So spake the king, and, striking with his spear Pisander’s breast, he dashed him from the car. Prone on the ground he lay. Hippolochus Leaped down and met the sword. Atrides lopped His hands and drave the weapon through his neck, And sent the head to roll among the crowd. And then he left the dead, and rushed to where The ranks were in disorder; with him went His-well-armed Greeks; there they who fought on foot Slaughtered the flying foot; the horsemen there Clove horsemen down: the coursers’ trampling feet Raised the thick dust to shadow all the plain; While Agamemnon cheered the Achaians on, And chased and slew the foe. As when a fire Seizes a thick-grown forest, and the wind Drives it along in eddies, while the trunks Fall with the boughs amid devouring flames, So fell the flying Trojans by the hand Of Agamemnon. Many high-maned steeds Dragged noisily their empty cars among The ranks of battle, never more to bear Their charioteers, who lay upon the earth The vulture’s feast, a sorrow to their wives.