But, as a dove that braves a falcon, stood
Penthesilea, wrath outcasting fear,
Or as a hind, that in the darkling wood
Withstands a lion for her younglings dear;
So stood the girl before Achilles' spear;
In vain, for singing from his hand it sped,
And crash'd through shield and breastplate till the sheer
Cold bronze drank blood, and down the queen fell dead.
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