As when the ocean-billows, surge on surge, Are pushed along to the resounding shore Before the western wind, and first a wave Uplifts itself, and then against the land Dashes and roars, and round the headland peaks Tosses on high and spouts its spray afar, So moved the serried phalanxes of Greece To battle, rank succeeding rank, each chief Giving command to his own troops; the rest Marched noiselessly: you might have thought no voice Was in the breasts of all that mighty throng, So silently they all obeyed their chiefs, Their showy armor glittering as they moved In firm array. But, as the numerous flock Of some rich man, while the white milk is drawn Within his sheepfold, hear the plaintive call Of their own lambs, and bleat incessantly⁠— Such clamors from the mighty Trojan host Arose; nor was the war-cry one, nor one The voice, but words of mingled languages, For they were called from many different climes. These Mars encouraged to the fight; but those The blue-eyed Pallas. Terror too was there, And Fright, and Strife that rages unappeased⁠—