The son of Panthus, skill*d the dart to send,
To me the spoils my prowess won, resign:
On the cold earth divine Patroclus spread, ILIAD
Lies pierced with wounds among the vulgar dead. XVII
Oreat Menelaiis, touch'd with generous woe,
Springs to the front, and guards him from the foe.
Thus round her new=fallen young the heifer moves,
Fruit of her throes, and first=born of her loves;
And anxious (helpless as he lies, and bare)
Turns, and re=turns her, with a mother's care,
Opposed to each that near the carcase came.
His broad shield glimmers, and his lances flame.
Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend.
»This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low
Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow:
Depart with life, and leave the glory mine.«
The Trojan thus: the Spartan monarch burn'd
With generous anguish, and in scorn return'd:
»Laugh'stthou not, Jove! from thy superior throne
V^hen mortals boast of prowess not their own?
Not thus the lion glories in his might,
Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight,
Nor thus the boar (those terrors of the plain;)
Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.
Bat far the vainest of the boastful kind,
These sons of Panthus vent their haughty mind.
Yet 'twas but late, beneath my conquering steel
Gebr. Klingspor, SchriftgieSerei, Offenbach a. M. Grobe Koch-Antiqua von Rudolf Koch, Offenbach a. M.