And now the Greeks from furious Hector’s force, Urge to broad Hellespont their headlong course; Nor yet their chiefs Patroclus’ body bore Safe through the tempest to the tented shore. The horse, the foot, with equal fury join’d, Pour’d on the rear, and thunder’d close behind: And like a flame through fields of ripen’d corn, The rage of Hector o’er the ranks was borne. Thrice the slain hero by the foot he drew; Thrice to the skies the Trojan clamours flew: As oft the Ajaces his assault sustain; But check’d, he turns; repuls’d, attacks again. With fiercer shouts his lingering troops he fires, Nor yields a step, nor from his post retires: So watchful shepherds strive to force, in vain, The hungry lion from a carcase slain. Even yet Patroclus had he borne away, And all the glories of the extended day, Had not high Juno from the realms of air, Secret, despatch’d her trusty messenger. The various goddess of the showery bow, Shot in a whirlwind to the shore below; To great Achilles at his ships she came, And thus began the many-colour’d dame: