Some fresh directors through the field, where least the púrsuit drives. Thick fell the Trojans, much more sweet to vultures than their wives. Then Jove drew Hector from the darts, from dust, from death and blood, And from the tumult. Still the king firm to the púrsuit stood, Till at old Ilus’ monument, in midst of all the field, They reach’d the wild fig-tree, and long’d to make their town their shield. Yet there they rested not; the king still cried, ‘Pursue! Pursue!’ And all his unreprovéd hands did blood and dust imbrue. But when they came to Scæa’s ports, and to the beech of Jove, There made they stand; there ev’ry eye, fixed on each other, strove Who should outlook his mate amaz’d; through all the field they fled. And as a lion, when the night becomes most deaf and dead, Invades ox-herds, affrighting all, that he of one may wreak His dreadful hunger, and his neck he first of all doth break, Then laps his blood and entrails up; so Agamemnon plied The manage of the Trojan chace, and still the last man died, The other fled, a number fell by his imperial hand, Some grovelling downwards from their horse, some upwards strew’d the sand. High was the fury of his lance. But, having beat them close Beneath their walls, the both worlds’ Sire did now again repose On fountain-flowing Ida’s tops, being newly slid from heav’n, And held a lightning in his hand; from thence this charge was giv’n To Iris with the golden wings: “Thaumantia, fly,” said he, “And tell Troy’s Hector, that as long as he enrag’d shall see The soldier-loving Atreus’ son amongst the foremost fight, Depopulating troops of men, so long he must excite Some other to resist the foe, and he no arms advance; But when he wounded takes his horse, attain’d with shaft or lance, Then will I fill his arm with death, ev’n till he reach the fleet, And peaceful night treads busy day beneath her sacred feet.” The wind-foot swift Thaumantia obey’d, and us’d her wings To famous Ilion, from the mount enchas’d with silver springs, And found in his bright chariot the hardy Trojan knight, To whom she spake the words of Jove, and vanish’d from his sight. He leapt upon the sounding earth, and shook his lengthful dart, And ev’rywhere he breath’d exhorts, and stirr’d up ev’ry heart. A dreadful fight he set on foot. His soldiers straight turn’d head. The Greeks stood firm. In both the hosts, the field was perfected. But Agamemnon, foremost still, did all his side exceed, And would not be the first in name unless the first in deed. Now sing, fair Presidents of verse, that in the heav’ns embow’r, Who first encounter’d with the king, of all the adverse pow’r. Iphidamas, Antenor’s son, ample and bigly set, Brought up in pasture-springing Thrace, that doth soft sheep beget, In grave Cisseus’ noble house, that was his mother’s sire, Fair Theano; and when his breast was heighten’d with the fire Of gaysome youth, his grandsire gave his daughter to his love. Who straight his bridal-chamber left.