Phereclus by Meriones was slain, Son of Harmonides, whose practis’d hand Knew well to fashion many a work of art; By Pallas highly favour’d; he the ships For Paris built, first origin of ill, Freighted with evil to the men of Troy, And to himself, who knew not Heav’n’s decrees. Him, in his headlong flight, in hot pursuit Meriones o’ertook, and thrust his lance Through his right flank; beneath the bone was driv’n The spear, and pierc’d him through: prone on his knees, Groaning, he fell, and death his eyelids clos’d. Meges Pedaeus slew, Antenor’s son, A bastard born, but by Theano rear’d With tender care, and nurtur’d as her son, With her own children, for her husband’s sake. Him, Phyleus’ warrior son, approaching near, Thrust through the junction of the head and neck; Crash’d through his teeth the spear beneath the tongue; Prone in the dust he gnash’d the brazen point. Eurypylus, Euaemon’s noble son, Hypsenor slew, the worthy progeny Of Dolopion brave; Scamander’s priest, And by the people as a God rever’d: Him, as he fled before him, from behind Eurypylus, Euaemon’s noble son, Smote with the sword; and from the shoulder-point The brawny arm he sever’d; to the ground Down fell the gory hand; the darkling shades Of death, and rig’rous doom, his eyelids clos’d. Thus labour’d they amid the stubborn fight; But of Tydides none might say to whom His arm belong’d, or whether with the hosts Of Troy or Greece he mingled in the fight: Hither and thither o’er the plain he rush’d, Like to a wintry stream, that brimming o’er Breaks down its barriers in its rapid course; Nor well-built bridge can stem the flood, nor fence guards the fertile fields, as down it pours Its sudden torrent, swoll’n with rain from Heav’n, And many a goodly work of man destroys: So back were borne before Tydides’ might The serried ranks of Troy, nor dar’d await, Despite their numbers, his impetuous charge. Him when Lycaon’s noble son beheld Careering o’er the plain, the serried ranks Driving before him, quick at Tydeus’ son He bent his bow; and onward as he rush’d, On the right shoulder, near the breastplate’s joint, The stinging arrow struck; right through it pass’d, And held its way, that blood the breastplate stain’d. Then shouted loud Lycaon’s noble son: “Arouse ye, valiant Trojans, ye who goad Your flying steeds; the bravest of the Greeks Is wounded, nor, I deem, can long withstand My weapon, if indeed from Lycia’s shore By Phoebus’ counsel sent I join’d the war.”