He said, and poising, hurl’d his pond’rous spear; Nor miss’d his aim; full in the midst he struck Pelides’ shield; but glancing from the shield The weapon bounded off. Hector was griev’d, That thus his spear had bootless left his hand. He stood aghast; no second spear was nigh: And loudly on Deiphobus he call’d A spear to bring; but he was far away. Then Hector knew that he was dup’d, and cried, “Oh Heav’n! the Gods above have doom’d my death! I deem’d indeed that brave Deiphobus Was near at hand; but he within the walls Is safe, and I by Pallas am betray’d. Now is my death at hand, nor far away: Escape is none; since so hath Jove decreed, And Jove’s far-darting son, who heretofore Have been my guards; my fate hath found me now. Yet not without a struggle let me die, Nor all inglorious; but let some great act, Which future days may hear of, mark my fall.” Thus as he spoke, his sharp-edged sword he drew, Pond’rous and vast, suspended at his side; Collected for the spring, and forward dash’d: As when an eagle, bird of loftiest flight, Through the dark clouds swoops downward on the plain, To seize some tender lamb, or cow’ring hare; So Hector rush’d, and wav’d his sharp-edg’d sword. Achilles’ wrath was rous’d: with fury wild His soul was fill’d: before his breast he bore His well-wrought shield; and fiercely on his brow Nodded the four-plum’d helm, as on the breeze Floated the golden hairs, with which the crest By Vulcan’s hand was thickly interlac’d; And as amid the stars’ unnumber’d host, When twilight yields to night, one star appears, Hesper, the brightest star that shines in Heav’n, Gleam’d the sharp-pointed lance, which in his right Achilles pois’d, on godlike Hector’s doom Intent, and scanning eagerly to see Where from attack his body least was fenc’d. All else the glitt’ring armour guarded well, Which Hector from Patroclus’ corpse had stripp’d; One chink appear’d, just where the collar-bone The neck and shoulder parts, beside the throat, Where lies expos’d the swiftest road of death. There levell’d he, as Hector onward rush’d; Right through the yielding neck the lance was driv’n, But sever’d not the windpipe, nor destroy’d His pow’r of speech; prone in the dust he fell; And o’er him, vaunting, thus Achilles spoke: “Hector, Patroclus stripping of his arms, Thy hope was that thyself wast safe; and I, Not present, brought no terror to thy soul: Fool! in the hollow ships I yet remain’d, I, his avenger, mightier far than he; I, who am now thy conqu’ror. By the dogs And vultures shall thy corpse be foully torn, While him the Greeks with fun’ral rites shall grace.”