Part 2 (1/2)

HECTOR.

To arms, Aeneas! Arm from head to heel!

AENEAS. [vv. 91-109]

What is it? Tidings? Doth the Argive steal Some march, some ambush in the day's eclipse?

HECTOR.

'Tis flight, man! They are marching to the s.h.i.+ps.

AENEAS.

How know'st thou?--Have we proof that it is flight?

HECTOR.

They are burning beacon-fires the livelong night.

They never mean to wait till dawn. Behind That screen of light they are climbing in the blind Dark to their s.h.i.+ps--unmooring from our coast.

AENEAS (_looking toward the distant fires: after a pause_).

G.o.d guide them!--Why then do you arm the host?

HECTOR.

I mean to lame them in their climbing, I And my good spear, and break them as they fly.

Black shame it were, and folly worse than shame, To let these spoilers go the road they came Unpunished, when G.o.d gives them to us here.

AENEAS.

Brother, I would thy wit were like thy spear!

But Nature wills not one man should be wise In all things; each must seek his separate prize.

And thine is battle pure. There comes this word Of beacons, on the touch thy soul is stirred: [vv. 110-136]

”They fly! Out horse and chariots!”--Out withal Past stake and trench, while night hangs like a pall!

Say, when we cross that coiling depth of d.y.k.e, We find the foe not fled, but turned to strike; One check there, and all hope of good return Is gone. How can our men, returning, learn The tricks of the palisade? The chariots how Keep to the bridges on the trenches' brow, Save with jammed wheels and broken axles? Aye, And say thou conquer: other wars yet lie Before thee. Peleus' son, for all his ire, Will never let thee touch the s.h.i.+ps with fire Or pounce on his Greek lambs. The man will bide No wrong and standeth on a tower of pride.

Nay, brother, let the army, head on s.h.i.+eld, Sleep off its long day's labour in the field: Then, send a spy; find someone who will dare Creep to yon Argive camp. Then, if 'tis clear They mean flight, on and smite them as they fly.

Else, if the beacons hide some strategy, The spy will read it out, and we can call A council.--Thus speak I, my general.

CHORUS. [_Strophe._

'Tis good! 'Tis wisdom! Prince, give heed And change the word thy pa.s.sion gave.

No soldier loveth, in his need, The glory of a chief too brave.

A spy is best: a spy, to learn For what strange work those beacons burn All night beside the guarded wave.

HECTOR. [vv. 137-157]

Ye all so wish it?--Well, ye conquer me.