To these the warrior sent his voice around. "Fellows in arms! your timely aid unite; Lo, great Ćneas rushes to the fight: Sprung from a god, and more than mortal bold; He fresh in youth, and I in arms grown old. Else should this hand, this hour decide the strife, The great dispute, of glory, or of life." He spoke, and all, as with one soul, obey'd; Their lifted bucklers cast a dreadful shade Around the chief. Ćneas too demands Th' assisting forces of his native bands; Paris, Deiphobus, Agenor, join; (Co-aids and captains of the Trojan line;) In order follow all th' embodied train, Like Ida's flocks proceeding o'er the plain; Before his fleecy care, erect and bold, Stalks the proud ram, the father of the bold. With joy the swain surveys them, as he leads To the cool fountains, through the well-known meads: So joys Ćneas, as his native band Moves on in rank, and stretches o'er the land. Round dread Alcathous now the battle rose; On every side the steely circle grows; Now batter'd breast-plates and hack'd helmets ring, And o'er their heads unheeded javelins sing. Above the rest, two towering chiefs appear, There great Idomeneus, Ćneas here. Like gods of war, dispensing fate, they stood, And burn'd to drench the ground with mutual blood. The Trojan weapon whizz'd along in air; The Cretan saw, and shunn'd the brazen spear: Sent from an arm so strong, the missive wood Stuck deep in earth, and quiver'd where it stood. But OEnomas received the Cretan's stroke; The forceful spear his hollow corslet broke, It ripp'd his belly with a ghastly wound, And roll'd the smoking entrails on the ground. Stretch'd on the plain, he sobs away his breath, And, furious, grasps the bloody dust in death. The victor from his breast the weapon tears; His spoils he could not, for the shower of spears. Though now unfit an active war to wage, Heavy with cumbrous arms, stiff with cold age, His listless limbs