As when, encount’ring in some mountain-glen, Eurus and Notus shake the forest deep, Of oak, or ash, or slender cornel-tree, Whose tap’ring branches are together thrown, With fearful din, and crash of broken boughs; So mix’d confus’dly, Greeks and Trojans fought, No thought of flight by either entertain’d. Thick o’er Cebriones the jav’lins flew, And feather’d arrows, bounding from the string; And pond’rous stones that on the bucklers rang, As round the dead they fought; amid the dust That eddying rose, his art forgotten all, A mighty warrior, mightily he lay. While in mid Heav’n the sun pursued his course, Thick flew the shafts, and fast the people fell On either side; but when declining day Brought on the hour that sees the loosen’d steers, The Greeks were stronger far; and from the darts And Trojan battle-cry Cebriones They drew, and from his breast his armour stripp’d. Fiercely Patroclus on the Trojans fell: Thrice he assail’d them, terrible as Mars, With fearful shouts; and thrice nine foes he slew: But when again, with more than mortal force His fourth assault he made, thy term of life, Patroclus, then approach’d its final close; For Phoebus’ awful self encounter’d thee, Amid the battle-throng, of thee unseen, For thickest darkness shrouded all his form: He stood behind, and with extended palm Dealt on Patroclus’ neck and shoulders broad A mighty buffet; dizzy swam his eyes, And from his head Apollo snatch’d the helm; Clank’d, as it roll’d beneath the horses’ feet, The visor’d helm; the horsehair plume with blood And dust polluted; never till that day Was that proud helmet so with dust defil’d, That wont to deck a godlike chief, and guard Achilles’ noble head, and graceful brow: Now by the will of Jove to Hector giv’n. Now death was near at hand; and in his grasp His spear was shiver’d, pond’rous, long, and tough, Brass-pointed; with its belt, the ample shield Fell from his shoulders; and Apollo’s hand, The royal son of Jove, his corslet loos’d. Then was his mind bewilder’d; and his limbs Gave way beneath him; all aghast he stood: Him, from behind, a Dardan, Panthous’ son, Euphorbus, peerless ’mid the Trojan youth, To hurl the spear, to run, to drive the car, Approaching close, between the shoulders stabb’d; He, train’d to warfare, from his car, ere this A score of Greeks had from their chariots hurl’d: Such was the man who thee, Patroclus, first Wounded, but not subdued; the ashen spear He, in all haste, withdrew; nor dar’d confront Patroclus, though disarm’d, in deadly strife. Back to his comrades’ shelt’ring ranks retir’d, From certain death, Patroclus: by the stroke Of Phoebus vanquish’d, and Euphorbus’ spear: But Hector, when Patroclus from the fight He saw retreating, wounded, through the ranks Advancing, smote him through the flank; right through The brazen spear was driv’n; thund’ring he fell; And deeply mourn’d his fall the Grecian host.