Meantime, the Greeks throughout their tents in haste Despatch’d their meal, and arm’d them for the fight; On th’ other side the Trojans donn’d their arms, In numbers fewer, but with stern resolve, By hard necessity constrain’d, to strive, For wives and children, in the stubborn fight. The gates all open’d wide, forth pour’d the crowd Of horse and foot; and loud the clamour rose. When in the midst they met, together rush’d Bucklers and lances, and the furious might Of mail-clad warriors; bossy shield on shield Clatter’d in conflict; loud the clamour rose: Then rose too mingled shouts and groans of men Slaying and slain; the earth ran red with blood. While yet ’twas morn, and wax’d the youthful day, Thick flew the shafts, and fast the people fell On either side; but when the sun had reach’d The middle Heav’n, th’ Eternal Father hung His golden scales aloft, and plac’d in each The fatal death-lot: for the sons of Troy The one, the other for the brass-clad Greeks; Then held them by the midst; down sank the lot Of Greece, down to the ground, while high aloft Mounted the Trojan scale, and rose to Heav’n.[2] Then loud he bade the volleying thunder peal From Ida’s heights; and ’mid the Grecian ranks He hurl’d his flashing lightning; at the sight Amaz’d they stood, and pale with terror shook. Then not Idomeneus, nor Atreus’ son, The mighty Agamemnon, kept their ground, Nor either Ajax, ministers of Mars; Gerenian Nestor, aged prop of Greece, Alone remain’d, and he against his will, His horse sore wounded by an arrow shot By godlike Paris, fair-hair’d Helen’s Lord: Just on the crown, where close behind the head First springs the mane, the deadliest spot of all, The arrow struck him; madden’d with the pain He rear’d, then plunging forward, with the shaft Fix’d in his brain, and rolling in the dust, The other steeds in dire confusion threw; And while old Nestor with his sword essay’d To cut the reins, and free the struggling horse, Amid the rout down came the flying steeds Of Hector, guided by no timid hand, By Hector’s self; then had the old man paid The forfeit of his life, but, good at need, The valiant Diomed his peril saw, And loudly shouting, on Ulysses call’d: “Ulysses sage, Laertes’ godlike son, Why fliest thou, coward-like, amid the throng, And in thy flight to the aim of hostile spears Thy back presenting? stay, and here with me From this fierce warrior guard the good old man.”