Then parts the lance: but Pallas’ heavenly breath Far from Achilles wafts the winged death: The bidden dart again to Hector flies, And at the feet of its great master lies. Achilles closes with his hated foe, His heart and eyes with flaming fury glow: But present to his aid, Apollo shrouds The favour’d hero in a veil of clouds. Thrice struck Pelides with indignant heart, Thrice in impassive air he plunged the dart; The spear a fourth time buried in the cloud. He foams with fury, and exclaims aloud: