with the news of Patroclus' death: then returns to the fight, where, though attacked with the utmost fury, he and Meriones, assisted by the Ajaces, bear off the body to the ships. The time is the evening of the eight-and-twentieth day. The scene lies in the fields before Troy. On the cold earth divine Patroclus spread, Lies pierced with wounds among the vulgar dead. Great Menelaus, touch'd with generous woe, Springs to the front, and guards him from the foe. Thus round her new-fallen young the heifer moves, Fruit of her throes, and first-born of her loves; And anxious (helpless as he lies, and bare) Turns, and re-turns her, with a mother's care, Opposed to each that near the carcase came, His broad shield glimmers, and his lances flame. The son of Panthus, skill'd the dart to send, Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend. "This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low; Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow: To me the spoils my prowess won, resign: Depart with life, and leave the glory mine" The Trojan thus: the Spartan monarch burn'd With generous anguish, and in scorn return'd: "Laugh'st thou not, Jove! from thy superior throne, When mortals boast of prowess not their own? Not thus the lion glories in his might, Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight, Nor thus the boar (those terrors of the plain;) Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain. But far the vainest of the boastful kind, These sons of Panthus vent their haughty mind. Yet 'twas but late, beneath my conquering steel This boaster's brother, Hyperenor, fell; Against our arm which rashly he defied, Vain was his vigour, and as vain his pride. These eyes beheld him on the dust expire, No more to cheer his spouse, or glad his sire. Presumptuous youth! like his shall be thy doom, Go, wait thy brother to the Stygian gloom; Or, while thou may'st, avoid the threaten'd fate; Fools stay to feel it, and are wise too late." Unmoved,