Then at Meriones Æneas threw His brazen spear, in hopes beneath his shield To find a spot unguarded; he beheld, And downward stooping, shunn’d the brazen death; Behind him far, deep in the soil infix’d, The weapon stood; there Mars its impulse stay’d; So, bootless hurl’d, though by no feeble hand, Æneas’ spear stood quiv’ring in the ground; Then thus in wrath he cried: “Meriones, Had it but struck thee, nimble as thou art, My spear had brought thy dancing to a close.” To whom the spearman skill’d, Meriones: “Brave as thou art, Æneas, ’tis too much For thee to hope the might of all to quell, Who dare confront thee; thou art mortal too! And if my aim be true, and should my spear But strike thee fair, all valiant as thou art, And confident, yet me thy fall shall crown With triumph, and thy soul to Hades send.” He said; and him Menoetius’ noble son Address’d with grave rebuke: “Meriones, Brave warrior, why thus waste the time in words? Trust me, good friend, ’tis not by vaunting speech, Unseconded by deeds, that we may hope To scare away the Trojans from the slain: Hands are for battle, words for council meet; Boots it not now to wrangle, but to fight.” He said, and led the way; him follow’d straight The godlike chief; forthwith, as loudly rings, Amid the mountain forest’s deep recess, The woodman’s axe, and far is heard the sound; So from the wide-spread earth their clamour rose, As brazen arms, and shields, and tough bull’s-hide Encounter’d swords and double-pointed spears. Nor might the sharpest sight Sarpedon know, From head to foot with wounds and blood and dust Disfigur’d; thickly round the dead they swarm’d. As when at spring-tide in the cattle-sheds Around the milk-cans swarm the buzzing flies, While the warm milk is frothing in the pail; So swarm’d they round the dead; nor Jove the while Turn’d from the stubborn fight his piercing glance; But still look’d down with gaze intent, and mus’d Upon Patroclus’ coming fate, in doubt, If he too there beside Sarpedon slain, Should perish by illustrious Hector’s hand, Spoil’d of his arms; or yet be spared awhile To swell the labours of the battle-field. He judg’d it best at length, that once again The gallant follower of Peleus’ son Should tow’rd the town with fearful slaughter drive The Trojans, and their brazen-helmed chief. First Hector’s soul with panic fear he fill’d; Mounting his car, he fled, and urg’d to flight The Trojans; for he saw the scales of Jove. Then nor the valiant Lycians held their ground; All fled in terror, as they saw their King Pierc’d through the heart, amid a pile of dead; For o’er his body many a warrior fell, When Saturn’s son the conflict fierce inflam’d. Then from Sarpedon’s breast they stripp’d his arms, Of brass refulgent; these Menoetius’ son Sent by his comrades to the ships of Greece.