While yet the sun was climbing to his place In middle heaven, the men of either host Were smitten by the weapons, and in both The people fell; but when he stooped to the west The Greeks prevailed, and from that storm of darts And tumult of the Trojans they drew forth Cebriones, and stripped him of his arms. Still rushed Patroclus onward, bent to wreak His fury on the Trojans. Fierce as Mars, He charged their squadrons thrice with fearful shouts, And thrice he laid nine warriors in the dust. But as with godlike energy he made The fourth assault, then clearly was it seen, Patroclus, that thy life was near its end, For Phoebus terribly in that fierce strife Encountered thee. Patroclus saw him not Advancing in the tumult, for he moved Unseen in darkness. Coming close behind, He smote, with open palm, the hero’s back Between the ample shoulders, and his eyes Reeled with the blow, while Phoebus from his head Struck the tall helm, that, clanking, rolled away Under the horses’ feet; its crest was soiled With blood and dust, though never till that hour