Is bitterness to him who dies—how not?
Yet fame and honour crown his living kin. 760
But, as a fool dies, fameless we have died.
For, soon as Hector pointed us our quarters,
And told the watchword, couched on earth we slept,
Outworn with toil: our host no watchmen set
For nightlong guard, nor rank by rank were laid 765
Our arms, nor from the horses' yokes were hung
The car-whips, since our king had word that ye
Were camped triumphant nigh the galley-sterns:
So, careless all, we flung us down and slept.
Now I with heedful heart from slumber rose, 770
And dealt the steeds their corn with stintless hand,
Looking to yoke them with the dawn for fight.
Then spied I twain that prowled around our host
Through the thick gloom; but, soon as I bestirred me,
They cowered low, and straight drew back again. 775
I cried to them to come not near our host,—
Deeming some thieves from our allies drew nigh:—
Nought said they; neither added I thereto,
But to my couch went back and slept again.
And in my sleep a vision nightmared me:— 780
The steeds I tended, and at Rhesus' side
Drave in the car, I saw as in a dream
Mounted of wolves that rode upon their backs;
And with their tails these lashed the horses' flanks,
Scourging them on. They snorted, and outbreathed 785
Rage from their nostrils, tossing high their manes.[1]
I, even in act to save from those fierce things
The steeds, woke: the night-horror smote me awake.
Then death-moans, as I raised my head, I heard;
- ↑ Reading φόβην.
