175
The royal Agamemnon, sighing, grasp’d
The hand of Menelaus, and while all
Their followers sigh’d around them, thus began.[9]
I swore thy death, my brother, when I swore
This truce, and set thee forth in sight of Greeks 180
And Trojans, our sole champion; for the foe
Hath trodden underfoot his sacred oath,
And stained it with thy blood.  But not in vain,
The truce was ratified, the blood of lambs
Poured forth, libation made, and right hands join’d 185
In holy confidence.  The wrath of Jove
May sleep, but will not always; they shall pay
Dear penalty; their own obnoxious heads
Shall be the mulct, their children and their wives. 
For this I know, know surely; that a day 190
Shall come, when Ilium, when the warlike King
Of Ilium and his host shall perish all. 
Saturnian Jove high-throned, dwelling in heaven,
Resentful of this outrage, then shall shake
His storm-clad AEgis over them.  He will; 195
I speak no fable.  Time shall prove me true. 
But, oh my Menelaus, dire distress
Awaits me, if thy close of life be come,
And thou must die.  Then ignominy foul
Shall hunt me back to Argos long-desired; 200
For then all here will recollect their home,
And, hope abandoning, will Helen yield
To be the boast of Priam, and of Troy. 
So shall our toils be vain, and while thy bones
Shall waste these clods beneath, Troy’s haughty sons 205
The tomb of Menelaus glory-crown’d
Insulting barbarous, shall scoff at me. 
So may Atrides, shall they say, perform
His anger still as he performed it here,
Whither he led an unsuccessful host, 210
Whence he hath sail’d again without the spoils,
And where he left his brother’s bones to rot. 
So shall the Trojan speak; then open earth
Her mouth, and hide me in her deepest gulfs! 
But him, the hero of the golden locks 215
Thus cheer’d.  My brother, fear not, nor infect
With fear the Grecians; the sharp-pointed reed
Hath touch’d no vital part.  The broider’d zone,
The hauberk, and the tough interior quilt,
Work of the armorer, its force repress’d. 220
Him answer’d Agamemnon, King of men. 
So be it brother! but the hand of one
Skilful to heal shall visit and shall dress
The wound with drugs of pain-assuaging power. 
He ended, and his noble herald, next, 225
Bespake, Talthybius.  Haste, call hither quick
The son of AEsculapius, leech renown’d,
The prince Machaon.  Bid him fly to attend
The warlike Chieftain Menelaus; him
Some archer, either Lycian or of Troy, 230
A dexterous one, hath stricken with a shaft
To his own glory, and to our distress. 
He spake, nor him the herald disobey’d,