Book IV - Seized with affright the boldest foes appear

Seized with affright the boldest foes appear;

E'en godlike Hector seems himself to fear;

Slow he gave way, the rest tumultuous fled;

The Greeks with shouts press on, and spoil the dead.

But Phœbus now from Ilion's towering height

Shines forth revealed, and animates the fight:

"Trojans be bold, and force with force oppose;

Your foaming steeds urge headlong on the foes!

Nor are their bodies rocks, nor ribbed with steel;

Your weapons enter, and your strokes they feel.

Have you forgot what seemed your dread before?

The great, the fierce Achilles fights no more."

Apollo thus from Ilion's lofty towers,

Arrayed in terrors, roused the Trojan powers:

While war's fierce goddess fires the Grecian foe,

And shouts and thunders in the field below.

Then great Diores fell, by doom divine;

In vain his valour and illustrious line.

A broken rock the force of Pirus threw,

Who from cold Ænus led the Thracian crew;

Full on his ankle dropped the ponderous stone,

Burst the strong nerves, and crashed the solid bone:

Supine he tumbles on the crimson sands,

Before his helpless friends, and native bands,

And spreads for aid his unavailing hands.

The foe rushed furious as he pants for breath,

And through his navel drove the pointed death:

His gushing entrails smoked upon the ground,

And the warm life came issuing from the wound.

His lance bold Thoas at the conqueror sent,

Deep in his breast above the pap it went,

Amid the lungs was fixed the winged wood,

And quivering in his heaving bosom stood,

Till from the dying chief, approaching near,

The Ætolian warrior tugged his weighty spear:

Then sudden waved his flaming faulchion round,

And gashed his belly with a ghastly wound.

The corpse now breathless on the bloody plain,

To spoil his arms the victor strove in vain;

The Thracian bands against the victor pressed;

A grove of lances glittered at his breast;

Stern Thoas, glaring with revengeful eyes,

In sullen fury slowly quits the prize.

Thus fell two heroes, one the pride of Thrace,

And one the leader of the Epeian race;

Death's sable shade at once o'ercast their eyes,

In dust the vanquished and the victor lies,

With copious slaughter all the fields are red,

And heaped with growing mountains of the dead.

Had some brave chief this martial scene beheld,

By Pallas guarded through the dreadful field,

Might darts be bid to turn their points away,

And swords around him innocently play,

The war's whole art with wonder had he seen,

And counted heroes where he counted men.

So fought each host, with thirst of glory fired,

And crowds on crowds triumphantly expired.