Your camp a spear-swept causeway builded wideTo where beached galleys flame above the dead.Him slay, and all is won. Let Hector’s headSleep where it lies and draw unvexèd breath;Another’s work, not thine, is Hector’s death.ODYSSEUS.Most high Athena, well I know the soundOf that immortal voice. ’Tis ever foundMy helper in great perils.—Where doth lieRhesus, mid all this host of Barbary?numeration out of sync: 612 omitted ATHENA.Full near he lies, not mingled with the hostOf Troy, but here beyond the lines—a postOf quiet till the dawn, that Hector found.And near him, by his Thracian chariot bound,Two snow-white coursers gleam against the wanMoon, like the white wing of a river swan.Their master slain, take these to thine own hearth,A wondrous spoil; there hides not upon earthA chariot-team of war so swift and fair.ODYSSEUS.Say, Diomede, wilt make the men thy share,Or catch the steeds and leave the fight to me?