glows, And breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes. Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew, And thrice three heroes at each onset slew. There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine The last, black remnant of so bright a line: Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way; Death calls, and heaven allows no longer day! For lo! the god in dusky clouds enshrined, Approaching dealt a staggering blow behind. The weighty shock his neck and shoulders feel; His eyes flash sparkles, his stunn'd senses reel In giddy darkness; far to distance flung, His bounding helmet on the champaign rung. Achilles' plume is stain'd with dust and gore; That plume which never stoop'd to earth before; Long used, untouch'd, in fighting fields to shine, And shade the temples of the mad divine. Jove dooms it now on Hector's helm to nod; Not long--for fate pursues him, and the god. His spear in shivers falls; his ample shield Drops from his arm: his baldric strows the field: The corslet his astonish'd breast forsakes: Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes; Stupid he stares, and all-assistless stands: Such is the force of more than mortal hands! A Dardan youth there was, well known to fame, From Panthus sprung, Euphorbus was his name; Famed for the manage of the foaming horse, Skill'd in the dart, and matchless in the course: Full twenty knights he tumbled from the car, While yet he learn'd his rudiments of war. His venturous spear first drew the hero's gore; He struck, he wounded, but he durst no more. Nor, though disarm'd, Patroclus' fury stood: But swift withdrew the long-protended wood. And turn'd him short, and herded in the crowd. Thus, by an arm divine, and mortal spear, Wounded, at once, Patroclus yields to fear, Retires for succour to his social train, And flies the fate, which heaven decreed, in vain. Stern Hector, as the bleeding chief he views, Breaks through the ranks, and his retreat pu