Stabb’d at the sight, Deiphobus drew nigh, And made, with force, the vengeful weapon fly. The Cretan saw; and, stooping, caused to glance From his slope shield the disappointed lance. Beneath the spacious targe, (a blazing round, Thick with bull-hides and brazen orbits bound, On his raised arm by two strong braces stay’d,) He lay collected in defensive shade. O’er his safe head the javelin idly sung, And on the tinkling verge more faintly rung. Even then the spear the vigorous arm confess’d, And pierced, obliquely, king Hypsenor’s breast: Warm’d in his liver, to the ground it bore The chief, his people’s guardian now no more! “Not unattended (the proud Trojan cries) Nor unrevenged, lamented Asius lies: For thee, through hell’s black portals stand display’d, This mate shall joy thy melancholy shade.” Heart-piercing anguish, at the haughty boast, Touch’d every Greek, but Nestor’s son the most. Grieved as he was, his pious arms attend, And his broad buckler shields his slaughter’d friend: Till sad Mecistheus and Alastor bore His honour’d body to the tented shore. Nor yet from fight Idomeneus withdraws; Resolved to perish in his country’s cause, Or find some foe, whom heaven and he shall doom To wail his fate in death’s eternal gloom. He sees Alcathous in the front aspire: Great Æsyetes was the hero’s sire; His spouse Hippodame, divinely fair, Anchises’ eldest hope, and darling care: Who charm’d her parents’ and her husband’s heart With beauty, sense, and every work of art: He once of Ilion’s youth the loveliest boy, The fairest she of all the fair of Troy. By Neptune now the hapless hero dies, Who covers with a cloud those beauteous eyes, And fetters every limb: yet bent to meet His fate he stands; nor shuns the lance of Crete. Fix’d as some column, or deep-rooted oak, While the winds sleep; his breast received the stroke. Before the ponderous stroke his corslet yields, Long used to ward the death in fighting fields. The riven armour sends a jarring sound; His labouring heart heaves with so strong a bound, The long lance shakes, and vibrates in the wound; Fast flowing from its source, as prone he lay, Life’s purple tide impetuous gush’d away. Then Idomen, insulting o’er the slain: “Behold, Deiphobus! nor vaunt in vain: See! on one Greek three Trojan ghosts attend; This, my third victim, to the shades I send. Approaching now thy boasted might approve, And try the prowess of the seed of Jove. From Jove, enamour’d of a mortal dame, Great Minos, guardian of his country, came: Deucalion, blameless prince, was Minos’ heir; His first-born I, the third from Jupiter: O’er spacious Crete, and her bold sons, I reign, And thence my ships transport me through the main: Lord of a host, o’er all my host I shine, A scourge to thee, thy father, and thy line.”