Had dust defiled its horse-hair plume; for once That helmet guarded an illustrious head, The glorious brows of Peleus’ son, and now Jove destined it for Hector, to be worn In battle; and his death was also near. The spear Patroclus wielded, edged with brass, Long, tough, and huge, was broken in his hands, And his broad buckler, dropping with its band, Lay on the ground, while Phoebus, son of Jove, Undid the fastenings of his mail. With mind Bewildered, and with powerless limbs, he stood As thunderstruck. Then a Dardanian named Euphorbus, son of Panthoüs, who excelled His comrades in the wielding of the spear, The race, and horsemanship, approaching, smote Patroclus in the back with his keen spear, Between the shoulder-blades. Already he Had dashed down twenty warriors from their cars, Guiding his own, a learner in the art Of war. The first was he who threw a lance At thee, Patroclus, yet o’ercome thee not; For, plucking from thy back its ashen stem, He fled, and mingled with the crowd, nor dared Await thy coming, though thou wert unarmed,