the Thracian band. Ulysses following, as his partner slew, Back by the foot each slaughter’d warrior drew; The milk-white coursers studious to convey Safe to the ships, he wisely cleared the way: Lest the fierce steeds, not yet to battles bred, Should start, and tremble at the heaps of dead. Now twelve despatch’d, the monarch last they found; Tydides’ falchion fix’d him to the ground. Just then a deathful dream Minerva sent, A warlike form appear’d before his tent, Whose visionary steel his bosom tore: So dream’d the monarch, and awaked no more.[218] Ulysses now the snowy steeds detains, And leads them, fasten’d by the silver reins; These, with his bow unbent, he lash’d along; (The scourge forgot, on Rhesus’ chariot hung;) Then gave his friend the signal to retire; But him, new dangers, new achievements fire; Doubtful he stood, or with his reeking blade To send more heroes to the infernal shade, Drag off the car where Rhesus’ armour lay, Or heave with manly force, and lift away. While unresolved the son of Tydeus stands, Pallas appears, and thus her chief commands: “Enough, my son; from further slaughter cease, Regard thy safety, and depart in peace; Haste to the ships, the gotten spoils enjoy, Nor tempt too far the hostile gods of Troy.” The voice divine confess’d the martial maid; In haste he mounted, and her word obey’d; The coursers fly before Ulysses’ bow, Swift as the wind, and white as winter-snow. Not unobserved they pass’d: the god of light Had watch’d his Troy, and mark’d Minerva’s flight, Saw Tydeus’ son with heavenly succour bless’d, And vengeful anger fill’d his sacred breast. Swift to the Trojan camp descends the power, And wakes Hippocoon in the morning-hour; (On Rhesus’ side accustom’d to attend, A faithful kinsman, and instructive friend;) He rose, and saw the field deform’d with blood, An empty space where late the coursers stood, The yet-warm Thracians panting on the coast; For each he wept, but for his Rhesus most: Now while on Rhesus’ name he calls in vain, The gathering tumult spreads o’er all the plain; On heaps the Trojans rush, with wild affright, And wondering view the slaughters of the night. Meanwhile the chiefs, arriving at the shade Where late the spoils of Hector’s spy were laid, Ulysses stopp’d; to him Tydides bore The trophy, dropping yet with Dolon’s gore: Then mounts again; again their nimbler feet The coursers ply, and thunder towards the fleet.