“Beloved Glaucus, mighty among men! Now prove thyself a hero, now be bold. Now, if thou have a warrior’s spirit, think Of nought but battle. Go from rank to rank, Exhorting all the Lycian chiefs to fight Around Sarpedon. Combat thou for me With thy good spear, for I shall be to thee A shame and a reproach through all thy days, If here the Greeks, beside whose ships I fall, Bear off my armor. Stand thou firm, and stir Thy people up to combat valiantly.”
While he was speaking, death crept o’er his sight And stopped his breath. Patroclus set his heel Against his bosom, and plucked out the spear; The midriff followed it, and thus he drew The life and weapon forth at once. Meantime The Myrmidons held fast the snorting steeds, That, loosened from the Lycian’s car, were bent On flight. The grief of Glaucus as he heard His comrade’s voice was bitter, and his heart Ached at the thought that he could bring no aid. He seized his arm and pressed it in his grasp, For there the wound which Teucer’s arrow left, When Glaucus stormed the wall and Teucer’s shafts Defended it, still pained him grievously, And thus he prayed to Phoebus, archer-god:—
“Give ear, O king! wherever thou abide, In the opulent realm of Lycia, or in Troy; For everywhere thou nearest those who cry To thee in sorrow, and great sorrow now Is on me. Grievous is the wound I bear; Sharp are the pains that pierce my hand; the blood Cannot be stanched; my very arm becomes A burden; I can wield the spear no more With a firm grasp, nor combat with the foe. A mighty chief—Sarpedon, son of Jove— Has perished, and the father came not nigh To aid his son. Yet come thou to my aid, O monarch-god! and heal this painful wound, And give me strength to rally to the fight The Lycian warriors, and myself contend Valiantly for the rescue of the dead.”