Then trembled Greece: the flight Peneleus led; For as the brave Bœotian turn’d his head To face the foe, Polydamas drew near, And razed his shoulder with a shorten’d spear: By Hector wounded, Leitus quits the plain, Pierced through the wrist; and raging with the pain, Grasps his once formidable lance in vain. As Hector follow’d, Idomen address’d The flaming javelin to his manly breast; The brittle point before his corslet yields; Exulting Troy with clamour fills the fields: High on his chariots the Cretan stood, The son of Priam whirl’d the massive wood. But erring from its aim, the impetuous spear Struck to the dust the squire and charioteer Of martial Merion: Coeranus his name, Who left fair Lyctus for the fields of fame. On foot bold Merion fought; and now laid low, Had graced the triumphs of his Trojan foe, But the brave squire the ready coursers brought, And with his life his master’s safety bought. Between his cheek and ear the weapon went, The teeth it shatter’d, and the tongue it rent. Prone from the seat he tumbles to the plain; His dying hand forgets the falling rein: This Merion reaches, bending from the car, And urges to desert the hopeless war: Idomeneus consents; the lash applies; And the swift chariot to the navy flies. Not Ajax less the will of heaven descried, And conquest shifting to the Trojan side, Turn’d by the hand of Jove. Then thus begun, To Atreus’s seed, the godlike Telamon: “Alas! who sees not Jove’s almighty hand Transfers the glory to the Trojan band? Whether the weak or strong discharge the dart, He guides each arrow to a Grecian heart: Not so our spears; incessant though they rain, He suffers every lance to fall in vain. Deserted of the god, yet let us try What human strength and prudence can supply; If yet this honour’d corse, in triumph borne, May glad the fleets that hope not our return, Who tremble yet, scarce rescued from their fates, And still hear Hector thundering at their gates. Some hero too must be despatch’d to bear The mournful message to Pelides’ ear; For sure he knows not, distant on the shore, His friend, his loved Patroclus, is no more. But such a chief I spy not through the host: The men, the steeds, the armies, all are lost In general darkness—Lord of earth and air! Oh king! Oh father! hear my humble prayer: Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore; Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more: If Greece must perish, we thy will obey, But let us perish in the face of day!” With tears the hero spoke, and at his prayer The god relenting clear’d the clouded air; Forth burst the sun with all-enlightening ray; The blaze of armour flash’d against the day. “Now, now, Atrides! cast around thy sight; If yet Antilochus survives the fight, Let him to great Achilles’ ear convey The fatal news”—Atrides hastes away.