He said; the gates they open’d, and drew back The solid bars; the portals, op’ning wide, Let in the light; but in the vacant space Apollo stood, the Trojan host to save. The flyers, parch’d with thirst and dust-begrim’d, Straight for the city and the lofty wall Made from the plain; Achilles, spear in hand, Press’d hotly on the rearmost; for his soul With rage was fill’d, and madd’ning lust of fame. And now the lofty-gated city of Troy The sons of Greece had won; but Phoebus rous’d Agenor’s spirit, a valiant youth and strong, Son of Antenor; he his bosom fill’d With dauntless courage, and beside him stood To turn aside the heavy hand of death, As, veil’d in cloud, against the oak he lean’d. He, when Achilles’ awful form he knew, Yet firmly stood, though much perplex’d in mind, As thus he commun’d with his mighty heart: “Oh woe is me! should I attempt to fly Before Achilles’ might, where fly the rest Across the plain, disorder’d, he would soon O’ertake me, and in flight ignoble slay. Or should I leave the others to their fate, Scatter’d by Peleus’ son; and from the wall And o’er the plain of Troy direct my flight, Far as the foot of Ida’s hill, and there Lie hid in thickest covert; and at eve, Refresh’d by bathing in the cooling stream, And purg’d the sweat, retrace my steps to Troy? Yet why, my soul, admit such thoughts as these? For should he mark me flying from the town, And overtake me by his speed of foot, No hope were left me of escape from death. So far his strength exceeds the strength of man. But how if boldly I await him here Before the wall? his flesh is not to wounds Impervious: but a single life is his, Nor is he more, they say, than mortal man, Though Jove assists him, and his triumph wills.” He said, and stood collected, to await Achilles’ onset; and his manly heart, With courage fill’d, was eager for the fray. As when a panther from the thicket’s depth Comes forth to meet the hunter, undismay’d, Nor turn’d to flight by baying of the hounds; Nor, wounded or by jav’lin or by sword, Or by the spear transfix’d, remits her rage, But fights, until she reach her foe, or die; Agenor so, Antenor’s godlike son, Disdain’d to fly, ere prove Achilles’ might. Before his breast his shield’s broad orb he bore, And pois’d his spear, as thus he call’d aloud: “Thy hope, renown’d Achilles, was this day The valiant Trojans’ city to destroy; Unconscious of the toils, the woes, that ye Around her walls await ye! for within Are warriors brave and num’rous, who will fight In her defence, for parents, children, wives. Thou too, Achilles, here shalt meet thy doom, All-pow’rful as thou art, and warrior bold.”