Then through the ranks assenting murmurs ran, The priest to rev’rence, and the ransom take: Not so Atrides; he, with haughty mien, And bitter speech, the trembling sire address’d: “Old man, I warn thee, that beside our ships I find thee not, or ling’ring now, or back Returning; lest thou prove of small avail Thy golden staff, and fillet of thy God. Her I release not, till her youth be fled; Within my walls, in Argos, far from home, Her lot is cast, domestic cares to ply, And share a master’s bed. For thee, begone! Incense me not, lest ill betide thee now.” He said: the old man trembled, and obeyed; Beside the many-dashing Ocean’s shore Silent he pass’d; and all apart, he pray’d To great Apollo, fair Latona’s son: “Hear me, God of the silver bow! whose care Chrysa surrounds, and Cilia’s lovely vale; Whose sov’reign sway o’er Tenedos extends; O Smintheus, hear! if e’er my offered gifts Found favour in thy sight; if e’er to thee I burn’d the fat of bulls and choicest goats, Grant me this boon—upon the Grecian host Let thine unerring darts avenge my tears.” Thus as he pray’d, his pray’r Apollo heard: Along Olympus’ heights he pass’d, his heart Burning with wrath; behind his shoulders hung His bow, and ample quiver; at his back Rattled the fateful arrows as he mov’d; Like the night-cloud he pass’d, and from afar He bent against the ships, and sped the bolt; And fierce and deadly twang’d the silver bow. First on the mules and dogs, on man the last, Was pour’d the arrowy storm; and through the camp, Constant and num’rous, blaz’d the fun’ral fires. Nine days the heav’nly Archer on the troops Hurl’d his dread shafts; the tenth, th’ assembled Greeks Achilles call’d to council; so inspir’d By Juno, white-arm’d Goddess, who beheld With pitying eyes the wasting hosts of Greece. When all were met, and closely throng’d around, Rose the swift-footed chief, and thus began: “Great son of Atreus, to my mind there seems, If we would ’scape from death, one only course, Home to retrace our steps: since here at once By war and pestilence our forces waste. But seek we first some prophet, or some priest, Or some wise vision-seer (since visions too From Jove proceed), who may the cause explain, Which with such deadly wrath Apollo fires: If for neglected hecatombs or pray’rs He blame us; or if fat of lambs and goats May soothe his anger and the plague assuage.”