O Zeus above, who checked my conquering way,Who baulked the hungry lion of his preyOr ever I could sweep my country clearOf these despoilers, dost thou hate my spear?Had but the sun’s bright arrows failed me not,I ne’er had rested till the ships were hotWith fire, and through the tents upon the plainThis bloody hand had passed and passed again!Myself, I longed to try the battle-castBy night, and use God’s vantage to the last,But sage and prophet, learned in the wayOf seercraft, bade me wait for dawn of day,And then—leave no Greek living in the land.They wait not, they, for what my prophets plannedSo sagely. In the dark a runawayBeats a pursuer.Through our whole arraySend runners! Bid them shake off sleep and waitReady with shield and spear. ’Tis not too lateTo catch them as they climb on board, and slashTheir crouching shoulders till the gangways splashWith blood, or teach them, fettered leg and arm,To dig the stiff clods of some Trojan farm.LEADER.My Prince, thy words run fast. Nor thou nor IHave knowledge yet that the Greeks mean to fly.HECTOR.What makes them light their beacons? Tell me, what?LEADER.God knows! And, for my part, I like it not.HECTOR.What, feared? Thou wouldst be feared of everything!LEADER.They never lit such light before, O King.HECTOR.They never fled, man, in such wild dismay.