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
