Nor Menelaus, Atreus’ valiant son, Knew not how Menœtiades had fallen By Trojan hands in battle; forth he rush’d All bright in burnish’d armor through his van, And as some heifer with maternal fears5 Now first acquainted, compasses around Her young one murmuring, with tender moan, So moved the hero of the amber locks Around Patroclus, before whom his spear Advancing and broad shield, he death denounced10 On all opposers; neither stood the son Spear-famed of Panthus inattentive long To slain Patroclus, but approach’d the dead, And warlike Menelaus thus bespake. Prince! Menelaus! Atreus’ mighty son!15 Yield. Leave the body and these gory spoils; For of the Trojans or allies of Troy None sooner made Patroclus bleed than I. Seek not to rob me, therefore, of my praise Among the Trojans, lest my spear assail20 Thee also, and thou perish premature.[1] To whom, indignant, Atreus’ son replied. Self-praise, the Gods do know, is little worth. But neither lion may in pride compare Nor panther, nor the savage boar whose heart’s25 High temper flashes in his eyes, with these The spear accomplish’d youths of Panthus’ house. Yet Hyperenor of equestrian fame Lived not his lusty manhood to enjoy, Who scoffingly defied my force in arms,30 And call’d me most contemptible in fight Of all the Danaï. But him, I ween, His feet bore never hence to cheer at home His wife and parents with his glad return. So also shall thy courage fierce be tamed,35 If thou oppose me. I command thee, go— Mix with the multitude; withstand not me, Lest evil overtake thee! To be taught By sufferings only, is the part of fools. He said, but him sway’d not, who thus replied.40 Now, even now, Atrides! thou shalt rue My brother’s blood which thou hast shed, and mak’st His death thy boast. Thou hast his blooming bride Widow’d, and thou hast fill’d his parents’ hearts With anguish of unutterable wo;45 But bearing hence thy armor and thy head To Troy, and casting them at Panthus’ feet, And at the feet of Phrontis, his espoused, I shall console the miserable pair. Nor will I leave that service unessay’d50 Longer, nor will I fail through want of force, Of courage, or of terrible address. He ceased, and smote his shield, nor pierced the disk, But bent his point against the stubborn brass. Then Menelaus, prayer preferring first55 To Jove,[2] assail’d Euphorbus in his turn, Whom pacing backward in the throat he struck, And both hands and his full force the spear Impelled, urged it through his neck behind. Sounding he fell; loud rang his batter’d arms.60 His locks, which even the Graces might have own’d, Blood-sullied, and his ringlets wound about With twine of gold and silver, swept the dust. As the luxuriant olive by a swain Rear’d in some solitude where rills abound,65 Puts forth her buds, and fann’d by genial airs On all sides, hangs her boughs with whitest flowers, But by a sudden whirlwind from its trench Uptorn, it lies extended on the field; Such, Panthus’ warlike son Euphorbus seem’d,70