Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/398

His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke:
"Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has viewed
Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued.
But now some god within me bids me try
Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die.
Yet on the verge of battle let us stay,
And for a moment's space suspend the day:
Let heaven's high powers be called to arbitrate
The just conditions of this stern debate:
Eternal witnesses of all below,
And faithful guardians of the treasured vow!
To them I swear: if, victor in the strife,
Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life,
No vile dishonour shall thy corse pursue;
Stripped of its arms alone, the conqueror's due,
The rest to Greece uninjured I'll restore:
Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more."
"Talk not of oaths," the dreadful chief replies,
While anger flashed from his disdainful eyes,
"Detested as thou art, and ought to be,
Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee;
Such pacts, as lambs and rabid wolves combine,
Such leagues, as men and furious lions join,
To such I call the gods! one constant state
Of lasting rancour and eternal hate:
No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife,
Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life.
Rouse then thy forces this important hour,
Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power.
No farther subterfuge, no farther chance;
'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my lance.
Each Grecian ghost by thee deprived of breath,
Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death."
He spoke, and launched his javelin at the foe;
But Hector shunned the meditated blow:
He stooped, while o'er his head the flying spear
Sung innocent, and spent its force in air.
Minerva watched it falling on the land,
Then drew, and gave to great Achilles' hand,
Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy,
Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy:
"The life you boasted to that javelin given,
Prince I you have missed. My fate depends on heaven,
To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown,
Or what must prove my fortune, or thy own.
Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind,
And with false terrors sink another's mind.,
But know, whatever fate I am to try,
By no dishonest wound shall Hector die;