Epeisodion 3
ATHENA.
Your camp a spear-swept causeway builded wide
To where beached galleys flame above the dead.
Him slay, and all is won. Let Hector’s head
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Sleep where it lies and draw unvexèd breath;
Another’s work, not thine, is Hector’s death.
ODYSSEUS.
Most high Athena, well I know the sound
Of that immortal voice. ’Tis ever found
My helper in great perils.—Where doth lie
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Rhesus, mid all this host of Barbary?
ATHENA.
Full near he lies, not mingled with the host
Of Troy, but here beyond the lines—a post
Of quiet till the dawn, that Hector found.
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And near him, by his Thracian chariot bound,
Two snow-white coursers gleam against the wan
Moon, like the white wing of a river swan.
Their master slain, take these to thine own hearth,
A wondrous spoil; there hides not upon earth
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A chariot-team of war so swift and fair.
ODYSSEUS.
Say, Diomede, wilt make the men thy share,
Or catch the steeds and leave the fight to me?
