Atrides then his silver-studded sword Rearing on high, a mighty blow let fall On Paris’ helm; but shiv’ring in his hand In countless fragments new the faithless blade. Then thus to Jove, with eyes uplift to Heav’n, Atrides made his moan: “O Father Jove! Of all the Gods, the most unfriendly thou! On Paris’ head I hop’d for all his crimes To wreak my vengeance due; but in my grasp My faithless sword is shatter’d, and my spear Hath bootless left my hand, nor reached my foe.” Then onward rushing, by the horsehair plume He seiz’d his foeman’s helm, and wrenching round Dragg’d by main force amid the well-greav’d Greeks. The broider’d strap, that, pass’d beneath his beard, The helmet held, the warrior’s throat compress’d: Then had Atrides dragg’d him from the field, And endless fame acquir’d; but Venus, child Of Jove, her fav’rite’s peril quickly saw. And broke the throttling strap of tough bull’s hide. In the broad hand the empty helm remained. The trophy, by their champion whirl’d amid The well-greav’d Greeks, his eager comrades seiz’d; While he, infuriate, rush’d with murd’rous aim On Priam’s son; but him, the Queen of Love (As Gods can only) from the field convey’d, Wrapt in a misty cloud; and on a couch, Sweet perfumes breathing, gently laid him down; Then went in search of Helen; her she found, Circled with Trojan dames, on Ilium’s tow’r: Her by her airy robe the Goddess held, And in the likeness of an aged dame Who oft for her, in Sparta when she dwelt, Many a fair fleece had wrought, and lov’d her well, Address’d her thus: “Come, Helen, to thy house; Come, Paris calls thee; in his chamber he Expects thee, resting on luxurious couch, In costly garb, with manly beauty grac’d: Not from the fight of warriors wouldst thou deem He late had come, but for the dance prepar’d, Or resting from the dance’s pleasing toil.” She said, and Helen’s spirit within her mov’d; And when she saw the Goddess’ beauteous neck, Her lovely bosom, and her glowing eyes, She gaz’d in wonder, and address’d her thus: “Oh why, great Goddess, make me thus thy sport? Seek’st thou to bear me far away from hence To some fair Phrygian or Maeonian town, If there some mortal have thy favour gain’d? Or, for that Menelaus in the field Hath vanquish’d Paris, and is willing yet That I, his bane, should to his home return; Here art thou found, to weave again thy wiles! Go then thyself! thy godship abdicate! Renounce Olympus! lavish here on him Thy pity and thy care! he may perchance Make thee his wife—at least his paramour! But thither go not I! foul shame it were Again to share his bed; the dames of Troy Will for a byword hold me; and e’en now My soul with endless sorrow is possess’d.” To whom in anger heav’nly Venus spoke: “Incense me not, poor fool! lest I in wrath Desert thee quite, and as I heretofore Have lov’d, so make thee object of my hate; And kindle, ’twixt the Trojans and the Greeks, Such bitter feuds, as both shall wreak on thee.”