He dauntless thus: “Thou conqueror of the fair, Thou woman-warrior with the curling hair; Vain archer! trusting to the distant dart, Unskill’d in arms to act a manly part! Thou hast but done what boys or women can; Such hands may wound, but not incense a man. Nor boast the scratch thy feeble arrow gave, A coward’s weapon never hurts the brave. Not so this dart, which thou may’st one day feel; Fate wings its flight, and death is on the steel: Where this but lights, some noble life expires; Its touch makes orphans, bathes the cheeks of sires, Steeps earth in purple, gluts the birds of air, And leaves such objects as distract the fair.” Ulysses hastens with a trembling heart, Before him steps, and bending draws the dart: Forth flows the blood; an eager pang succeeds; Tydides mounts, and to the navy speeds.