He ended, and went on; the godlike man Followed his steps. As when from mountain dells Rises, and far is heard, a crashing sound Where woodmen fell the trees, such was the noise From those who fought on that wide plain⁠—the din Of brass, of leather, and of tough bull’s-hide Smitten with swords and two-edged spears. No eye, Although of keenest sight, would then have known Noble Sarpedon, covered as he lay, From head to foot, with weapons, blood, and dust; And still the warriors thronged around the dead. As when in spring-time at the cattle-stalls Flies gather, humming, when the milk is drawn, Round the full pails, so swarmed around the corpse The combatants; nor once did Jove withdraw His bright eyes from the stubborn fray, but still Gazed, planning how Patroclus should be slain. Uncertain whether, in the desperate strife Over the great Sarpedon, to permit Illustrious Hector with his spear to lay The hero dead, and make his arms a spoil, Or spare him yet a while, to make the war More bloody. As he pondered, this seemed best: That the brave comrade of Achilles first