Of 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?