“Now, Heav’n-born Menelaus, shalt thou pay The forfeit for my brother’s life, o’er whom, Slain by thy hand, thou mak’st thy boasting speech. Thou in the chambers of her new-found home Hast made his bride a weeping widow; thou Hast fill’d with bitt’rest grief his parents’ hearts: Some solace might those hapless mourners find, Could I thy head and armour in the hands Of Panthous and of honour’d Phrontis place; Nor uncontested shall the proof remain, Nor long deferr’d, of vict’ry or defeat.” He said, and struck the centre of the shield, But broke not through; against the stubborn brass The point was bent; then with a pray’r to Jove The son of Atreus in his turn advanc’d; And, backward as he stepp’d, below his throat Took aim, and pressing hard with stalwart hand Drove through the yielding neck the pond’rous spear: Thund’ring he fell, and loud his armour rang. Those locks, that with the Graces’ hair might vie, Those tresses bright, with gold and silver bound, Were dabbled all with blood. As when a man Hath rear’d a fair and vig’rous olive plant, In some lone spot, by copious-gushing springs, And seen expanding, nurs’d by ev’ry breeze, Its whit’ning blossoms; till with sudden gust A sweeping hurricane of wind and rain Uproots it from its bed, and prostrate lays; So lay the youthful son of Panthous, slain By Atreus’ son, and of his arms despoil’d. And as a lion, in the mountains bred, In pride of strength, amid the pasturing herd Seizes a heifer in his pow’rful jaws, The choicest; and, her neck first broken, rends, And, on her entrails gorging, laps the blood; Though with loud clamour dogs and herdsmen round Assail him from afar, yet ventures none To meet his rage, for fear is on them all; So none was there so bold, with dauntless breast The noble Menelaus’ wrath to meet. Now had Atrides borne away with ease The spoils of Panthous’ son; but Phoebus grudg’d His prize of vict’ry, and against him launch’d The might of Hector, terrible as Mars: To whom his winged words, in Mentes’ form, Chief of the Cicones, he thus address’d: “Hector, thy labour all is vain, pursuing Pelides’ flying steeds; and hard are they For mortal man to harness, or control. Save for Achilles’ self, the Goddess-born. The valiant Menelaus, Atreus’ son, Defends meanwhile Patroclus; and e’en now Hath slain a noble Trojan, Panthous’ son, Euphorbus, and his youthful vigour quell’d.” He said, and join’d again the strife of men: Hector’s dark soul with bitter grief was fill’d; He look’d amid the ranks, and saw the two, One slain, the other stripping off his arms, The blood outpouring from the gaping wound. Forward he sprang, in dazzling arms array’d, Loud shouting, blazing like the quenchless flames Of Vulcan: Menelaus heard the shout, And, troubled, commun’d with his valiant heart: