Then comes the champion of them all,
Pelides’ friend is he,
And crashes through the dense array,
Though thousands ten they be!
And ever smites that fiery sword
Through helmet, shield, and mail;
Until he falls by craft divine,
Where might could not prevail.
Down from the glorious pile he rolls,
Which he himself had made,
And foemen trample on the limbs
From which they shrank afraid.
Then start I up, with arms in hand,
What arms the painter bears;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.
On! on again! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead!
I throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din;
For there, around their hero’s corpse,
Fight on his furious kin!
A rescue! rescue! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier.
And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady’s picture near—
A picture yet so warm!
How fair she was, reclining there;
What languish in her look!
How thrill’d her glance through all my frame!
The very pencil shook.
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.