The swift Achilles listened and inquired: “Which of the gods, O Iris, speaks by thee?” And Iris, whose swift feet are like the wind, Answered: “The glorious spouse of Jupiter, Juno, hath sent me. Even Saturn’s son, On his high throne, knows not that I am sent, Nor any other of the gods who dwell Upon Olympus overspread with snow.”
“But how,” the swift Achilles asked again, “Shall I go forth to war? They have my arms, And my beloved mother strictly bade That I should put no armor on until I saw her face again. She promised me A suit of glorious mail from Vulcan’s hand. Nor know I any warrior here whose arms Might serve me, save, perhaps, it were the shield Of Telamonian Ajax, who, I hope, Is in the van, and dealing death among The foe, in vengeance for Patroclus slain.”
Then the swift-footed Iris spake again: “They have thy glorious armor; that we know But go thou to the trench, and show thyself To them of Troy, that, haply smit with fear, They may desist from battle, and the host Of Grecian warriors, overtoiled, may breathe In a brief respite from the stress of war.”
So the fleet Iris spake, and passed away, And then arose Achilles, dear to Jove, While o’er his ample shoulders Pallas held Her fringèd aegis. The great goddess caused A golden cloud to gather round his head And kindled in the cloud a dazzling flame. And as when smoke, ascending to the sky, Hangs o’er some city in a distant isle, Which enemies beleaguer, swarming forth From their own city, and in hateful strife Contend all day, but when the sun goes down Forthwith blaze many bale-fires, sending up A brightness which the neighboring realms may see, That haply they may send their ships and drive The war away—so from the hero’s head That flame streamed upward to the sky. He came Without the wall and stood beside the trench, Nor mingled with the Greeks, for he revered His mother’s words. He stood and called aloud, And Pallas, from the host, returned his shout— A shout that carried infinite dismay