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And every age record the signal day.
This if the Phrygians shall refuse to yield,
Arms must revenge, and Mars decide the field.”
With that the chief the tender victims slew,
And in the dust their bleeding bodies threw;
The vital spirit issued at the wound,
And left the members quivering on the ground.
From the same urn they drink the mingled wine,
And add libations to the powers divine.
While thus their prayers united mount the sky,
“Hear, mighty Jove! and hear, ye gods on high!
And may their blood, who first the league confound,
Shed like this wine, disdain the thirsty ground;
May all their consorts serve promiscuous lust,
And all their lust be scatter’d as the dust!”
Thus either host their imprecations join’d,
Which Jove refused, and mingled with the wind.
The rites now finish’d, reverend Priam rose,
And thus express’d a heart o’ercharged with woes:
“Ye Greeks and Trojans, let the chiefs engage,
But spare the weakness of my feeble age:
In yonder walls that object let me shun,
Nor view the danger of so dear a son.
Whose arms shall conquer and what prince shall fall,
Heaven only knows; for heaven disposes all.”
This said, the hoary king no longer stay’d,
But on his car the slaughter’d victims laid:
Then seized the reins his gentle steeds to guide,
And drove to Troy, Antenor at his side.
Bold Hector and Ulysses now dispose
The lists of combat, and the ground inclose:
Next to decide, by sacred lots prepare,
Who first shall launch his pointed spear in air.
The people pray with elevated hands,
And words like these are heard through all the bands:
“Immortal Jove, high Heaven’s superior lord,
On lofty Ida’s holy mount adored!
Whoe’er involved us in this dire debate,
O give that author of the war to fate
And shades eternal! let division cease,
And joyful nations join in leagues of peace.”
With eyes averted Hector hastes to turn
The lots of fight and shakes the brazen urn.
Then, Paris, thine leap’d forth; by fatal chance
Ordain’d the first to whirl the weighty lance.
Both armies sat the combat to survey.
Beside each chief his azure armour lay,
And round the lists the generous coursers neigh.
The beauteous warrior now arrays for fight,
In gilded arms magnificently bright:
The purple cuishes clasp his thighs around,
With flowers adorn’d, with silver buckles bound:
Lycaon’s corslet his fair body dress’d,
Braced in and fitted to his softer breast;
A radiant baldric, o’er his shoulder tied,
Sustain’d the sword that glitter’d at his side:
His youthful face a polish’d helm o’erspread;
The waving horse-hair nodded on his head:
His figured shield, a shining orb, he takes,
And in his hand a pointed javelin shakes.
With equal speed and fired by equal charms,
The Spartan hero sheathes his limbs in arms.
Now round the lists the admiring armies stand,
With javelins fix’d, the Greek and Trojan band.
Amidst the dreadful vale, the chiefs advance,
All pale with rage, and shake the threatening lance.
The Trojan first his shining javelin threw;
Full on Atrides’ ringing shield it flew,
Nor pierced the brazen orb, but with a bound
Leap’d from the buckler, blunted, on the ground.
Atrides then his massy lance prepares,
In act to throw, but first prefers his prayers:
“Give me, great Jove! to punish lawless lust,
And lay the Trojan gasping in the dust:
Destroy the aggressor, aid my righteous cause,
Avenge the breach of hospitable laws!
Let this example future times reclaim,
And guard from wrong fair friendship’s holy name.”
Be said, and poised in air the javelin sent,
Through Paris’ shield the forceful weapon went,
His corslet pierces, and his garment rends,
And glancing downward, near his flank descends.
The wary Trojan, bending from the blow,
Eludes the death, and disappoints his foe:
But fierce Atrides waved his sword, and strook
Full on his casque: the crested helmet shook;
The brittle steel, unfaithful to his hand,
Broke short: the fragments glitter’d on the sand.
The raging warrior to the spacious skies
Raised his upbraiding voice and angry eyes:
“Then is it vain in Jove himself to trust?
And is it thus the gods assist the just?
When crimes provoke us, Heaven success denies;
The dart falls harmless, and the falchion flies.”
Furious he said, and towards the Grecian crew
(Seized by the crest) the unhappy warrior drew;
Struggling he followed, while the embroider’d thong
That tied his helmet, dragg’d the chief along.
Then had his ruin crown’d Atrides’ joy,
But Venus trembled for the prince of Troy:
