Helms

"O son of Tydeus, bravest of the race, / why could not I have perished, too, that day / beneath thine arm, and breathed this soul away / far on the plains of Troy, where Hector brave / lay, pierced by fierce AEacide, where lay / giant Sarpedon, and swift Simois' wave / rolls heroes, helms and shields, whelmed in one watery grave?"

Here first with missiles, from a temple's height / hurled by our comrades, we are crushed and slain, / and piteous is the slaughter, at the sight / of Argive helms for Argive foes mista'en.