Her, searching thro’ the crowd, at length he found, And springing forward, with his pointed spear A wound inflicted on her tender hand. Piercing th’ ambrosial veil, the Graces’ work, The sharp spear graz’d her palm below the wrist. Forth from the wound th’ immortal current flow’d, Pure ichor, life-stream of the blessed Gods; They eat no bread, they drink no ruddy wine, And bloodless thence and deathless they become. The Goddess shriek’d aloud, and dropp’d her son; But in his arms Apollo bore him off In a thick cloud envelop’d, lest some Greek Might pierce his breast, and rob him of his life. Loud shouted brave Tydides, as she fled: “Daughter of Jove, from battle-fields retire; Enough for thee weak woman to delude; If war thou seek’st, the lesson thou shalt learn Shall cause thee shudder but to hear it nam’d.” Thus he; but ill at ease, and sorely pain’d, The Goddess fled: her, Iris, swift as wind, Caught up, and from the tumult bore away, Weeping with pain, her fair skin soil’d with blood. Mars on the left hand of the battle-field She found, his spear reclining by his side, And, veil’d in cloud, his car and flying steeds. Kneeling, her brother she besought to lend The flying steeds, with golden frontlets crown’d: “Dear brother, aid me hence, and lend thy car To bear me to Olympus, seat of Gods; Great is the pain I suffer from a wound Receiv’d from Diomed, a mortal man, Who now would dare with Jove himself to fight.” He lent the steeds, with golden frontlets crown’d; In deep distress she mounted on the car: Beside her Iris stood, and took the reins, And urg’d the coursers; nothing loth they flew, And soon to high Olympus, seat of Gods, They came: swift Iris there the coursers stay’d, Loos’d from the chariot, and before them plac’d Ambrosial forage: on her mother’s lap, Dione, Venus fell; she in her arms Embrac’d, and sooth’d her with her hand, and said: “Which of the heav’nly pow’rs hath wrong’d thee thus, My child, as guilty of some open shame?”