But valiant Menelaus, Atreus’ son, Transfix’d the hand that held the polish’d bow: The brazen point pass’d through, and to the bow The hand was pinn’d; back to his comrades’ ranks He sprang, in hope of safety, hanging down The wounded limb, that trail’d the ashen spear. Agenor from the wound the spear withdrew, And with a twisted sling of woollen cloth, By an attendant brought, bound up the hand. To noble Menelaus stood oppos’d Peisander, to the confines dark of death Led by his evil fate, by thee to fall, Great son of Atreus, in the deadly strife. When near they drew, Atrides miss’d his aim, With erring spear divergent; next his shield Peisander struck, but drove not through the spear; For the broad shield resisted, and the shaft Was snapp’d in sunder: Menelaus saw Rejoicing, and with hope of triumph flush’d; Unsheathing then his silver-studded sword Rush’d on Peisander; he beneath his shield Drew forth a pond’rous brazen battle-axe, With handle long, of polish’d olive-wood: And both at once in deadly combat join’d. Then, just below the plume, Peisander struck The crested helmet’s peak; but Atreus’ son Met him advancing, and across the brow Smote him, above the nose; loud crash’d the bone, And in the dust the gory eyeballs dropp’d Before him; doubled with the pain, he fell: The victor, planting on his chest his foot, Stripp’d off his arms, and thus exulting cried: “Thus shall ye all, insatiate of the fight, Proud Trojans, from before our ships depart; Nor lack your share of insult and of wrong, Such as on me, vile hounds, ye cast erewhile, Nor fear’d th’ avenger of the slighted laws Of hospitality, high thund’ring Jove, Who soon your lofty city shall o’erthrow. Kindly receiv’d, my virgin-wedded wife, With store of goods, ye basely bore away; And now ye rage, infuriate, to destroy With fire our ocean-going ships, and slay Our Grecian heroes; but the time shall come When ye too fain would from the war escape. O Father Jove, ’tis said that thou excell’st, In wisdom, Gods and men; all human things From thee proceed; and can it be, that thou With favour seest these men of violence, These Trojans, with presumptuous courage fill’d, Whose rage for the battle knows nor stint nor bound? Men are with all things sated; sleep and love; Sweet sounds of music, and the joyous dance. Of these may some more gladly take their fill; But Trojans still for war, instiate, thirst.”