This said, Pisander from the car he cast, And pierced his breast: supine he breathed his last. His brother leap’d to earth; but, as he lay, The trenchant falchion lopp’d his hands away; His sever’d head was toss’d among the throng, And, rolling, drew a bloody train along. Then, where the thickest fought, the victor flew; The king’s example all his Greeks pursue. Now by the foot the flying foot were slain, Horse trod by horse, lay foaming on the plain. From the dry fields thick clouds of dust arise, Shade the black host, and intercept the skies. The brass-hoof’d steeds tumultuous plunge and bound, And the thick thunder beats the labouring ground, Still slaughtering on, the king of men proceeds; The distanced army wonders at his deeds, As when the winds with raging flames conspire, And o’er the forests roll the flood of fire, In blazing heaps the grove’s old honours fall, And one refulgent ruin levels all: Before Atrides’ rage so sinks the foe, Whole squadrons vanish, and proud heads lie low. The steeds fly trembling from his waving sword, And many a car, now lighted of its lord, Wide o’er the field with guideless fury rolls, Breaking their ranks, and crushing out their souls; While his keen falchion drinks the warriors’ lives; More grateful, now, to vultures than their wives! Perhaps great Hector then had found his fate, But Jove and destiny prolong’d his date. Safe from the darts, the care of heaven he stood, Amidst alarms, and death, and dust, and blood. Now past the tomb where ancient Ilus lay, Through the mid field the routed urge their way: Where the wild figs the adjoining summit crown, The path they take, and speed to reach the town. As swift, Atrides with loud shouts pursued, Hot with his toil, and bathed in hostile blood. Now near the beech-tree, and the Scæan gates, The hero halts, and his associates waits. Meanwhile on every side around the plain, Dispersed, disorder’d, fly the Trojan train. So flies a herd of beeves, that hear dismay’d The lion’s roaring through the midnight shade; On heaps they tumble with successless haste; The savage seizes, draws, and rends the last. Not with less fury stern Atrides flew, Still press’d the rout, and still the hindmost slew; Hurl’d from their cars the bravest chiefs are kill’d, And rage, and death, and carnage load the field. Now storms the victor at the Trojan wall; Surveys the towers, and meditates their fall. But Jove descending shook the Idaean hills, And down their summits pour’d a hundred rills: The unkindled lightning in his hand he took, And thus the many-coloured maid bespoke: