Not yet the clamorous Mars, of passionate mood, Had heard that in the fray his son was slain; But on the summit of the Olympian mount He sat, o’ercanopied by golden clouds, Restrained from combat by the will of Jove, With other gods, forbidden, like himself, To aid the combatants. Meantime around Ascalaphus the combat hand to hand Still raged. Deïphobus had torn away The slain man’s shining helm, when suddenly Meriones sprang forward, spear in hand, And smote him on the arm; the wounded limb Let fall the helm, resounding as it fell, And with a vulture’s leap Meriones Rushed toward him, plucking out from the torn flesh The spear, and falling back among the crowd. Polites, brother of the wounded, threw Both arms around his waist, and bore him off From the loud din of conflict, till he reached His swift-paced steeds, that waited in the rear Of battle, with their chariot nobly wrought And charioteer. These took him back to Troy, Heavily groaning and in pain, the blood Yet gushing from the newly wounded limb.