There charge our mother, that she go direct, 105
With the assembled matrons, to the fane
Of Pallas in the citadel of Troy. 
Opening her chambers’ sacred doors, of all
Her treasured mantles there, let her select
The widest, most magnificently wrought, 110
And which she values most; that let her spread
On Athenaean Pallas’ lap divine.[7]
Twelve heifers of the year yet never touch’d
With puncture of the goad, let her alike
Devote to her, if she will pity Troy, 115
Our wives and little ones, and will avert
The son of Tydeus from these sacred towers,
That dreadful Chief, terror of all our host,
Bravest, in my account, of all the Greeks. 
For never yet Achilles hath himself 120
So taught our people fear, although esteemed
Son of a Goddess.  But this warrior’s rage
Is boundless, and his strength past all compare. 
So Helenus; nor Hector not complied. 
Down from his chariot instant to the ground 125
All arm’d he leap’d, and, shaking his sharp spears,
Through every phalanx pass’d, rousing again
Their courage, and rekindling horrid war. 
They, turning, faced the Greeks; the Greeks repulsed,
Ceased from all carnage, nor supposed they less 130
Than that some Deity, the starry skies
Forsaken, help’d their foes, so firm they stood. 
But Hector to the Trojans call’d aloud. 
Ye dauntless Trojans and confederate powers
Call’d from afar! now be ye men, my friends, 135
Now summon all the fury of your might! 
I go to charge our senators and wives
That they address the Gods with prayers and vows
For our success, and hecatombs devote. 
So saying the Hero went, and as he strode 140
The sable hide that lined his bossy shield
Smote on his neck and on his ancle-bone. 
And now into the middle space between
Both hosts, the son of Tydeus and the son
Moved of Hippolochus, intent alike 145
On furious combat; face to face they stood,
And thus heroic Diomede began. 
Most noble Champion! who of human kind
Art thou,[8] whom in the man-ennobling fight
I now encounter first?  Past all thy peers 150
I must esteem thee valiant, who hast dared
To meet my coming, and my spear defy. 
Ah! they are sons of miserable sires
Who dare my might; but if a God from heaven
Thou come, behold!  I fight not with the Gods. 155
That war Lycurgus son of Dryas waged,
And saw not many years.  The nurses he
Of brain-disturbing Bacchus down the steep
Pursued of sacred Nyssa; they their wands
Vine-wreathed cast all away, with an ox-goad 160
Chastised by fell Lycurgus.  Bacchus plunged
Meantime dismay’d into the deep, where him
Trembling, and at the Hero’s haughty threats