hereafter to requite The friendship of a host with injury.”
He spake, and flung his brandished spear; it smote The round shield of Priamides; right through The shining buckler went the rapid steel, And, cutting the soft tunic near the flank, Stood fixed in the fair corselet. Paris bent Sideways before it and escaped his death. Atrides drew his silver studded sword, Lifted it high and smote his enemy’s crest. The weapon, shattered to four fragments, fell. He looked to the broad heaven, and thus exclaimed:—
“O Father Jove! Thou art of all the gods The most unfriendly. I had hoped to avenge The wrong by Paris done me, but my sword Is broken in my grasp, and from my hand The spear was vainly flung and gave no wound.”
He spake, and, rushing forward, seized the helm Of Paris by its horse-hair crest, and turned And dragged him toward the well-armed Greeks. Beneath His tender throat the embroidered band that held The helmet to the chin was choking him. And now had Menelaus dragged him thence, And earned great glory, if the child of Jove, Venus, had not perceived his plight in time. She broke the ox-hide band; an empty helm Followed the powerful hand; the hero saw, Swung it aloft and hurled it toward the Greeks, And there his comrades seized it. He again Rushed with his brazen spear to slay his foe. But Venus—for a goddess easily Can work such marvels—rescued him, and, wrapped In a thick shadow, bore him from the field And placed him in his chamber, where the air Was sweet with perfumes. Then she took her way To summon Helen. On the lofty tower She found her, midst a throng of Trojan dames, And plucked her perfumed robe. She took the form And features of a spinner of the fleece, An aged dame, who used to comb for her The fair white wool in Lacedaemon’s halls, And loved her much. In such an humble guise The goddess Venus thus to Helen spake:—