Soon as the Greeks the chief’s retreat beheld, With double fury each invades the field. Oilean Ajax first his javelin sped, Pierced by whose point the son of Enops bled; (Satnius the brave, whom beauteous Neis bore Amidst her flocks on Satnio’s silver shore;) Struck through the belly’s rim, the warrior lies Supine, and shades eternal veil his eyes. An arduous battle rose around the dead; By turns the Greeks, by turns the Trojans bled. Fired with revenge, Polydamas drew near, And at Prothoënor shook the trembling spear; The driving javelin through his shoulder thrust, He sinks to earth, and grasps the bloody dust. “Lo thus (the victor cries) we rule the field, And thus their arms the race of Panthus wield: From this unerring hand there flies no dart But bathes its point within a Grecian heart. Propp’d on that spear to which thou owest thy fall, Go, guide thy darksome steps to Pluto’s dreary hall.” He said, and sorrow touch’d each Argive breast: The soul of Ajax burn’d above the rest. As by his side the groaning warrior fell, At the fierce foe he launch’d his piercing steel; The foe, reclining, shunn’d the flying death; But fate, Archilochus, demands thy breath: Thy lofty birth no succour could impart, The wings of death o’ertook thee on the dart; Swift to perform heaven’s fatal will, it fled Full on the juncture of the neck and head, And took the joint, and cut the nerves in twain: The dropping head first tumbled on the plain. So just the stroke, that yet the body stood Erect, then roll’d along the sands in blood. “Here, proud Polydamas, here turn thy eyes! (The towering Ajax loud-insulting cries:) Say, is this chief extended on the plain A worthy vengeance for Prothoënor slain? Mark well his port! his figure and his face Nor speak him vulgar, nor of vulgar race; Some lines, methinks, may make his lineage known, Antenor’s brother, or perhaps his son.” He spake, and smiled severe, for well he knew The bleeding youth: Troy sadden’d at the view. But furious Acamas avenged his cause; As Promachus his slaughtered brother draws, He pierced his heart—“Such fate attends you all, Proud Argives! destined by our arms to fall. Not Troy alone, but haughty Greece, shall share The toils, the sorrows, and the wounds of war. Behold your Promachus deprived of breath, A victim owed to my brave brother’s death. Not unappeased he enters Pluto’s gate, Who leaves a brother to revenge his fate.”