So ranged they stood; Achilles show’d the goal
Far on the champain, nigh to which he placed
The godlike Phoenix servant of his sire,
To mark the race and make a true report. 455
All raised the lash at once, and with the reins
At once all smote their steeds, urging them on
Vociferous; they, sudden, left the fleet
Far, far behind them, scouring swift the plain. 
Dark, like a stormy cloud, uprose the dust 460
Their chests beneath, and scatter’d in the wind
Their manes all floated; now the chariots swept
The low declivity unseen, and now
Emerging started into view; erect
The drivers stood; emulous, every heart 465
Beat double; each encouraged loud his steeds;
They, flying, fill’d with dust the darken’d air. 
But when returning to the hoary deep
They ran their last career, then each display’d
Brightest his charioteership, and the race 470
Lay stretch’d, at once, into its utmost speed. 
Then, soon the mares of Pheretiades[14]
Pass’d all, but Diomede behind him came,
Borne by his unemasculated steeds
Of Trojan pedigree; they not remote, 475
But close pursued him; and at every pace
Seem’d entering both; the chariot at their head,
For blowing warm into Eumelus’ neck
Behind, and on his shoulders broad, they went,
And their chins rested on him as they flew. 480
Then had Tydides pass’d him, or had made
Decision dubious, but Apollo struck,
Resentful,[15] from his hand the glittering scourge. 
Fast roll’d the tears indignant down his cheeks,
For he beheld the mares with double speed, 485
Flying, and of the spur deprived, his own
Retarded steeds continual thrown behind. 
But not unnoticed by Minerva pass’d
The art by Phoebus practised to impede
The son of Tydeus, whom with winged haste 490
Following, she gave to him his scourge again,
And with new force his lagging steeds inspired. 
Eumelus, next, the angry Goddess, swift
Pursuing, snapt his yoke; wide flew the mares
Asunder, and the pole fell to the ground. 495
Himself, roll’d from his seat, fast by the wheel
With lacerated elbows, nostrils, mouth,
And batter’d brows lay prone; sorrow his eyes
Deluged, and disappointment chok’d his voice. 
Then, far outstripping all, Tydides push’d 500
His steeds beyond, which Pallas fill’d with power
That she might make the glorious prize his own. 
Him follow’d Menelaus amber-hair’d,
The son of Atreus, and his father’s steeds
Encouraging, thus spake Antilochus. 505
Away—­now stretch ye forward to the goal. 
I bid you not to an unequal strife
With those of Diomede, for Pallas them
Quickens that he may conquer, and the Chief