Classic Poem

i.43

So spake he, supplicating; and him heard Phoibos Apollo.
Down from the peaks of Olympus the God came, ire in his bosom,
Over his shoulders bearing a bow and a close-covered quiver,
Whereof loudly the darts on the back of the God being ireful,
Rattled in onward motion; his coming was like to the nightfall.
Off one stretch from the vessels he sat, forthwith loosed an arrow.
Then was the clang of the argent arc a resounder terrific;
Mules, as it happed, & the fleet-foot dogs were the first of his victims
But, full soon, now, the God, letting fly a keen barb at the armed men,
Smote; aye then on the pyres smoked burnings of numberless corpses.