There Teucer first, the son of Telamon, A warrior slew, the son of Mentor, Lord Of num’rous horses, Imbrius, spearman skill’d. In former days, ere came the sons of Greece, He in Pedaeus dwelt, and had to wife Medesicaste, Priam’s bastard child; But when the well-trimm’d ships of Greece appear’d, Return’d to Troy; and there, rever’d by all, With Priam dwelt, who lov’d him as a son. Him Teucer with his lance below the ear Stabb’d, and drew back the weapon; down he fell, As by the woodman’s axe, on some high peak, Falls a proud ash, conspicuous from afar, Scatt’ring its tender foliage on the ground; He fell; and loud his burnish’d armour rang. Forth Teucer sprang to seize the spoil; at whom, Advancing, Hector aim’d his glitt’ring spear; He saw, and, stooping, shunn’d the brazen death A little space; but through the breast it struck Amphimachus, the son of Cteatus, The son of Actor, hastening to the fight: Thund’ring he fell, and loud his armour rang. Then forward Hector sprang, in hopes to seize The brazen helm, that fitted well the brow Of brave Amphimachus; but Ajax met Th’ advance of Hector with his glitt’ring spear; Himself he reach’d not, all in dazzling brass Encas’d; but pressing on his bossy shield Drove by main force beyond where lay the dead: Them both the Greeks withdrew; th’ Athenian chiefs Stychius and brave Menestheus, bore away Amid the ranks of Greece Amphimachus; While, as two lions high above the ground Bear through the brushwood in their jaws a goat, Snatch’d from the sharp-fang’d dogs’ protecting care: So, fill’d with warlike rage, th’ Ajaces twain Lifted on high, and of its armour stripp’d The corpse of Imbrius; and Oileus’ son, Griev’d at Amphimachus, his comrade’s death, Cut from the tender neck, and like a ball Sent whirling through the crowd the sever’d head; And in the dust at Hector’s feet it fell. Then, for his grandson slain, fierce anger fill’d The breast of Neptune; through the tents of Greece And ships he pass’d, the Greeks encouraging, And ills preparing for the sons of Troy. Him met Idomeneus, the warrior King, Leaving a comrade, from the battle field, Wounded behind the knee, but newly brought; Borne by his comrades, to the leech’s care He left him, eager to rejoin the fray; Whom by his tent th’ Earth-shaking God address’d, The voice assuming of Andraemon’s son, Who o’er th’ Ætolians, as a God rever’d, In Pleuron reign’d, and lofty Calydon: “Where now, Idomeneus, sage Cretan chief, Are all the vaunting threats, so freely pour’d Against the Trojans by the sons of Greece?”