And vow’d to Lycian Phœbus bow-renown’d A hecatomb, all firstlings of the flock,140 To fair Zeleia’s walls once safe restored. Compressing next nerve and notch’d arrow-head He drew back both together, to his pap Drew home the nerve, the barb home to his bow, And when the horn was curved to a wide arch,145 He twang’d it. Whizz’d the bowstring, and the reed Leap’d off, impatient for the distant throng. Thee, Menelaus, then the blessed Gods Forgat not; Pallas huntress of the spoil, Thy guardian then, baffled the cruel dart.150 Far as a mother wafts the fly aside[7] That haunts her slumbering babe, so far she drove Its course aslant, directing it herself Against the golden clasps that join’d his belt; For there the doubled hauberk interposed.155 The bitter arrow plunged into his belt. It pierced his broider’d belt, stood fixt within His twisted hauberk, nor the interior quilt, Though penetrable least to arrow-points And his best guard, withheld it, but it pass’d160 That also, and the Hero’s skin inscribed. Quick flowed a sable current from the wound. As when a Carian or Mæonian maid Impurples ivory ordain’d to grace The cheek of martial steed; safe stored it lies,165 By many a Chief desired, but proves at last The stately trapping of some prince,[8] the pride Of his high pamper’d steed, nor less his own; Such, Menelaus, seem’d thy shapely thighs, Thy legs, thy feet, stained with thy trickling blood.170 Shudder’d King Agamemnon when he saw The blood fast trickling from the wound, nor less Shudder’d himself the bleeding warrior bold. But neck and barb observing from the flesh Extant, he gather’d heart, and lived again.175 The royal Agamemnon, sighing, grasp’d The hand of Menelaus, and while all Their followers sigh’d around them, thus began.[9]