To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm, Unterrified: “Achilles, think not me, As though a fool and ignorant of war, To daunt with lofty speech; I too could well With cutting words and insult answer thee. I know thee strong and valiant; and I know Myself to thee inferior; but th’ event Is with the Gods; and I, if such their will, The weaker, with my spear may reach thy life: My point too hath, ere now, its sharpness prov’d.” He said, and, poising, hurl’d his pond’rous spear, Which from Achilles Pallas turn’d aside With lightest breath; and back to Hector sent, And laid before his feet; intent to slay, Onward Achilles rush’d, with fearful shout; But Phoebus Hector from the field convey’d, (As Gods can only,) veil’d in thickest cloud. Thrice Peleus’ godlike son, with brazen spear, His onset made; thrice struck the misty cloud; But when, with pow’r as of a God, he made His fourth essay, in fury thus he cried: “Yet once again, vile hound, hast thou escap’d; Thy doom was nigh, but thee thy God hath sav’d, Phoebus, to whom, amid the clash of spears, Well mayst thou pray! We yet shall meet again; When I shall end thee, if a guardian God I too may claim; meanwhile, from thee I turn, And others seek on whom my hap may light.” He said, and drove through Dryops’ neck his spear, And stretch’d him at his feet, and pass’d him by. Next with his spear he struck below the knee Philetor’s son, Demuchus, stout and tall, And check’d his forward course; then rushing on Dealt with his mighty sword the mortal blow. The sons of Bias next, Laogonus And Dardanus, he hurl’d from off their car, One with the spear, and one by sword-stroke slain. Tros too he slew, Alastor’s son, who came To meet him, and embrace his knees, and pray To spare his life, in pity of his youth: Little he knew how vain would be his pray’r; For not of temper soft, nor mild of mood Was he, but sternly fierce; and as he knelt And clasp’d his knees, and would his pray’r prefer, Achilles clove him with his mighty sword, Gash’d through the liver; as from out the wound His liver dropp’d, the dark blood gushing forth His bosom fill’d, and darkness clos’d his eyes, As ebb’d his life away. Then through the ear Mulius he thrust; at th’ other ear came forth The brazen point. Echeclus next he met, Son of Agenor, and his hilted sword Full on the centre of his head let fall. The hot blood dy’d the blade; the darkling shades Of death, and rig’rous fate, his eyes o’erspread. Next, where the tendons bind the elbow-joint, The brazen spear transfix’d Deucalion’s arm; With death in prospect, and disabled arm He stood, till on his neck Achilles’ sword Descending, shar’d, and flung afar, both head And helmet; from the spine’s dissever’d joints The marrow flow’d, as stretch’d in dust he lay. The noble son of Peireus next he slew, Rigmus, who came from Thracia’s fertile plains; Him through the waist he struck, the brazen spear Plung’d in his bowels; from the car he fell; And as Areithous, his charioteer,