When near they drew, Atrides miss’d his aim, His spear diverging; then Iphidamas Beneath the breastplate, striking on his belt, Strove with strong hand to drive the weapon home: Yet could not pierce the belt’s close-plaited work; The point, encounter’d by the silver fold, Was bent, like lead; then with his pow’rful hand The monarch Agamemnon seiz’d the spear, And tow’rd him drew, and with a lion’s strength Wrench’d from his foeman’s grasp; then on his neck Let fall his sword, and slack’d his limbs in death. There, falling in his country’s cause, he slept The iron sleep of death; unhappy he, Far from his virgin-bride, yet unpossess’d, Though bought with costly presents; first he gave A hundred steers; and promis’d thousands more Of sheep and goats from out his countless flocks. Him Agamemnon of his arms despoil’d, And to the crowd of Greeks the trophies bore. But when Antenor’s eldest-born beheld, Coon, th’ observ’d of all men, bitt’rest grief His eyes o’ershadow’d, for his brother’s fate; And, unperceiv’d by Atreus’ godlike son, Standing aside, he struck him with his spear, Through the mid arm, beneath the elbow’s bend; And drove right through the weapon’s glitt’ring point. Writh’d with the pain the mighty King of men; Yet from the combat flinch’d he not, nor quail’d: But grasping firm his weather-toughen’d spear On Coon rush’d, as by the feet he drew His father’s son, Iphidamas, away, Invoking all the bravest to his aid; And as he drew the body tow’rd the crowd, Beneath the bossy shield the monarch thrust His brass-clad spear, and slack’d his limbs in death; Then near approaching, ev’n upon the corpse Of dead Iphidamas, struck off his head: So by Atrides’ hand, Antenor’s sons, Their doom accomplish’d, to the shades were sent. Then through the crowded ranks, with spear and sword, And massive stones, he held his furious course, While the hot blood was welling from his arm; But when the wound was dry, and stanch’d the blood, Keen anguish then Atrides’ might subdued. As when a woman in her labour-throes Sharp pangs encompass, by Lucina sent, Who rules o’er child-birth travail, ev’n so keen The pangs that then Atrides’ might subdued. Mounting his car he bade his charioteer Drive to the ships; for sore his spirit was pain’d; But loud and clear he shouted to the Greeks: “O friends, the chiefs and councillors of Greece, Yours be it now our sea-borne ships to guard: Since Jove, the Lord of counsel, through the day Wills not that I the battle should maintain.” He said: and swiftly to the ships were driv’n His sleek-skinn’d coursers; nothing loth they flew; With foam their chests were fleck’d, with dust their flanks, As from the field their wounded Lord they bore: But Hector, as he saw the King retire, To Trojans and to Lycians call’d aloud: