lfully now, nor returning among us hereafter,
Lest neither sceptre of gold nor the wreath of the God may avail thee.
Her will I never surrender, be sure, until age has attain'd her
Far from the land of her birth, in our own habitation of Argos,
Plying the task of her web and attending the couch of her master.
Hence with thee! Stir me no more: the return to thy home were the safer."
So did he speak; and the elder, in terror, obey'd the commandment.
Silent he went on his way, where the sea-waves roar'd on the sand-beach,
Till at a distance remote, when the voice of his strong supplication
Call'd on Apollo the King, that was born of the ringleted Leto:--
"Hear me, Protector divine, both of Chrysa and beautiful Killa,
God of the silvery bow, over Tenedos mightily reigning!
Smintheus! Hear, if my hand ever garnish'd thy glorious temple,
Crowning the horns of the altar with beauty, and burning before thee
Fatness of bulls or of goats: hear now, and fulfill my petition.
Oh, let the Argives atone for my tears by the shafts of thy quiver!"
So did he speak; and Apollo gave ear to the prayer of his servant.
He from the peaks of Olympus descended, his bosom in anger,
Bearing on shoulder the bow and the well-fenc'd girth of his quiver.
Rattled the arrows therein on the back of the Deity wrathful,
Step upon step as he moved; but he came like the darkness of Nightfall.
Then did he seat him apart from the ships, and discharging an arrow,
Fearful afar was the clang of the silvery bow of Apollo.
Mules, at the first, were his aim, and the swiftness of dogs was
arrested;
But on themselves, right soon, with the sure-wing'd darts of destruction
Smote he, and wide on the shore was the flame of continual death-fires.
Nine days' space, on the leaguer the shafts of the Godhead were flying;
Then, on the tenth, were the people convok'd by the noble Achilleus,
Mov'd unto this, in his mind, by the Goddess majestical Hera,
For she was griev'd in her heart at the sight of the dying Achaians.
But when the host were conven'd, thus spake swift-footed Peleides:--
"Wand'ring again is our doom, as it seems to my mind, Agamemnon!
Home to escape as we may, unless death be the issue to welcome,
Since not the battle alone, but the pestilence wastes the Achaians.
Come, without witless delay, let some prophet or priest be consulted,
Yea, or expounder of dreams, (for the dream, too, c