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Pallas meanwhile, amid the Trojan host,

       Clad in the likeness of Antenor's son,

       Laodocus, a spearman stout and brave,

       Search'd here and there, if haply she might find

       The godlike Pandarus; Lycaon's son

       She found, of noble birth and stalwart form,

       Standing, encircled by his sturdy band

       Of bucklered followers from AEsepus' stream,

       She stood beside him, and address'd him thus:

      "Wilt thou by me be ruled, Lycaon's son?

       For durst thou but at Menelaus shoot

       Thy winged arrow, great would be thy fame,

       And great thy favour with the men of Troy,

       And most of all with Paris; at his hand

       Thou shalt receive rich guerdon, when he hears

       That warlike Menelaus, by thy shaft

       Subdued, is laid upon the fun'ral pyre.

       Bend then thy bow at Atreus' glorious son,

       Vowing to Phoebus, Lycia's guardian God,

       The Archer-King, to pay of firstling lambs

       An ample hecatomb, when home return'd

       In safety to Zeleia's sacred town."

       Thus she; and, fool, he listen'd to her words.

       Straight he uncas'd his polish'd bow, his spoil

       Won from a mountain ibex, which himself,

       In ambush lurking, through the breast had shot,

       True to his aim, as from behind a crag

       He came in sight; prone on the rock he fell;

       With horns of sixteen palms his head was crown'd;

       These deftly wrought a skilful workman's hand,

       And polish'd smooth, and tipp'd the ends with gold.

       He bent, and resting on the ground his bow,

       Strung it anew; his faithful comrades held

       Their shields before him, lest the sons of Greece

       Should make their onset ere his shaft could reach

       The warlike Menelaus, Atreus' son.

       His quiver then withdrawing from its case,

       With care a shaft he chose, ne'er shot before,

       Well-feather'd, messenger of pangs and death;

       The stinging arrow fitted to the string,

       And vow'd to Phoebus, Lycia's guardian God,

       The Archer-King, to pay of firstling lambs

       An ample hecatomb, when home return'd

       In safety to Zeleia's sacred town.

       At once the sinew and the notch he drew;

       The sinew to his breast, and to the bow

       The iron head; then, when the mighty bow

       Was to a circle strain'd, sharp rang the horn,

       And loud the sinew twang'd, as tow'rd the crowd

       With deadly speed the eager arrow sprang.

      Nor, Menelaus, was thy safety then

       Uncar'd for of the Gods; Jove's daughter first,

       Pallas, before thee stood, and turn'd aside

       The pointed arrow; turn'd it so aside

       As when a mother from her infant's cheek,

       Wrapt in sweet slumbers, brushes off a fly;

       Its course she so directed that it struck

       Just where the golden clasps the belt restrain'd,

       And where the breastplate, doubled, check'd its force.

       On the close-fitting belt the arrow struck;

       Right through the belt of curious workmanship

       It drove, and through the breastplate richly wrought,

       And through the coat of mail he wore beneath,

       His inmost guard and best defence to check

       The hostile weapons' force; yet onward still

       The arrow drove, and graz'd the hero's flesh.

       Forth issued from the wound the crimson blood.

       As when some Carian or Maeonian maid,

       With crimson dye the ivory stains, designed

       To be the cheek-piece of a warrior's steed,

       By many a valiant horseman coveted,

       As in the house it lies, a monarch's boast,

       The horse adorning, and the horseman's pride:

       So, Menelaus, then thy graceful thighs,

       And knees, and ancles, with thy blood were dy'd.

      Great Agamemnon shudder'd as he saw

       The crimson drops out-welling from the wound;

       Shudder'd the warlike Menelaus' self;

       But when not buried in his flesh he saw

       The barb and sinew, back his spirit came.

      Then deeply groaning, Agamemnon spoke,

       As Menelaus by the hand he held,

       And with him groan'd his comrades: "Brother dear,

       I wrought thy death when late, on compact sworn,

       I sent thee forth alone for Greece to fight;

       Wounded by Trojans, who their plighted faith

       Have trodden under foot; but not in vain

       Are solemn cov'nants and the blood of lambs,

       The treaty wine outpoured, and hand-plight given,

       Wherein men place their trust; if not at once,

       Yet soon or late will Jove assert their claim;

       And heavy penalties the perjured pay

       With their own blood, their children's, and their wives'.

       So in my inmost soul full well I know

       The day shall come when this imperial Troy,

       And Priam's race, and Priam's royal self,

       Shall in one common ruin be o'erthrown;

       And Saturn's son himself, high-throned Jove,

       Who dwells in Heav'n, shall in their faces flash

       His aegis dark and dread, this treach'rous deed

       Avenging; this shall surely come to pass.

       But, Menelaus, deep will be my grief,

       If thou shouldst perish, meeting thus thy fate.

       To thirsty Argos should I then return

       By foul disgrace o'erwhelm'd; for, with thy fall,

       The Greeks will mind them of their native land;

       And as a trophy to the sons of Troy

       The Argive Helen leave; thy bones meanwhile

       Shall moulder here beneath a foreign soil.

       Thy work undone; and with insulting scorn

       Some vaunting Trojan, leaping on the tomb

       Of noble Menelaus, thus shall say:

       'On all his foes may Agamemnon so

       His wrath accomplish, who hath hither led

       Of Greeks a mighty army, all in vain;

       And bootless home with empty ships hath

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