For this he grieved; and, till the Greeks oppress'd Required his arm, he sorrow'd unredress'd. Large gifts they promise, and their elders send; In vain--he arms not, but permits his friend His arms, his steeds, his forces to employ: He marches, combats, almost conquers Troy: Then slain by Phoebus (Hector had the name) At once resigns his armour, life, and fame. But thou, in pity, by my prayer be won: Grace with immortal arms this short-lived son, And to the field in martial pomp restore, To shine with glory, till he shines no more!" To her the artist-god: "Thy griefs resign, Secure, what Vulcan can, is ever thine. O could I hide him from the Fates, as well, Or with these hands the cruel stroke repel, As I shall forge most envied arms, the gaze Of wondering ages, and the world's amaze!" Thus having said, the father of the fires To the black labours of his forge retires. Soon as he bade them blow, the bellows turn'd Their iron mouths; and where the furnace burn'd, Resounding breathed: at once the blast expires, And twenty forges catch at once the fires; Just as the god directs, now loud, now low, They raise a tempest, or they gently blow; In hissing flames huge silver bars are roll'd, And stubborn brass, and tin, and solid gold; Before, deep fix'd, the eternal anvils stand; The ponderous hammer loads his better hand, His left with tongs turns the vex'd metal round, And thick, strong strokes, the doubling vaults rebound. Then first he form'd the immense and solid shield; Rich various artifice emblazed the field; Its utmost verge a threefold circle bound;(253) A silver chain suspends the massy round; Five ample plates the broad expanse compose, And godlike labours on the surface rose. There shone the image of the master-mind: There earth, there heaven, there ocean he design'd; The unwearied sun, the moon completely round; The starry lights that heaven's high convex crown'd; The Ple