To meet the glorious Menelaus sprang Pisander, led by his unhappy fate To perish, Menelaus! by thy hand In that fierce conflict. When the two were near, Advancing toward each other, Atreus’ son Took aim amiss; his spear flew far aside. Pisander smote the buckler on the arm Of mighty Menelaus, yet drave not The weapon through. The broad shield stopped its force, And broke it at the neck; yet hoped he still For victory, and exulted. Then the son Of Atreus drew his silver-studded sword And sprang upon his foe, who from beneath His buckler took a brazen battle-axe, With a long stem of polished olive-wood. Both struck at once. Pisander hewed away, Below the crest, the plumèd helmet-cone Of Atreus’ son, who smote, above the nose, Pisander’s forehead, crashing through the bones. Both bleeding eyes dropped to the ground amid The dust; he fell; he writhed; the conqueror, Advancing, set his heel upon his breast, And stripped the armor off, and, boasting, said:⁠—