And hearth-stone, were well frighted, through the muteAnd wolfish thickets thus to hear him break.A great and rushing noise those Thracians make,Marching. We, all astonied, ran to driveOur sheep to the upmost heights. ’Twas some Argive,We thought, who came to sweep the mountain clearAnd waste thy folds; till suddenly our earCaught at their speech, and knew ’twas nothing Greek.Then all our terror fled. I ran to seekSome scout or pioneer who led the vanAnd called in Thracian: Ho, what child of manDoth lead you? From what nation do ye bringThis host with aid to Ilion and her king?He told me what I sought, and there I stoodWatching; and saw one gleaming like a God,Tall in the darkness on a Thracian car.A plate of red gold mated, like a bar,His coursers’ necks, white, white as fallen snow.A carven targe, with golden shapes aglow,Hung o’er his back. Before each courser’s head