Swift as he leap'd his clanging arms resound. "To guard this post (he cried) thy art employ, And here detain the scatter'd youth of Troy; Where yonder heroes faint, I bend my way, And hasten back to end the doubtful day." This said, the towering chief prepares to go, Shakes his white plumes that to the breezes flow, And seems a moving mountain topp'd with snow. Through all his host, inspiring force, he flies, And bids anew the martial thunder rise. To Panthus' son, at Hector's high command Haste the bold leaders of the Trojan band: But round the battlements, and round the plain, For many a chief he look'd, but look'd in vain; Deiphobus, nor Helenus the seer, Nor Asius' son, nor Asius' self appear: For these were pierced with many a ghastly wound, Some cold in death, some groaning on the ground; Some low in dust, (a mournful object) lay; High on the wall some breathed their souls away. Far on the left, amid the throng he found (Cheering the troops, and dealing deaths around) The graceful Paris; whom, with fury moved, Opprobrious thus, th' impatient chief reproved: "Ill-fated Paris! slave to womankind, As smooth of face as fraudulent of mind! Where is Deiphobus, where Asius gone? The godlike father, and th' intrepid son? The force of Helenus, dispensing fate; And great Othryoneus, so fear'd of late? Black fate hang's o'er thee from th' avenging gods, Imperial Troy from her foundations nods; Whelm'd in thy country's ruin shalt thou fall, And one devouring vengeance swallow all." When Paris thus: "My brother and my friend, Thy warm impatience makes thy tongue offend, In other battles I deserved thy blame, Though then not deedless, nor unknown to fame: But since yon rampart by thy arms lay low, I scatter'd slaughter from my fatal bow. The chiefs you seek on yonder shore lie slain; Of all those heroes, two alone remain; Deiphobus, and Helenus the seer, Each now disabled by a hosti