“O strange! My eyes behold a miracle. Sure, the brave sons of Troy whom I have slain Will rise up from the nether darkness yet, Since this man, whom I once reprieved from death And sold in Lemnos the divine, comes back. Nor could the ocean’s gray abyss of brine, Beyond which many long in vain to pass, Detain him in that isle. But he shall taste The sharpness of my spear, that I may prove Whether he after that will reappear, And whether the kind earth, which holds so well The valiant dead, can keep him in her womb.”

So pondered he and stood. The Trojan drew Close to him, with intent to clasp his knees, Fear-struck, yet hoping to avoid the doom Of bitter death. The great Achilles raised His ponderous spear to strike. Lycaon stooped, And, darting underneath the weapon, seized The hero’s knees; behind him in the ground The spear stood fixed, though eager yet for blood; One arm was round his adversary’s knees, The other held⁠—and would not let it go⁠— The spear, while thus with wingèd words he prayed:⁠—