While yet ’twas morn, and still the holy light Of day was brightening, fast the weapons smote On either side, and fast the people fell; But at the hour when on the mountain-slope The wood cutter makes ready his repast, Weary with felling lofty trees, and glad To rest, and eager for the grateful meal, The Greeks, encouraging each other, charged And broke the serried phalanxes of Troy. First Agamemnon, springing forward, slew The shepherd of his people and their chief, Bienor, and his trusty comrade next⁠— The charioteer Oileus, who had leaped Down from his chariot to confront the king. Him Agamemnon with his trenchant spear Smote in the forehead as he came. The helm Of massive brass was vain to stay the blow: The weapon pierced it and the bone, and stained The brain with blood; it felled him rushing on. The monarch stripped the slain, and, leaving them With their white bosoms bare, went on to slay Isus and Antiphus, King Priam’s sons⁠— One born in wedlock, one of baser birth⁠— Both in one chariot. Isus held the reins