There was one Dares ’mid the Trojan host, The priest of Vulcan, rich, of blameless life; Two gallant sons he had, Idaeus nam’d, And Phegeus, skill’d in all the points of war. These, parted from the throng, the warrior met; They on their car, while he on foot advanc’d. When near they came, first Phegeus threw his spear; O’er the left shoulder of Tydides pass’d The erring weapon’s point, and miss’d its mark. His pond’rous spear in turn Tydides threw, And not in vain; on Phegeus’ breast it struck, Full in the midst, and hurl’d him from the car. Idaeus from the well-wrought chariot sprang, And fled, nor durst his brother’s corpse defend. Nor had he so escap’d the doom of death, But Vulcan bore him safely from the field, In darkness shrouded, that his aged sire Might not be wholly of his sons bereav’d. The car Tydides to his comrades gave, And bade them to the ships the horses drive. Now when the Trojans Dares’ sons beheld, The one in flight, the other stretch’d in death, Their spirits within them quail’d; but Pallas took The hand of Mars, and thus address’d the God: “Mars, Mars, thou bane of mortals, blood-stain’d Lord, Razer of cities, wherefore leave we not The Greeks and Trojans to contend, and see To which the sire of all will vict’ry give; While we retire, and shun the wrath of Jove?” Thus saying, from the battle Mars she led, And plac’d him on Scamander’s steepy banks. The Greeks drove back the Trojan host; the chiefs Slew each his victim; Agamemnon first, The mighty monarch, from his chariot hurl’d Hodius, the sturdy Halizonian chief, Him, as he turn’d, between the shoulder-blades The jav’lin struck, and through his chest was driv’n; Thund’ring he fell, and loud his armour rang. On Phaestus, Borus’ son, Maeonian chief, Who from the fertile plains of Tarna came, Then sprang Idomeneus; and as he sought To mount upon his car, the Cretan King Through his right shoulder drove the pointed spear; He fell; the shades of death his eyes o’erspread, And of his arms the followers stripp’d his corpse. The son of Atreus, Menelaus, slew Scamandrius, son of Strophius, sportsman keen, In woodcraft skilful; for his practis’d hand Had by Diana’s self been taught to slay Each beast of chase the mountain forest holds. But nought avail’d him then the Archer-Queen Diana’s counsels, nor his boasted art Of distant aim; for as he fled, the lance Of Menelaus, Atreus’ warlike son, Behind his neck, between the shoulder-blades, His flight arresting, through his chest was driv’n. Headlong he fell, and loud his armour rang.