Remain the prize of Nestor's youthful son. Stabb'd at the sight, Deiphobus drew nigh, And made, with force, the vengeful weapon fly. The Cretan saw; and, stooping, caused to glance From his slope shield the disappointed lance. Beneath the spacious targe, (a blazing round, Thick with bull-hides and brazen orbits bound, On his raised arm by two strong braces stay'd,) He lay collected in defensive shade. O'er his safe head the javelin idly sung, And on the tinkling verge more faintly rung. Even then the spear the vigorous arm confess'd, And pierced, obliquely, king Hypsenor's breast: Warm'd in his liver, to the ground it bore The chief, his people's guardian now no more! "Not unattended (the proud Trojan cries) Nor unrevenged, lamented Asius lies: For thee, through hell's black portals stand display'd, This mate shall joy thy melancholy shade." Heart-piercing anguish, at the haughty boast, Touch'd every Greek, but Nestor's son the most. Grie