of mortal men Of all that breathe and move upon the earth Is the most wretched. Yet of this be sure— That ye shall never in that sumptuous car Bear Hector. Is it not enough that he Should wear that armor, uttering idle boasts? And now will I infuse into your limbs Spirit and strength, that ye may safely bear Automedon across the battle-field To where the roomy galleys lie. I yet Must give more glory to the men of Troy, And they must slay until they come again To the good ships of Greece—until the sun Goes down and sacred darkness covers all.”
So spake the god, and breathed into the steeds New life and vigor. From their manes they shook The dust, and flew with that swift car among The Greeks and Trojans. With the Trojan throng, Automedon, though mourning his slain friend, Maintained the fight; he rushed upon their ranks, A vulture pouncing on a flock of geese. Swiftly he passed from out the Trojan throng; Swiftly again he charged their phalanxes In fierce pursuit. Yet slew he none of those Whom he pursued; he could not guide at once The steeds and cast the spear, when seated thus Alone within that sacred car. At last A friend, the valorous Alcimedon, Laërces’ son, of Aemon’s line, beheld His plight, and, standing near his chariot, said:—