So from that glorious buckler of the son Of Peleus, nobly wrought, a radiance streamed Into the sky. And then he raised and placed Upon his head the impenetrable helm With horse-hair plume. It glittered like a star, And all the shining tufts of golden thread, With which the maker’s hand had thickly set Its cone, were shaken. Next the high-born chief Tried his new arms, to know if they were well Adjusted to his shape, and left his limbs Free play. They seemed like wings, and lifted up The shepherd of the people. Then he drew From its ancestral sheath his father’s spear, Heavy and huge and tough. No man of all The Grecian host could wield that weapon save Achilles only. ’Twas a Pelian ash, Which Chiron for his father had cut down On Pelion’s highest peak, to be the death Of heroes. Meantime, busy with the steeds, Automedon and Alcimus put on Their trappings and their yoke, and round their necks Bound the fair collars, thrust into their mouths The bit, and backward drew the reins to meet The well-wrought chariot. Then Automedon