And gave no wound. The valiant Diomed Made with his brazen spear the next assault, And Pallas guided it to strike the waist Where girded by the baldric. In that part She wounded Mars, and tore the shining skin, And drew the weapon back. The furious god Uttered a cry as of nine thousand men, Or of ten thousand, rushing to the fight. The Greeks and Trojans stood aghast with fear, To hear that terrible cry of him whose thirst Of bloodshed never is appeased by blood.

As when, in time of heat, the air is filled With a black shadow from the gathering clouds And the strong-blowing wind, so furious Mars Appeared to Diomed, as in a cloud He rose to the broad heaven and to the home Of gods on high Olympus. Near to Jove He took his seat in bitter grief, and showed The immortal blood still dropping from his wound, And thus, with wingèd words, complaining said:⁠—