The Fall of Troy by Quintus Smyrnaeus (page 2)

And death, the dally round that maketh up The eternal circuit of the rolling years. And now amongst the Blessed bitter feud
Had broken out; but by behest of Zeus The twin Fates suddenly stood beside these twain, One dark — her shadow fell on Memnon’s heart; One bright — her radiance haloed Peleus’ son. And with a great cry the Immortals saw,
And filled with sorrow they of the one part were, They of the other with triumphant joy.

Still in the midst of blood-stained battle-rout Those heroes fought, unknowing of the Fates Now drawn so nigh, but each at other hurled His whole heart’s courage, all his bodily might. Thou hadst said that in the strife of that dread day Huge tireless Giants or strong Titans warred, So fiercely blazed the wildfire of their strife, Now, when they clashed with swords, now when they leapt Hurling huge stones. Nor either would give back Before the hail of blows, nor quailed. They stood Like storm-tormented headlands steadfast, clothed With might past words, unearthly; for the twain Alike could boast their lineage of high Zeus. Therefore ‘twixt these Enyo lengthened out The even-balanced strife, while ever they In that grim wrestle strained their uttermost, They and their dauntless comrades, round their kings With ceaseless fury toiling, till their spears Stood shivered all in shields of warriors slain, And of the fighters woundless none remained; But from all limbs streamed down into the dust The blood and sweat of that unresting strain Of fight, and earth was hidden with the dead, As heaven is hidden with clouds when meets the sun The Goat-star, and the shipman dreads the deep. As charged the lines, the snorting chariot-steeds Trampled the dead, as on the myriad leaves Ye trample in the woods at entering-in
Of winter, when the autumn-tide is past.

Still mid the corpses and the blood fought on Those glorious sons of Gods, nor ever ceased From wrath of fight. But Eris now inclined The fatal scales of battle, which no more Were equal-poised. Beneath the breast-bone then Of godlike Memnon plunged Achilles’ sword; Clear through his body all the dark-blue blade Leapt: suddenly snapped the silver cord of life. Down in a pool of blood he fell, and clashed His massy armour, and earth rang again.
Then turned to flight his comrades panic-struck, And of his arms the Myrmidons stripped the dead, While fled the Trojans, and Achilles chased, As whirlwind swift and mighty to destroy.

Then groaned the Dawn, and palled herself in clouds, And earth was darkened. At their mother’s hest All the light Breathings of the Dawn took hands, And slid down one 1ong stream of sighing wind To Priam’s plain, and floated round the dead, And softly, swiftly caught they up, and bare Through silver mists the Dawn-queen’s son, with hearts Sore aching for their brother’s fall, while moaned Around them all the air. As on they passed, Fell many blood-gouts from those pierced limbs Down to the earth, and these were made a sign To generations yet to be. The Gods
Gathered them up from many lands, and made Thereof a far-resounding river, named
Of all that dwell beneath long Ida’s flanks Paphlagoneion. As its waters flow
‘Twixt fertile acres, once a year they turn To blood, when comes the woeful day whereon Died Memnon. Thence a sick and choking reek Steams: thou wouldst say that from a wound unhealed Corrupting humours breathed an evil stench. Ay, so the Gods ordained: but now flew on Bearing Dawn’s mighty son the rushing winds Skimming earth’s face and palled about with night.

Nor were his Aethiopian comrades left To wander of their King forlorn: a God
Suddenly winged those eager souls with speed Such as should soon be theirs for ever, changed To flying fowl, the children of the air. Wailing their King in the winds’ track they sped. As when a hunter mid the forest-brakes
Is by a boar or grim-jawed lion slain, And now his sorrowing friends take up the corse, And bear it heavy-hearted; and the hounds Follow low-whimpering, pining for their lord In that disastrous hunting lost; so they Left far behind that stricken field of blood, And fast they followed after those swift winds

With multitudinous moaning, veiled in mist Unearthly. Trojans over all the plain
And Danaans marvelled, seeing that great host Vanishing with their King. All hearts stood still In dumb amazement. But the tireless winds Sighing set hero Memnon’s giant corpse
Down by the deep flow of Aesopus’ stream, Where is a fair grove of the bright-haired Nymphs, The which round his long barrow afterward Aesopus’ daughters planted, screening it With many and manifold trees: and long and loud Wailed those Immortals, chanting his renown, The son of the Dawn-goddess splendour-throned.

Now sank the sun: the Lady of the Morn Wailing her dear child from the heavens came down. Twelve maidens shining-tressed attended her, The warders of the high paths of the sun For ever circling, warders of the night
And dawn, and each world-ordinance framed of Zeus, Around whose mansion’s everlasting doors From east to west they dance, from west to east, Whirling the wheels of harvest-laden years, While rolls the endless round of winter’s cold, And flowery spring, and lovely summer-tide, And heavy-clustered autumn. These came down From heaven, for Memnon wailing wild and high; And mourned with these the Pleiads. Echoed round Far-stretching mountains, and Aesopus’ stream. Ceaseless uprose the keen, and in their midst, Fallen on her son and clasping, wailed the Dawn; “Dead art thou, dear, dear child, and thou hast clad Thy mother with a pall of grief. Oh, I,
Now thou art slain, will not endure to light The Immortal Heavenly Ones! No, I will plunge Down to the dread depths of the underworld, Where thy lone spirit flitteth to and fro, And will to blind night leave earth, sky, and sea, Till Chaos and formless darkness brood o’er all, That Cronos’ Son may also learn what means Anguish of heart. For not less worship-worthy Than Nereus’ Child, by Zeus’s ordinance, Am I, who look on all things, I, who bring All to their consummation. Recklessly
My light Zeus now despiseth! Therefore I Will pass into the darkness. Let him bring Up to Olympus Thetis from the sea
To hold for him light forth to Gods and men! My sad soul loveth darkness more than day, Lest I pour light upon thy slayer’s head”

Thus as she cried, the tears ran down her face Immortal, like a river brimming aye:
Drenched was the dark earth round the corse. The Night Grieved in her daughter’s anguish, and the heaven Drew over all his stars a veil of mist
And cloud, of love unto the Lady of Light.

Meanwhile within their walls the Trojan folk For Memnon sorrowed sore, with vain regret Yearning for that lost king and all his host. Nor greatly joyed the Argives, where they lay Camped in the open plain amidst the dead. There, mingled with Achilles’ praise, uprose Wails for Antilochus: joy clasped hands with grief.

All night in groans and sighs most pitiful The Dawn-queen lay: a sea of darkness moaned Around her. Of the dayspring nought she recked: She loathed Olympus’ spaces. At her side Fretted and whinnied still her fleetfoot steeds, Trampling the strange earth, gazing at their Queen Grief-stricken, yearning for the fiery course. Suddenly crashed the thunder of the wrath Of Zeus; rocked round her all the shuddering earth, And on immortal Eos trembling came.

Swiftly the dark-skinned Aethiops from her sight Buried their lord lamenting. As they wailed Unceasingly, the Dawn-queen lovely-eyed
Changed them to birds sweeping through air around The barrow of the mighty dead. And these Still do the tribes of men “The Memnons” call; And still with wailing cries they dart and wheel Above their king’s tomb, and they scatter dust Down on his grave, still shrill the battle-cry, In memory of Memnon, each to each.
But he in Hades’ mansions, or perchance Amid the Blessed on the Elysian Plain,
Laugheth. Divine Dawn comforteth her heart Beholding them: but theirs is toil of strife Unending, till the weary victors strike
The vanquished dead, or one and all fill up The measure of their doom around his grave.

So by command of Eos, Lady of Light,
The swift birds dree their weird. But Dawn divine Now heavenward soared with the all-fostering Hours, Who drew her to Zeus’ threshold, sorely loth, Yet conquered by their gentle pleadings, such As salve the bitterest grief of broken hearts. Nor the Dawn-queen forgat her daily course, But quailed before the unbending threat of Zeus, Of whom are all things, even all comprised Within the encircling sweep of Ocean’s stream, Earth and the palace-dome of burning stars. Before her went her Pleiad-harbingers,
Then she herself flung wide the ethereal gates, And, scattering spray of splendour, flashed there-through.

BOOK III

How by the shaft of a God laid low was Hero Achilles.

When shone the light of Dawn the splendour-throned, Then to the ships the Pylian spearmen bore Antilochus’ corpse, sore sighing for their prince, And by the Hellespont they buried him
With aching hearts. Around him groaning stood The battle-eager sons of Argives, all,
Of love for Nestor, shrouded o’er with grief. But that grey hero’s heart was nowise crushed By sorrow; for the wise man’s soul endures Bravely, and cowers not under affliction’s stroke. But Peleus’ son, wroth for Antilochus
His dear friend, armed for vengeance terrible Upon the Trojans. Yea, and these withal, Despite their dread of mighty Achilles’ spear, Poured battle-eager forth their gates, for now The Fates with courage filled their breasts, of whom Many were doomed to Hades to descend,
Whence there is no return, thrust down by hands Of Aeacus’ son, who also was foredoomed
To perish that same day by Priam’s wall. Swift met the fronts of conflict: all the tribes Of Troy’s host, and the battle-biding Greeks, Afire with that new-kindled fury of war.

Then through the foe the son of Peleus made Wide havoc: all around the earth was drenched With gore, and choked with corpses were the streams Of Simois and Xanthus. Still he chased,
Still slaughtered, even to the city’s walls; For panic fell on all the host. And now
All had he slain, had dashed the gates to earth, Rending them from their hinges, or the bolts, Hurling himself against them, had he snapped, And for the Danaans into Priam’s burg
Had made a way, had utterly destroyed That goodly town — but now was Phoebus wroth Against him with grim fury, when he saw
Those countless troops of heroes slain of him. Down from Olympus with a lion-leap
He came: his quiver on his shoulders lay, And shafts that deal the wounds incurable. Facing Achilles stood he; round him clashed Quiver and arrows; blazed with quenchless flame His eyes, and shook the earth beneath his feet. Then with a terrible shout the great God cried, So to turn back from war Achilles awed
By the voice divine, and save from death the Trojans: “Back from the Trojans, Peleus’ son! Beseems not That longer thou deal death unto thy foes, Lest an Olympian God abase thy pride.”

But nothing quailed the hero at the voice Immortal, for that round him even now
Hovered the unrelenting Fates. He recked Naught of the God, and shouted his defiance. “Phoebus, why dost thou in mine own despite Stir me to fight with Gods, and wouldst protect The arrogant Trojans? Heretofore hast thou By thy beguiling turned me from the fray, When from destruction thou at the first didst save Hector, whereat the Trojans all through Troy Exulted. Nay, thou get thee back: return Unto the mansion of the Blessed, lest
I smite thee — ay, immortal though thou be!”

Then on the God he turned his back, and sped After the Trojans fleeing cityward,
And harried still their flight; but wroth at heart Thus Phoebus spake to his indignant soul: “Out on this man! he is sense-bereft! But now Not Zeus himself nor any other Power
Shall save this madman who defies the Gods!”

From mortal sight he vanished into cloud, And cloaked with mist a baleful shaft he shot Which leapt to Achilles’ ankle: sudden pangs With mortal sickness made his whole heart faint. He reeled, and like a tower he fell, that falls Smit by a whirlwind when an earthquake cleaves A chasm for rushing blasts from underground; So fell the goodly form of Aeacus’ son.
He glared, a murderous glance, to right, to left, [Upon the Trojans, and a terrible threat] Shouted, a threat that could not be fulfilled: “Who shot at me a stealthy-smiting shaft? Let him but dare to meet me face to face! So shall his blood and all his bowels gush out About my spear, and he be hellward sped! I know that none can meet me man to man
And quell in fight — of earth-born heroes none, Though such an one should bear within his breast A heart unquailing, and have thews of brass. But dastards still in stealthy ambush lurk For lives of heroes. Let him face me then! — Ay! though he be a God whose anger burns Against the Danaans! Yea, mine heart forebodes That this my smiter was Apollo, cloaked
In deadly darkness. So in days gone by My mother told me how that by his shafts I was to die before the Scaean Gates
A piteous death. Her words were not vain words.”

Then with unflinching hands from out the wound Incurable he drew the deadly shaft
In agonized pain. Forth gushed the blood; his heart Waxed faint beneath the shadow of coming doom. Then in indignant wrath he hurled from him The arrow: a sudden gust of wind swept by, And caught it up, and, even as he trod
Zeus’ threshold, to Apollo gave it back; For it beseemed not that a shaft divine, Sped forth by an Immortal, should be lost. He unto high Olympus swiftly came,
To the great gathering of immortal Gods, Where all assembled watched the war of men, These longing for the Trojans’ triumph, those For Danaan victory; so with diverse wills Watched they the strife, the slayers and the slain.

Him did the Bride of Zeus behold, and straight Upbraided with exceeding bitter words:
“What deed of outrage, Phoebus, hast thou done This day, forgetful of that day whereon
To godlike Peleus’ spousals gathered all The Immortals? Yea, amidst the feasters thou Sangest how Thetis silver-footed left
The sea’s abysses to be Peleus’ bride; And as thou harpedst all earth’s children came To hearken, beasts and birds, high craggy hills, Rivers, and all deep-shadowed forests came. All this hast thou forgotten, and hast wrought A ruthless deed, hast slain a godlike man, Albeit thou with other Gods didst pour
The nectar, praying that he might be the son By Thetis given to Peleus. But that prayer Hast thou forgotten, favouring the folk
Of tyrannous Laomedon, whose kine
Thou keptest. He, a mortal, did despite To thee, the deathless! O, thou art wit-bereft! Thou favourest Troy, thy sufferings all forgot. Thou wretch, and doth thy false heart know not this, What man is an offence, and meriteth
Suffering, and who is honoured of the Gods? Ever Achilles showed us reverence — yea, Was of our race. Ha, but the punishment
Of Troy, I ween, shall not be lighter, though Aeacus’ son have fallen; for his son
Right soon shall come from Scyros to the war To help the Argive men, no less in might Than was his sire, a bane to many a foe. But thou — thou for the Trojans dost not care, But for his valour enviedst Peleus’ son, Seeing he was the mightest of all men.
Thou fool! how wilt thou meet the Nereid’s eyes, When she shall stand in Zeus’ hall midst the Gods, Who praised thee once, and loved as her own son?”

So Hera spake, in bitterness of soul
Upbraiding, but he answered her not a word, Of reverence for his mighty Father’s bride; Nor could he lift his eyes to meet her eyes, But sat abashed, aloof from all the Gods Eternal, while in unforgiving wrath
Scowled on him all the Immortals who maintained The Danaans’ cause; but such as fain would bring Triumph to Troy, these with exultant hearts Extolled him, hiding it from Hera’s eyes, Before whose wrath all Heaven-abiders shrank.

But Peleus’ son the while forgat not yet War’s fury: still in his invincible limbs The hot blood throbbed, and still he longed for fight. Was none of all the Trojans dared draw nigh The stricken hero, but at distance stood, As round a wounded lion hunters stand
Mid forest-brakes afraid, and, though the shaft Stands in his heart, yet faileth not in him His royal courage, but with terrible glare Roll his fierce eyes, and roar his grimly jaws; So wrath and anguish of his deadly hurt
To fury stung Peleides’ soul; but aye His strength ebbed through the god-envenomed wound. Yet leapt he up, and rushed upon the foe, And flashed the lightning of his lance; it slew The goodly Orythaon, comrade stout
Of Hector, through his temples crashing clear: His helm stayed not the long lance fury-sped Which leapt therethrough, and won within the bones The heart of the brain, and spilt his lusty life. Then stabbed he ‘neath the brow Hipponous Even to the eye-roots, that the eyeball fell To earth: his soul to Hades flitted forth. Then through the jaw he pierced Alcathous, And shore away his tongue: in dust he fell Gasping his life out, and the spear-head shot Out through his ear. These, as they rushed on him, That hero slew; but many a fleer’s life
He spilt, for in his heart still leapt the blood.

But when his limbs grew chill, and ebbed away His spirit, leaning on his spear he stood, While still the Trojans fled in huddled rout Of panic, and he shouted unto them:
“Trojan and Dardan cravens, ye shall not Even in my death, escape my merciless spear, But unto mine Avenging Spirits ye
Shall pay — ay, one and all — destruction’s debt!”

He spake; they heard and quailed: as mid the hills Fawns tremble at a lion’s deep-mouthed roar, And terror-stricken flee the monster, so The ranks of Trojan chariot-lords, the lines Of battle-helpers drawn from alien lands, Quailed at the last shout of Achilles, deemed That he was woundless yet. But ‘neath the weight Of doom his aweless heart, his mighty limbs, At last were overborne. Down midst the dead He fell, as fails a beetling mountain-cliff. Earth rang beneath him: clanged with a thundercrash His arms, as Peleus’ son the princely fell. And still his foes with most exceeding dread Stared at him, even as, when some murderous beast Lies slain by shepherds, tremble still the sheep Eyeing him, as beside the fold he lies,
And shrinking, as they pass him, far aloof And, even as he were living, fear him dead; So feared they him, Achilles now no more.

Yet Paris strove to kindle those faint hearts; For his own heart exulted, and he hoped, Now Peleus’ son, the Danaans’ strength, had fallen, Wholly to quench the Argive battle-fire: “Friends, if ye help me truly and loyally, Let us this day die, slain by Argive men, Or live, and hale to Troy with Hector’s steeds In triumph Peleus’ son thus fallen dead, The steeds that, grieving, yearning for their lord To fight have borne me since my brother died. Might we with these but hale Achilles slain, Glory were this for Hector’s horses, yea, For Hector — if in Hades men have sense Of righteous retribution. This man aye
Devised but mischief for the sons of Troy; And now Troy’s daughters with exultant hearts From all the city streets shall gather round, As pantheresses wroth for stolen cubs,
Or lionesses, might stand around a man Whose craft in hunting vexed them while he lived. So round Achilles — a dead corpse at last! — In hurrying throngs Troy’s daughters then shall come In unforgiving, unforgetting hate,
For parents wroth, for husbands slain, for sons, For noble kinsmen. Most of all shall joy My father, and the ancient men, whose feet Unwillingly are chained within the walls By eld, if we shall hale him through our gates, And give our foe to fowls of the air for meat.”

Then they, which feared him theretofore, in haste Closed round the corpse of strong-heart Aeacus’ son, Glaucus, Aeneas, battle-fain Agenor,
And other cunning men in deadly fight, Eager to hale him thence to Ilium
The god-built burg. But Aias failed him not. Swiftly that godlike man bestrode the dead: Back from the corpse his long lance thrust them all. Yet ceased they not from onslaught; thronging round, Still with swift rushes fought they for the prize, One following other, like to long-lipped bees Which hover round their hive in swarms on swarms To drive a man thence; but he, recking naught Of all their fury, carveth out the combs Of nectarous honey: harassed sore are they By smoke-reek and the robber; spite of all Ever they dart against him; naught cares he; So naught of all their onsets Aias recked; But first he stabbed Agelaus in the breast, And slew that son of Maion: Thestor next: Ocythous he smote, Agestratus,
Aganippus, Zorus, Nessus, Erymas
The war-renowned, who came from Lycia-land With mighty-hearted Glaucus, from his home In Melanippion on the mountain-ridge,
Athena’s fane, which Massikyton fronts Anigh Chelidonia’s headland, dreaded sore Of scared seafarers, when its lowering crags Must needs be doubled. For his death the blood Of famed Hippolochus’ son was horror-chilled; For this was his dear friend. With one swift thrust He pierced the sevenfold hides of Aias’ shield, Yet touched his flesh not; stayed the spear-head was By those thick hides and by the corset-plate Which lapped his battle-tireless limbs. But still From that stern conflict Glaucus drew not back, Burning to vanquish Aias, Aeacus’ son,
And in his folly vaunting threatened him: “Aias, men name thee mightiest man of all The Argives, hold thee in passing-high esteem Even as Achilles: therefore thou, I wot, By that dead warrior dead this day shalt lie!”

So hurled he forth a vain word, knowing not How far in might above him was the man
Whom his spear threatened. Battle-bider Aias Darkly and scornfully glaring on him, said “Thou craven wretch, and knowest thou not this, How much was Hector mightier than thou
In war-craft? yet before my might, my spear, He shrank. Ay, with his valour was there blent Discretion. Thou thy thoughts are deathward set, Who dar’st defy me to the battle, me,
A mightier far than thou! Thou canst not say That friendship of our fathers thee shall screen; Nor me thy gifts shall wile to let thee pass Scatheless from war, as once did Tydeus’ son. Though thou didst ‘scape his fury, will not I Suffer thee to return alive from war.
Ha, in thy many helpers dost thou trust Who with thee, like so many worthless flies, Flit round the noble Achilles’ corpse? To these Death and black doom shall my swift onset deal.”

Then on the Trojans this way and that he turned, As mid long forest-glens a lion turns
On hounds, and Trojans many and Lycians slew That came for honour hungry, till he stood Mid a wide ring of flinchers; like a shoal Of darting fish when sails into their midst Dolphin or shark, a huge sea-fosterling; So shrank they from the might of Telamon’s son, As aye he charged amidst the rout. But still Swarmed fighters up, till round Achilles’ corse To right, to left, lay in the dust the slain Countless, as boars around a lion at bay; And evermore the strife waxed deadlier.
Then too Hippolochus’ war-wise son was slain By Aias of the heart of fire. He fell
Backward upon Achilles, even as falls A sapling on a sturdy mountain-oak;
So quelled by the spear on Peleus’ son he fell. But for his rescue Anchises’ stalwart son Strove hard, with all his comrades battle-fain, And haled the corse forth, and to sorrowing friends Gave it, to bear to Ilium’s hallowed burg. Himself to spoil Achilles still fought on, Till warrior Aias pierced him with the spear Through the right forearm. Swiftly leapt he back From murderous war, and hasted thence to Troy. There for his healing cunning leeches wrought, Who stanched the blood-rush, and laid on the gash Balms, such as salve war-stricken warriors’ pangs.

But Aias still fought on: here, there he slew With thrusts like lightning-flashes. His great heart Ached sorely for his mighty cousin slain. And now the warrior-king Laertes’ son
Fought at his side: before him blenched the foe, As he smote down Peisander’s fleetfoot son, The warrior Maenalus, who left his home
In far-renowned Abydos: down on him He hurled Atymnius, the goodly son
Whom Pegasis the bright-haired Nymph had borne To strong Emathion by Granicus’ stream.
Dead by his side he laid Orestius’ son, Proteus, who dwelt ‘neath lofty Ida’s folds. Ah, never did his mother welcome home
That son from war, Panaceia beauty-famed! He fell by Odysseus’ hands, who spilt the lives Of many more whom his death-hungering spear Reached in that fight around the mighty dead. Yet Alcon, son of Megacles battle-swift, Hard by Odysseus’ right knee drave the spear Home, and about the glittering greave the blood Dark-crimsom welled. He recked not of the wound, But was unto his smiter sudden death;
For clear through his shield he stabbed him with his spear Amidst his battle-fury: to the earth
Backward he dashed him by his giant might And strength of hand: clashed round him in the dust His armour, and his corslet was distained With crimson life-blood. Forth from flesh and shield The hero plucked the spear of death: the soul Followed the lance-head from the body forth, And life forsook its mortal mansion. Then Rushed on his comrades, in his wound’s despite, Odysseus, nor from that stern battle-toil Refrained him. And by this a mingled host Of Danaans eager-hearted fought around
The mighty dead, and many and many a foe Slew they with those smooth-shafted ashen spears. Even as the winds strew down upon the ground The flying leaves, when through the forest-glades Sweep the wild gusts, as waneth autumn-tide, And the old year is dying; so the spears Of dauntless Danaans strewed the earth with slain, For loyal to dead Achilles were they all, And loyal to hero Aias to the death.
For like black Doom he blasted the ranks of Troy. Then against Aias Paris strained his bow; But he was ware thereof, and sped a stone Swift to the archer’s head: that bolt of death Crashed through his crested helm, and darkness closed Round him. In dust down fell he: naught availed His shafts their eager lord, this way and that Scattered in dust: empty his quiver lay, Flew from his hand the bow. In haste his friends Upcaught him from the earth, and Hector’s steeds Hurried him thence to Troy, scarce drawing breath, And moaning in his pain. Nor left his men The weapons of their lord, but gathered up All from the plain, and bare them to the prince; While Aias after him sent a wrathful shout: “Dog, thou hast ‘scaped the heavy hand of death To-day! But swiftly thy last hour shall come By some strong Argive’s hands, or by mine own, But now have I a nobler task in hand,
From murder’s grip to rescue Achilles’ corse.” Then turned he on the foe, hurling swift doom On such as fought around Peleides yet.
‘These saw how many yielded up the ghost Neath his strong hands, and, with hearts failing them For fear, against him could they stand no more. As rascal vultures were they, which the swoop Of an eagle, king of birds, scares far away From carcasses of sheep that wolves have torn; So this way, that way scattered they before The hurtling stones, the sword, the might of Aias. In utter panic from the war they fled,
In huddled rout, like starlings from the swoop Of a death-dealing hawk, when, fleeing bane, One drives against another, as they dart All terror-huddled in tumultuous flight. So from the war to Priam’s burg they fled Wretchedly clad with terror as a cloak,
Quailing from mighty Aias’ battle-shout, As with hands dripping blood-gouts he pursued. Yea, all, one after other, had he slain, Had they not streamed through city-gates flung wide Hard-panting, pierced to the very heart with fear. Pent therewithin he left them, as a shepherd Leaves folded sheep, and strode back o’er the plain; Yet never touched he with his feet the ground, But aye he trod on dead men, arms, and blood; For countless corpses lay o’er that wide stretch Even from broad-wayed Troy to Hellespont, Bodies of strong men slain, the spoil of Doom. As when the dense stalks of sun-ripened corn Fall ‘neath the reapers’ hands, and the long swaths, Heavy with full ears, overspread the field, And joys the heart of him who oversees
The toil, lord of the harvest; even so, By baleful havoc overmastered, lay
All round face-downward men remembering not The death-denouncing war-shout. But the sons Of fair Achaea left their slaughtered foes In dust and blood unstripped of arms awhile Till they should lay upon the pyre the son Of Peleus, who in battle-shock had been
Their banner of victory, charging in his might. So the kings drew him from that stricken field Straining beneath the weight of giant limbs, And with all loving care they bore him on, And laid him in his tent before the ships. And round him gathered that great host, and wailed Heart-anguished him who had been the Achaeans’ strength, And now, forgotten all the splendour of spears, Lay mid the tents by moaning Hellespont, In stature more than human, even as lay
Tityos, who sought to force Queen Leto, when She fared to Pytho: swiftly in his wrath Apollo shot, and laid him low, who seemed Invincible: in a foul lake of gore
There lay he, covering many a rood of ground, On the broad earth, his mother; and she moaned Over her son, of blessed Gods abhorred;
But Lady Leto laughed. So grand of mould There in the foemen’s land lay Aeacus’ son, For joy to Trojans, but for endless grief To Achaean men lamenting. Moaned the air With sighing from the abysses of the sea; And passing heavy grew the hearts of all, Thinking: “Now shall we perish by the hands Of Trojans!” Then by those dark ships they thought Of white-haired fathers left in halls afar, Of wives new-wedded, who by couches cold Mourned, waiting, waiting, with their tender babes For husbands unreturning; and they groaned In bitterness of soul. A passion of grief Came o’er their hearts; they fell upon their faces On the deep sand flung down, and wept as men All comfortless round Peleus’ mighty son, And clutched and plucked out by the roots their hair, And east upon their heads defiling sand. Their cry was like the cry that goeth up From folk that after battle by their walls Are slaughtered, when their maddened foes set fire To a great city, and slay in heaps on heaps Her people, and make spoil of all her wealth; So wild and high they wailed beside the sea, Because the Danaans’ champion, Aeacus’ son, Lay, grand in death, by a God’s arrow slain, As Ares lay, when She of the Mighty Father With that huge stone down dashed him on Troy’s plain.

Ceaselessly wailed the Myrmidons Achilles, A ring of mourners round the kingly dead, That kind heart, friend alike to each and all, To no man arrogant nor hard of mood,
But ever tempering strength with courtesy.

Then Aias first, deep-groaning, uttered forth His yearning o’er his father’s brother’s son God-stricken — ay, no man had smitten him Of all upon the wide-wayed earth that dwell! Him glorious Aias heavy-hearted mourned, Now wandering to the tent of Peleus’ son, Now cast down all his length, a giant form, On the sea-sands; and thus lamented he:
“Achilles, shield and sword of Argive men, Thou hast died in Troy, from Phthia’s plains afar, Smitten unwares by that accursed shaft,
Such thing as weakling dastards aim in fight! For none who trusts in wielding the great shield, None who for war can skill to set the helm Upon his brows, and sway the spear in grip, And cleave the brass about the breasts of foes, Warreth with arrows, shrinking from the fray. Not man to man he met thee, whoso smote; Else woundless never had he ‘scaped thy lance! But haply Zeus purposed to ruin all,
And maketh all our toil and travail vain — Ay, now will grant the Trojans victory
Who from Achaea now hath reft her shield! Ah me! how shall old Peleus in his halls Take up the burden of a mighty grief
Now in his joyless age! His heart shall break At the mere rumour of it. Better so,
Thus in a moment to forget all pain. But if these evil tidings slay him not,
Ah, laden with sore sorrow eld shall come Upon him, eating out his heart with grief By a lone hearth Peleus so passing dear
Once to the Blessed! But the Gods vouchsafe No perfect happiness to hapless men.”

So he in grief lamented Peleus’ son.
Then ancient Phoenix made heart-stricken moan, Clasping the noble form of Aeacus’ seed, And in wild anguish wailed the wise of heart: “Thou art reft from me, dear child, and cureless pain Hast left to me! Oh that upon my face
The veiling earth had fallen, ere I saw Thy bitter doom! No pang more terrible
Hath ever stabbed mine heart no, not that hour Of exile, when I fled from fatherland
And noble parents, fleeing Hellas through, Till Peleus welcomed me with gifts, and lord Of his Dolopians made me. In his arms
Thee through his halls one day he bare, and set Upon my knees, and bade me foster thee,
His babe, with all love, as mine own dear child: I hearkened to him: blithely didst thou cling About mine heart, and, babbling wordless speech, Didst call me `father’ oft, and didst bedew My breast and tunic with thy baby lips.
Ofttimes with soul that laughed for glee I held Thee in mine arms; for mine heart whispered me `This fosterling through life shall care for thee, Staff of thine age shall be.’ And that mine hope Was for a little while fulfilled; but now Thou hast vanished into darkness, and to me Is left long heart-ache wild with all regret. Ah, might my sorrow slay me, ere the tale To noble Peleus come! When on his ears
Falleth the heavy tidings, he shall weep And wail without surcease. Most piteous grief We twain for thy sake shall inherit aye, Thy sire and I, who, ere our day of doom, Mourning shall go down to the grave for thee — Ay, better this than life unholpen of thee!”

So moaned his ever-swelling tide of grief. And Atreus’ son beside him mourned and wept With heart on fire with inly smouldering pain: “Thou hast perished, chiefest of the Danaan men, Hast perished, and hast left the Achaean host Fenceless! Now thou art fallen, are they left An easier prey to foes. Thou hast given joy To Trojans by thy fall, who dreaded thee As sheep a lion. These with eager hearts Even to the ships will bring the battle now. Zeus, Father, thou too with deceitful words Beguilest mortals! Thou didst promise me That Priam’s burg should be destroyed; but now That promise given dost thou not fulfil, But thou didst cheat mine heart: I shall not win The war’s goal, now Achilles is no more.”

So did he cry heart-anguished. Mourned all round Wails multitudinous for Peleus’ son:
The dark ships echoed back the voice of grief, And sighed and sobbed the immeasurable air. And as when long sea-rollers, onward driven By a great wind, heave up far out at sea, And strandward sweep with terrible rush, and aye Headland and beach with shattered spray are scourged, And roar unceasing; so a dread sound rose Of moaning of the Danaans round the corse, Ceaselessly wailing Peleus’ aweless son.

And on their mourning soon black night had come, But spake unto Atreides Neleus’ son,
Nestor, whose own heart bare its load of grief Remembering his own son Antilochus:
“O mighty Agamemnon, sceptre-lord
Of Argives, from wide-shrilling lamentation Refrain we for this day. None shall withhold Hereafter these from all their heart’s desire Of weeping and lamenting many days.
But now go to, from aweless Aeacus’ son Wash we the foul blood-gouts, and lay we him Upon a couch: unseemly it is to shame
The dead by leaving them untended long.”

So counselled Neleus’ son, the passing-wise. Then hasted he his men, and bade them set Caldrons of cold spring-water o’er the flames, And wash the corse, and clothe in vesture fair, Sea-purple, which his mother gave her son At his first sailing against Troy. With speed They did their lord’s command: with loving care, All service meetly rendered, on a couch
Laid they the mighty fallen, Peleus’ son.

The Trito-born, the passing-wise, beheld And pitied him, and showered upon his head Ambrosia, which hath virtue aye to keep
Taintless, men say, the flesh of warriors slain. Like softly-breathing sleeper dewy-fresh She made him: over that dead face she drew A stern frown, even as when he lay, with wrath Darkening his grim face, clasping his slain friend Patroclus; and she made his frame to be
More massive, like a war-god to behold. And wonder seized the Argives, as they thronged And saw the image of a living man,
Where all the stately length of Peleus’ son Lay on the couch, and seemed as though he slept.

Around him all the woeful captive-maids, Whom he had taken for a prey, what time
He had ravaged hallowed Lemnos, and had scaled The towered crags of Thebes, Eetion’s town, Wailed, as they stood and rent their fair young flesh, And smote their breasts, and from their hearts bemoaned That lord of gentleness and courtesy,
Who honoured even the daughters of his foes. And stricken most of all with heart-sick pain Briseis, hero Achilles’ couchmate, bowed Over the dead, and tore her fair young flesh With ruthless fingers, shrieking: her soft breast Was ridged with gory weals, so cruelly
She smote it thou hadst said that crimson blood Had dripped on milk. Yet, in her griefs despite, Her winsome loveliness shone out, and grace Hung like a veil about her, as she wailed: “Woe for this grief passing all griefs beside! Never on me came anguish like to this
Not when my brethren died, my fatherland Was wasted — like this anguish for thy death! Thou wast my day, my sunlight, my sweet life, Mine hope of good, my strong defence from harm, Dearer than all my beauty — yea, more dear Than my lost parents! Thou wast all in all To me, thou only, captive though I be.
Thou tookest from me every bondmaid’s task And like a wife didst hold me. Ah, but now Me shall some new Achaean master bear
To fertile Sparta, or to thirsty Argos. The bitter cup of thraldom shall I drain, Severed, ah me, from thee! Oh that the earth Had veiled my dead face ere I saw thy doom!”

So for slain Peleus’ son did she lament With woeful handmaids and heart-anguished Greeks, Mourning a king, a husband. Never dried
Her tears were: ever to the earth they streamed Like sunless water trickling from a rock While rime and snow yet mantle o’er the earth Above it; yet the frost melts down before The east-wind and the flame-shafts of the sun.

Now came the sound of that upringing wail To Nereus’ Daughters, dwellers in the depths Unfathomed. With sore anguish all their hearts Were smitten: piteously they moaned: their cry Shivered along the waves of Hellespont.
Then with dark mantles overpalled they sped Swiftly to where the Argive men were thronged. As rushed their troop up silver paths of sea, The flood disported round them as they came. With one wild cry they floated up; it rang, A sound as when fleet-flying cranes forebode A great storm. Moaned the monsters of the deep Plaintively round that train of mourners. Fast On sped they to their goal, with awesome cry Wailing the while their sister’s mighty son. Swiftly from Helicon the Muses came
Heart-burdened with undying grief, for love And honour to the Nereid starry-eyed.

Then Zeus with courage filled the Argive men, That-eyes of flesh might undismayed behold That glorious gathering of Goddesses.
Then those Divine Ones round Achilles’ corse Pealed forth with one voice from immortal lips A lamentation. Rang again the shores
Of Hellespont. As rain upon the earth Their tears fell round the dead man, Aeacus’ son; For out of depths of sorrow rose their moan. And all the armour, yea, the tents, the ships Of that great sorrowing multitude were wet With tears from ever-welling springs of grief. His mother cast her on him, clasping him, And kissed her son’s lips, crying through her tears: “Now let the rosy-vestured Dawn in heaven Exult! Now let broad-flowing Axius
Exult, and for Asteropaeus dead
Put by his wrath! Let Priam’s seed be glad But I unto Olympus will ascend,
And at the feet of everlasting Zeus Will cast me, bitterly planning that he gave Me, an unwilling bride, unto a man —
A man whom joyless eld soon overtook, To whom the Fates are near, with death for gift. Yet not so much for his lot do I grieve
As for Achilles; for Zeus promised me To make him glorious in the Aeacid halls, In recompense for the bridal I so loathed That into wild wind now I changed me, now To water, now in fashion as a bird
I was, now as the blast of flame; nor might A mortal win me for his bride, who seemed All shapes in turn that earth and heaven contain, Until the Olympian pledged him to bestow A godlike son on me, a lord of war.
Yea, in a manner this did he fulfil Faithfully; for my son was mightiest
Of men. But Zeus made brief his span of life Unto my sorrow. Therefore up to heaven
Will I: to Zeus’s mansion will I go And wail my son, and will put Zeus in mind Of all my travail for him and his sons
In their sore stress, and sting his soul with shame.”

So in her wild lament the Sea-queen cried. But now to Thetis spake Calliope,
She in whose heart was steadfast wisdom throned: “From lamentation, Thetis, now forbear,
And do not, in the frenzy of thy grief For thy lost son, provoke to wrath the Lord Of Gods and men. Lo, even sons of Zeus,
The Thunder-king, have perished, overborne By evil fate. Immortal though I be,
Mine own son Orpheus died, whose magic song Drew all the forest-trees to follow him, And every craggy rock and river-stream,
And blasts of winds shrill-piping stormy-breathed, And birds that dart through air on rushing wings. Yet I endured mine heavy sorrow: Gods
Ought not with anguished grief to vex their souls. Therefore make end of sorrow-stricken wail For thy brave child; for to the sons of earth Minstrels shall chant his glory and his might, By mine and by my sisters’ inspiration,
Unto the end of time. Let not thy soul Be crushed by dark grief, nor do thou lament Like those frail mortal women. Know’st thou not That round all men which dwell upon the earth Hovereth irresistible deadly Fate,
Who recks not even of the Gods? Such power She only hath for heritage. Yea, she
Soon shall destroy gold-wealthy Priam’s town, And Trojans many and Argives doom to death, Whomso she will. No God can stay her hand.”

So in her wisdom spake Calliope.
Then plunged the sun down into Ocean’s stream, And sable-vestured Night came floating up O’er the wide firmament, and brought her boon Of sleep to sorrowing mortals. On the sands There slept they, all the Achaean host, with heads Bowed ‘neath the burden of calamity.
But upon Thetis sleep laid not his hand: Still with the deathless Nereids by the sea She sate; on either side the Muses spake One after other comfortable words
To make that sorrowing heart forget its pain.

But when with a triumphant laugh the Dawn Soared up the sky, and her most radiant light Shed over all the Trojans and their king, Then, sorrowing sorely for Achilles still, The Danaans woke to weep. Day after day, For many days they wept. Around them moaned Far-stretching beaches of the sea, and mourned Great Nereus for his daughter Thetis’ sake; And mourned with him the other Sea-gods all For dead Achilles. Then the Argives gave The corpse of great Peleides to the flame. A pyre of countless tree-trunks built they up Which, all with one mind toiling, from the heights Of Ida they brought down; for Atreus’ sons Sped on the work, and charged them to bring thence Wood without measure, that consumed with speed Might be Achilles’ body. All around
Piled they about the pyre much battle-gear Of strong men slain; and slew and cast thereon Full many goodly sons of Trojan men,
And snorting steeds, and mighty bulls withal, And sheep and fatling swine thereon they cast. And wailing captive maids from coffers brought Mantles untold; all cast they on the pyre: Gold heaped they there and amber. All their hair The Myrmidons shore, and shrouded with the same The body of their king. Briseis laid
Her own shorn tresses on the corpse, her gift, Her last, unto her lord. Great jars of oil Full many poured they out thereon, with jars Of honey and of wine, rich blood of the grape That breathed an odour as of nectar, yea, Cast incense-breathing perfumes manifold Marvellous sweet, the precious things put forth By earth, and treasures of the sea divine.

Then, when all things were set in readiness About the pyre, all, footmen, charioteers, Compassed that woeful bale, clashing their arms, While, from the viewless heights Olympian, Zeus Rained down ambrosia on dead Aeacus’ son. For honour to the Goddess, Nereus’ child, He sent to Aeolus Hermes, bidding him
Summon the sacred might of his swift winds, For that the corpse of Aeacus’ son must now Be burned. With speed he went, and Aeolus Refused not: the tempestuous North in haste He summoned, and the wild blast of the West; And to Troy sped they on their whirlwind wings. Fast in mad onrush, fast across the deep They darted; roared beneath them as they flew The sea, the land; above crashed thunder-voiced Clouds headlong hurtling through the firmament. Then by decree of Zeus down on the pyre
Of slain Achilles, like a charging host Swooped they; upleapt the Fire-god’s madding breath: Uprose a long wail from the Myrmidons.
Then, though with whirlwind rushes toiled the winds, All day, all night, they needs must fan the flames Ere that death-pyre burned out. Up to the heavens Vast-volumed rolled the smoke. The huge tree-trunks Groaned, writhing, bursting, in the heat, and dropped The dark-grey ash all round. So when the winds Had tirelessly fulfilled their mighty task, Back to their cave they rode cloud-charioted.

Then, when the fire had last of all consumed That hero-king, when all the steeds, the men Slain round the pyre had first been ravined up, With all the costly offerings laid around The mighty dead by Achaia’s weeping sons, The glowing embers did the Myrmidons quench With wine. Then clear to be discerned were seen His bones; for nowise like the rest were they, But like an ancient Giant’s; none beside With these were blent; for bulls and steeds, and sons Of Troy, with all that mingled hecatomb, Lay in a wide ring round his corse, and he Amidst them, flame-devoured, lay there alone. So his companions groaning gathered up
His bones, and in a silver casket laid Massy and deep, and banded and bestarred With flashing gold; and Nereus’ daughters shed Ambrosia over them, and precious nards
For honour to Achilles: fat of kine And amber honey poured they over all.
A golden vase his mother gave, the gift In old time of the Wine-god, glorious work Of the craft-master Fire-god, in the which They laid the casket that enclosed the bones Of mighty-souled Achilles. All around
The Argives heaped a barrow, a giant sign, Upon a foreland’s uttermost end, beside
The Hellespont’s deep waters, wailing loud Farewells unto the Myrmidons’ hero-king.

Nor stayed the immortal steeds of Aeacus’ son Tearless beside the ships; they also mourned Their slain king: sorely loth were they to abide Longer mid mortal men or Argive steeds
Bearing a burden of consuming grief; But fain were they to soar through air, afar From wretched men, over the Ocean’s streams, Over the Sea-queen’s caverns, unto where Divine Podarge bare that storm-foot twain Begotten of the West-wind clarion-voiced Yea, and they had accomplished their desire, But the Gods’ purpose held them back, until From Scyros’ isle Achilles’ fleetfoot son Should come. Him waited they to welcome, when He came unto the war-host; for the Fates, Daughters of holy Chaos, at their birth
Had spun the life-threads of those deathless foals, Even to serve Poseidon first, and next
Peleus the dauntless king, Achilles then The invincible, and, after these, the fourth, The mighty-hearted Neoptolemus,
Whom after death to the Elysian Plain They were to bear, unto the Blessed Land, By Zeus’ decree. For which cause, though their hearts Were pierced with bitter anguish, they abode Still by the ships, with spirits sorrowing For their old lord, and yearning for the new.

Then from the surge of heavy-plunging seas Rose the Earth-shaker. No man saw his feet Pace up the strand, but suddenly he stood Beside the Nereid Goddesses, and spake
To Thetis, yet for Achilles bowed with grief: “Refrain from endless mourning for thy son. Not with the dead shall he abide, but dwell With Gods, as doth the might of Herakles, And Dionysus ever fair. Not him
Dread doom shall prison in darkness evermore, Nor Hades keep him. To the light of Zeus Soon shall he rise; and I will give to him A holy island for my gift: it lies
Within the Euxine Sea: there evermore A God thy son shall be. The tribes that dwell Around shall as mine own self honour him With incense and with steam of sacrifice. Hush thy laments, vex not thine heart with grief.”

Then like a wind-breath had he passed away Over the sea, when that consoling word
Was spoken; and a little in her breast Revived the spirit of Thetis: and the God Brought this to pass thereafter. All the host Moved moaning thence, and came unto the ships That brought them o’er from Hellas. Then returned To Helicon the Muses: ‘neath the sea,
Wailing the dear dead, Nereus’ Daughters sank,

BOOK IV

How in the Funeral Games of Achilles heroes contended.

Nor did the hapless Trojans leave unwept The warrior-king Hippolochus’ hero-son,
But laid, in front of the Dardanian gate, Upon the pyre that captain war-renowned. But him Apollo’s self caught swiftly up
Out of the blazing fire, and to the winds Gave him, to bear away to Lycia-land;
And fast and far they bare him, ‘neath the glens Of high Telandrus, to a lovely glade;
And for a monument above his grave
Upheaved a granite rock. The Nymphs therefrom Made gush the hallowed water of a stream For ever flowing, which the tribes of men Still call fair-fleeting Glaucus. This the gods Wrought for an honour to the Lycian king.

But for Achilles still the Argives mourned Beside the swift ships: heart-sick were they all With dolorous pain and grief. Each yearned for him As for a son; no eye in that wide host
Was tearless. But the Trojans with great joy Exulted, seeing their sorrow from afar,
And the great fire that spake their foe consumed. And thus a vaunting voice amidst them cried: “Now hath Cronion from his heaven vouchsafed A joy past hope unto our longing eyes,
To see Achilles fallen before Troy. Now he is smitten down, the glorious hosts Of Troy, I trow, shall win a breathing-space From blood of death and from the murderous fray. Ever his heart devised the Trojans’ bane; In his hands maddened aye the spear of doom With gore besprent, and none of us that faced Him in the fight beheld another dawn.
But now, I wot, Achaea’s valorous sons Shall flee unto their galleys shapely-prowed, Since slain Achilles lies. Ah that the might Of Hector still were here, that he might slay The Argives one and all amidst their tents!”

So in unbridled joy a Trojan cried;
But one more wise and prudent answered him: “Thou deemest that yon murderous Danaan host Will straightway get them to the ships, to flee Over the misty sea. Nay, still their lust Is hot for fight: us will they nowise fear, Still are there left strong battle-eager men, As Aias, as Tydeides, Atreus’ sons:
Though dead Achilles be, I still fear these. Oh that Apollo Silverbow would end them! Then in that day were given to our prayers A breathing-space from war and ghastly death.”

In heaven was dole among the Immortal Ones, Even all that helped the stalwart Danaans’ cause. In clouds like mountains piled they veiled their heads For grief of soul. But glad those others were Who fain would speed Troy to a happy goal. Then unto Cronos’ Son great Hera spake:
“Zeus, Lightning-father, wherefore helpest thou Troy, all forgetful of the fair-haired bride Whom once to Peleus thou didst give to wife Midst Pelion’s glens? Thyself didst bring to pass Those spousals of a Goddess: on that day All we Immortals feasted there, and gave Gifts passing-fair. All this dost thou forget, And hast devised for Hellas heaviest woe.”

So spake she; but Zeus answered not a word; For pondering there he sat with burdened breast, Thinking how soon the Argives should destroy The city of Priam, thinking how himself
Would visit on the victors ruin dread In war and on the great sea thunder-voiced. Such thoughts were his, ere long to be fulfilled.

Now sank the sun to Ocean’s fathomless flood: O’er the dim land the infinite darkness stole, Wherein men gain a little rest from toil. Then by the ships, despite their sorrow, supped The Argives, for ye cannot thrust aside
Hunger’s importunate craving, when it comes Upon the breast, but straightway heavy and faint Lithe limbs become; nor is there remedy
Until one satisfy this clamorous guest Therefore these ate the meat of eventide In grief for Achilles’ hard necessity
Constrained them all. And, when they had broken bread, Sweet sleep came on them, loosening from their frames Care’s heavy chain, and quickening strength anew

But when the starry Bears had eastward turned Their heads, expectant of the uprushing light Of Helios, and when woke the Queen of Dawn, Then rose from sleep the stalwart Argive men Purposing for the Trojans death and doom. Stirred were they like the roughly-ridging sea Icarian, or as sudden-rippling corn
In harvest field, what time the rushing wings Of the cloud-gathering West sweep over it; So upon Hellespont’s strand the folk were stirred. And to those eager hearts cried Tydeus’ son: “If we be battle-biders, friends, indeed, More fiercely fight we now the hated foe, Lest they take heart because Achilles lives No longer. Come, with armour, car, and steed Let us beset them. Glory waits our toil?”

But battle-eager Aias answering spake “Brave be thy words, and nowise idle talk, Kindling the dauntless Argive men, whose hearts Before were battle-eager, to the fight
Against the Trojan men, O Tydeus’ son. But we must needs abide amidst the ships Till Goddess Thetis come forth of the sea; For that her heart is purposed to set here Fair athlete-prizes for the funeral-games. This yesterday she told me, ere she plunged Into sea-depths, yea, spake to me apart
From other Danaans; and, I trow, by this Her haste hath brought her nigh. Yon Trojan men, Though Peleus’ son hath died, shall have small heart For battle, while myself am yet alive,
And thou, and noble Atreus’ son, the king.”

So spake the mighty son of Telamon,
But knew not that a dark and bitter doom For him should follow hard upon those games By Fate’s contrivance. Answered Tydeus’ son “O friend, if Thetis comes indeed this day With goodly gifts for her son’s funeral-games, Then bide we by the ships, and keep we here All others. Meet it is to do the will
Of the Immortals: yea, to Achilles too, Though the Immortals willed it not, ourselves Must render honour grateful to the dead.”

So spake the battle-eager Tydeus’ son. And lo, the Bride of Peleus gliding came Forth of the sea, like the still breath of dawn, And suddenly was with the Argive throng
Where eager-faced they waited, some, that looked Soon to contend in that great athlete-strife, And some, to joy in seeing the mighty strive. Amidst that gathering Thetis sable-stoled Set down her prizes, and she summoned forth Achaea’s champions: at her best they came.

But first amidst them all rose Neleus’ son, Not as desiring in the strife of fists
To toil, nor strain of wrestling; for his arms And all his sinews were with grievous eld Outworn, but still his heart and brain were strong. Of all the Achaeans none could match himself Against him in the folkmote’s war of words; Yea, even Laertes’ glorious son to him
Ever gave place when men for speech were met; Nor he alone, but even the kingliest
Of Argives, Agamemnon, lord of spears. Now in their midst he sang the gracious Queen Of Nereids, sang how she in willsomeness Of beauty was of all the Sea-maids chief. Well-pleased she hearkened. Yet again he sang, Singing of Peleus’ Bridal of Delight,
Which all the blest Immortals brought to pass By Pelion’s crests; sang of the ambrosial feast When the swift Hours brought in immortal hands Meats not of earth, and heaped in golden maunds; Sang how the silver tables were set forth In haste by Themis blithely laughing; sang How breathed Hephaestus purest flame of fire; Sang how the Nymphs in golden chalices
Mingled ambrosia; sang the ravishing dance Twined by the Graces’ feet; sang of the chant The Muses raised, and how its spell enthralled All mountains, rivers, all the forest brood; How raptured was the infinite firmament, Cheiron’s fair caverns, yea, the very Gods.

Such noble strain did Neleus’ son pour out Into the Argives’ eager ears; and they
Hearkened with ravished souls. Then in their midst He sang once more the imperishable deeds Of princely Achilles. All the mighty throng Acclaimed him with delight. From that beginning With fitly chosen words did he extol
The glorious hero; how he voyaged and smote Twelve cities; how he marched o’er leagues on leagues Of land, and spoiled eleven; how he slew Telephus and Eetion’s might renowned
In Thebe; how his spear laid Cyenus low, Poseidon’s son, and godlike Polydorus,
Troilus the goodly, princely Asteropaeus; And how he dyed with blood the river-streams Of Xanthus, and with countless corpses choked His murmuring flow, when from the limbs he tore Lycaon’s life beside the sounding river; And how he smote down Hector; how he slew Penthesileia, and the godlike son
Of splendour-throned Dawn; — all this he sang To Argives which already knew the tale;
Sang of his giant mould, how no man’s strength In fight could stand against him, nor in games Where strong men strive for mastery, where the swift Contend with flying feet or hurrying wheels Of chariots, nor in combat panoplied;
And how in goodlihead he far outshone All Danaans, and how his bodily might
Was measureless in the stormy clash of war. Last, he prayed Heaven that he might see a son Like that great sire from sea-washed Scyros come.

That noble song acclaiming Argives praised; Yea, silver-looted Thetis smiled, and gave The singer fleetfoot horses, given of old Beside Caicus’ mouth by Telephus
To Achilles, when he healed the torturing wound With that same spear wherewith himself had pierced Telephus’ thigh, and thrust the point clear through. These Nestor Neleus’ son to his comrades gave, And, glorying in their godlike lord, they led The steeds unto his ships. Then Thetis set Amidst the athlete-ring ten kine, to be
Her prizes for the footrace, and by each Ran a fair suckling calf. These the bold might Of Peleus’ tireless son had driven down
From slopes of Ida, prizes of his spear.

To strive for these rose up two victory-fain, Teucer the first, the son of Telamon,
And Aias, of the Locrian archers chief. These twain with swift hands girded them about With loin-cloths, reverencing the Goddess-bride Of Peleus, and the Sea-maids, who with her Came to behold the Argives’ athlete-sport. And Atreus’ son, lord of all Argive men, Showed them the turning-goal of that swift course. Then these the Queen of Rivalry spurred on, As from the starting-line like falcons swift They sped away. Long doubtful was the race: Now, as the Argives gazed, would Aias’ friends Shout, now rang out the answering cheer from friends Of Teucer. But when in their eager speed Close on the end they were, then Teucer’s feet Were trammelled by unearthly powers: some god Or demon dashed his foot against the stock Of a deep-rooted tamarisk. Sorely wrenched Was his left ankle: round the joint upswelled The veins high-ridged. A great shout rang from all That watched the contest. Aias darted past Exultant: ran his Locrian folk to hail
Their lord, with sudden joy in all their souls. Then to his ships they drave the kine, and cast Fodder before them. Eager-helpful friends Led Teucer halting thence. The leeches drew Blood from his foot: then over it they laid Soft-shredded linen ointment-smeared, and swathed With smooth bands round, and charmed away the pain.

Then swiftly rose two mighty-hearted ones Eager to match their strength in wrestling strain, The son of Tydeus and the giant Aias.
Into the midst they strode, and marvelling gazed The Argives on men shapen like to gods.
Then grappled they, like lions famine-stung Fighting amidst the mountains o’er a stag, Whose strength is even-balanced; no whit less Is one than other in their deadly rage;
So these long time in might were even-matched, Till Aias locked his strong hands round the son Of Tydeus, straining hard to break his back; But he, with wrestling-craft and strength combined, Shifted his hip ‘neath Telamon’s son, and heaved The giant up; with a side-twist wrenched free From Aias’ ankle-lock his thigh, and so
With one huge shoulder-heave to earth he threw That mighty champion, and himself came down Astride him: then a mighty shout went up. But battle-stormer Aias, chafed in mind, Sprang up, hot-eager to essay again
That grim encounter. From his terrible hands He dashed the dust, and challenged furiously With a great voice Tydeides: not a whit
That other quailed, but rushed to close with him. Rolled up the dust in clouds from ‘neath their feet: Hurtling they met like battling mountain-bulls That clash to prove their dauntless strength, and spurn The dust, while with their roaring all the hills Re-echo: in their desperate fury these
Dash their strong heads together, straining long Against each other with their massive strength, Hard-panting in the fierce rage of their strife, While from their mouths drip foam-flakes to the ground; So strained they twain with grapple of brawny hands. ‘Neath that hard grip their backs and sinewy necks Cracked, even as when in mountain-glades the trees Dash storm-tormented boughs together. Oft Tydeides clutched at Aias’ brawny thighs, But could not stir his steadfast-rooted feet. Oft Aias hurled his whole weight on him, bowed His shoulders backward, strove to press him down; And to new grips their hands were shifting aye. All round the gazing people shouted, some Cheering on glorious Tydeus’ son, and some The might of Aias. Then the giant swung
The shoulders of his foe to right, to left; Then gripped him ‘neath the waist; with one fierce heave And giant effort hurled him like a stone To earth. The floor of Troyland rang again As fell Tydeides: shouted all the folk.
Yet leapt he up all eager to contend With giant Aias for the third last fall: But Nestor rose and spake unto the twain: “From grapple of wrestling, noble sons, forbear; For all we know that ye be mightiest
Of Argives since the great Achilles died.”

Then these from toil refrained, and from their brows Wiped with their hands the plenteous-streaming sweat: They kissed each other, and forgat their strife. Then Thetis, queen of Goddesses, gave to them Four handmaids; and those strong and aweless ones Marvelled beholding them, for these surpassed All captive-maids in beauty and household-skill, Save only lovely-tressed Briseis. These
Achilles captive brought from Lesbos’ Isle, And in their service joyed. The first was made Stewardess of the feast and lady of meats; The second to the feasters poured the wine; The third shed water on their hands thereafter; The fourth bare all away, the banquet done. These Tydeus’ son and giant Aias shared, And, parted two and two, unto their ships Sent they those fair and serviceable ones.

Next, for the play of fists Idomeneus rose, For cunning was he in all athlete-lore;
But none came forth to meet him, yielding all To him, the elder-born, with reverent awe. So in their midst gave Thetis unto him
A chariot and fleet steeds, which theretofore Mighty Patroclus from the ranks of Troy
Drave, when he slew Sarpedon, seed of Zeus, These to his henchmen gave Idomeneus
To drive unto the ships: himself remained Still sitting in the glorious athlete-ring. Then Phoenix to the stalwart Argives cried: “Now to Idomeneus the Gods have given
A fair prize uncontested, free of toil Of mighty arms and shoulders, honouring
The elder-born with bloodless victory. But lo, ye younger men, another prize
Awaiteth the swift play of cunning hands. Step forth then: gladden great Peleides’ soul.”

He spake, they heard; but each on other looked, And, loth to essay the contest, all sat still, Till Neleus’ son rebuked those laggard souls: “Friends, it were shame that men should shun the play Of clenched hands, who in that noble sport Have skill, wherein young men delight, which links Glory to toil. Ah that my thews were strong As when we held King Pelias’ funeral-feast, I and Acastus, kinsmen joining hands,
When I with godlike Polydeuces stood In gauntlet-strife, in even-balanced fray, And when Ancaeus in the wrestlers’ ring
Mightier than all beside, yet feared and shrank From me, and dared not strive with me that day, For that ere then amidst the Epeian men — No battle-blenchers they! — I had vanquished him, For all his might, and dashed him to the dust By dead Amaryncus’ tomb, and thousands round Sat marvelling at my prowess and my strength. Therefore against me not a second time
Raised he his hands, strong wrestler though he were; And so I won an uncontested prize.
But now old age is on me, and many griefs. Therefore I bid you, whom it well beseems, To win the prize; for glory crowns the youth Who bears away the meed of athlete-strife.”

Stirred by his gallant chiding, a brave man Rose, son of haughty godlike Panopeus,
The man who framed the Horse, the bane of Troy, Not long thereafter. None dared meet him now In play of fists, albeit in deadly craft Of war, when Ares rusheth through the field, He was not cunning. But for strife of hands The fair prize uncontested had been won
By stout Epeius — yea, he was at point To bear it thence unto the Achaean ships; But one strode forth to meet him, Theseus’ son, The spearman Acamas, the mighty of heart, Bearing already on his swift hands girt
The hard hide-gauntlets, which Evenor’s son Agelaus on his prince’s hands had drawn
With courage-kindling words. The comrades then Of Panopeus’ princely son for Epeius raised A heartening cheer. He like a lion stood Forth in the midst, his strong hands gauntleted With bull’s hide hard as horn. Loud rang the cheers From side to side of that great throng, to fire The courage of the mighty ones to clash
Hands in the gory play. Sooth, little spur Needed they for their eagerness for fight. But, ere they closed, they flashed out proving blows To wot if still, as theretofore, their arms Were limber and lithe, unclogged by toil of war; Then faced each other, and upraised their hands With ever-watching eyes, and short quick steps A-tiptoe, and with ever-shifting feet,
Each still eluding other’s crushing might. Then with a rush they closed like thunder-clouds Hurled on each other by the tempest-blast, Flashing forth lightnings, while the welkin thrills As clash the clouds and hollow roar the winds; So ‘neath the hard hide-gauntlets clashed their jaws. Down streamed the blood, and from their brows the sweat Blood-streaked made on the flushed cheeks crimson bars. Fierce without pause they fought, and never flagged Epeius, but threw all his stormy strength Into his onrush. Yet did Theseus’ son
Never lose heart, but baffled the straight blows Of those strong hands, and by his fighting-craft Flinging them right and left, leapt in, brought home A blow to his eyebrow, cutting to the bone. Even then with counter-stroke Epeius reached Acamas’ temple, and hurled him to the ground. Swift he sprang up, and on his stalwart foe Rushed, smote his head: as he rushed in again, The other, slightly swerving, sent his left Clean to his brow; his right, with all his might Behind it, to his nose. Yet Acamas still Warded and struck with all the manifold shifts Of fighting-craft. But now the Achaeans all Bade stop the fight, though eager still were both To strive for coveted victory. Then came Their henchmen, and the gory gauntlets loosed In haste from those strong hands. Now drew they breath From that great labour, as they bathed their brows With sponges myriad-pored. Comrades and friends With pleading words then drew them face to face, And prayed, “In friendship straight forget your wrath.” So to their comrades’ suasion hearkened they; For wise men ever bear a placable mind.
They kissed each other, and their hearts forgat That bitter strife. Then Thetis sable-stoled Gave to their glad hands two great silver bowls The which Euneus, Jason’s warrior son
In sea-washed Lemnos to Achilles gave To ransom strong Lycaon from his hands.
These had Hephaestus fashioned for his gift To glorious Dionysus, when he brought
His bride divine to Olympus, Minos’ child Far-famous, whom in sea-washed Dia’s isle Theseus unwitting left. The Wine-god brimmed With nectar these, and gave them to his son; And Thoas at his death to Hypsipyle
With great possessions left them. She bequeathed The bowls to her godlike son, who gave them up Unto Achilles for Lycaon’s life.
The one the son of lordly Theseus took, And goodly Epeius sent to his ship with joy The other. Then their bruises and their scars Did Podaleirius tend with loving care.
First pressed he out black humours, then his hands Deftly knit up the gashes: salves he laid Thereover, given him by his sire of old, Such as had virtue in one day to heal
The deadliest hurts, yea, seeming-cureless wounds. Straight was the smart assuaged, and healed the scars Upon their brows and ‘neath their clustering hair

Then for the archery-test Oileus’ son Stood forth with Teucer, they which in the race Erewhile contended. Far away from these
Agamemnon, lord of spears, set up a helm Crested with plumes, and spake: “The master-shot Is that which shears the hair-crest clean away.” Then straightway Aias shot his arrow first, And smote the helm-ridge: sharply rang the brass. Then Teucer second with most earnest heed Shot: the swift shaft hath shorn the plume away. Loud shouted all the people as they gazed, And praised him without stint, for still his foot Halted in pain, yet nowise marred his aim When with his hands he sped the flying shaft. Then Peleus’ bride gave unto him the arms Of godlike Troilus, the goodliest
Of all fair sons whom Hecuba had borne In hallowed Troy; yet of his goodlihead
No joy she had; the prowess and the spear Of fell Achilles reft his life from him. As when a gardener with new-whetted scythe Mows down, ere it may seed, a blade of corn Or poppy, in a garden dewy-fresh
And blossom-flushed, which by a water-course Crowdeth its blooms — mows it ere it may reach Its goal of bringing offspring to the birth, And with his scythe-sweep makes its life-work vain And barren of all issue, nevermore
Now to be fostered by the dews of spring; So did Peleides cut down Priam’s son
The god-like beautiful, the beardless yet And virgin of a bride, almost a child!
Yet the Destroyer Fate had lured him on To war, upon the threshold of glad youth, When youth is bold, and the heart feels no void.

Forthwith a bar of iron massy and long From the swift-speeding hand did many essay To hurl; but not an Argive could prevail To cast that ponderous mass. Aias alone
Sped it from his strong hand, as in the time Of harvest might a reaper fling from him A dry oak-bough, when all the fields are parched. And all men marvelled to behold how far
Flew from his hand the bronze which scarce two men Hard-straining had uplifted from the ground. Even this Antaeus’ might was wont to hurl Erstwhile, ere the strong hands of Hercules O’ermastered him. This, with much spoil beside, Hercules took, and kept it to make sport For his invincible hand; but afterward
Gave it to valiant Peleus, who with him Had smitten fair-towered Ilium’s burg renowned; And he to Achilles gave it, whose swift ships Bare it to Troy, to put him aye in mind
Of his own father, as with eager will He fought with stalwart Trojans, and to be A worthy test wherewith to prove his strength. Even this did Aias from his brawny hand
Fling far. So then the Nereid gave to him The glorious arms from godlike Memnon stripped. Marvelling the Argives gazed on them: they were A giant’s war-gear. Laughing a glad laugh That man renowned received them: he alone Could wear them on his brawny limbs; they seemed As they had even been moulded to his frame. The great bar thence he bore withal, to be His joy when he was fain of athlete-toil.

Still sped the contests on; and many rose Now for the leaping. Far beyond the marks Of all the rest brave Agapenor sprang:
Loud shouted all for that victorious leap; And Thetis gave him the fair battle-gear Of mighty Cycnus, who had smitten first
Protesilaus, then had reft the life From many more, till Peleus’ son slew him First of the chiefs of grief-enshrouded Troy.

Next, in the javelin-cast Euryalus
Hurled far beyond all rivals, while the folk Shouted aloud: no archer, so they deemed, Could speed a winged shaft farther than his cast; Therefore the Aeacid hero’s mother gave
To him a deep wide silver oil-flask, ta’en By Achilles in possession, when his spear Slew Mynes, and he spoiled Lyrnessus’ wealth.

Then fiery-hearted Aias eagerly
Rose, challenging to strife of hands and feet The mightiest hero there; but marvelling They marked his mighty thews, and no man dared Confront him. Chilling dread had palsied all Their courage: from their hearts they feared him, lest His hands invincible should all to-break His adversary’s face, and naught but pain Be that man’s meed. But at the last all men Made signs to battle-bider Euryalus,
For well they knew him skilled in fighting-craft; But he too feared that giant, and he cried: “Friends, any other Achaean, whom ye will, Blithe will I face; but mighty Alas — no! Far doth he overmatch me. He will rend
Mine heart, if in the onset anger rise Within him: from his hands invincible,
I trow, I should not win to the ships alive.”

Loud laughed they all: but glowed with triumph-joy The heart of Aias. Gleaming talents twain Of silver he from Thetis’ hands received, His uncontested prize. His stately height Called to her mind her dear son, and she sighed.

They which had skill in chariot-driving then Rose at the contest’s summons eagerly:
Menelaus first, Eurypylus bold in fight, Eumelus, Thoas, godlike Polypoetes
Harnessed their steeds, and led them to the cars All panting for the joy of victory.
Then rode they in a glittering chariot rank Out to one place, to a stretch of sand, and stood Ranged at the starting-line. The reins they grasped In strong hands quickly, while the chariot-steeds Shoulder to shoulder fretted, all afire
To take the lead at starting, pawed the sand, Pricked ears, and o’er their frontlets flung the foam. With sudden-stiffened sinews those ear-lords Lashed with their whips the tempest-looted steeds; Then swift as Harpies sprang they forth; they strained Furiously at the harness, onward whirling The chariots bounding ever from the earth. Thou couldst not see a wheel-track, no, nor print Of hoof upon the sand — they verily flew. Up from the plain the dust-clouds to the sky Soared, like the smoke of burning, or a mist Rolled round the mountain-forelands by the might Of the dark South-wind or the West, when wakes A tempest, when the hill-sides stream with rain. Burst to the front Eumelus’ steeds: behind Close pressed the team of godlike Thoas: shouts Still answered shouts that cheered each chariot, while Onward they swept across the wide-wayed plain.

((LACUNA))

“From hallowed Elis, when he had achieved A mighty triumph, in that he outstripped The swift ear of Oenomaus evil-souled,
The ruthless slayer of youths who sought to wed His daughter Hippodameia passing-wise.
Yet even he, for all his chariot-lore, Had no such fleetfoot steeds as Atreus’ son — Far slower! — the wind is in the feet of these.”

So spake he, giving glory to the might Of those good steeds, and to Atreides’ self; And filled with joy was Menelaus’ soul.
Straightway his henchmen from the yoke-band loosed The panting team, and all those chariot-lords, Who in the race had striven, now unyoked Their tempest-footed steeds. Podaleirius then Hasted to spread salves over all the wounds Of Thoas and Eurypylus, gashes scored
Upon their frames when from the cars they fell But Menelaus with exceeding joy
Of victory glowed, when Thetis 1ovely-tressed Gave him a golden cup, the chief possession Once of Eetion the godlike; ere
Achilles spoiled the far-famed burg of Thebes.

Then horsemen riding upon horses came Down to the course: they grasped in hand the whip And bounding from the earth bestrode their steeds, The while with foaming mouths the coursers champed The bits, and pawed the ground, and fretted aye To dash into the course. Forth from the line Swiftly they darted, eager for the strife, Wild as the blasts of roaring Boreas
Or shouting Notus, when with hurricane-swoop He heaves the wide sea high, when in the east Uprises the disastrous Altar-star
Bringing calamity to seafarers;
So swift they rushed, spurning with flying feet The deep dust on the plain. The riders cried Each to his steed, and ever plied the lash And shook the reins about the clashing bits. On strained the horses: from the people rose A shouting like the roaring of a sea.
On, on across the level plain they flew; And now the flashing-footed Argive steed By Sthenelus bestridden, had won the race, But from the course he swerved, and o’er the plain Once and again rushed wide; nor Capaneus’ son, Good horseman though he were, could turn him back By rein or whip, because that steed was strange Still to the race-course; yet of lineage Noble was he, for in his veins the blood Of swift Arion ran, the foal begotten
By the loud-piping West-wind on a Harpy, The fleetest of all earth-born steeds, whose feet Could race against his father’s swiftest blasts. Him did the Blessed to Adrastus give:
And from him sprang the steed of Sthenelus, Which Tydeus’ son had given unto his friend In hallowed Troyland. Filled with confidence In those swift feet his rider led him forth Unto the contest of the steeds that day, Looking his horsemanship should surely win Renown: yet victory gladdened not his heart In that great struggle for Achilles’ prizes; Nay, swift albeit he was, the King of Men By skill outraced him. Shouted all the folk, “Glory to Agamemnon!” Yet they acclaimed The steed of valiant Sthenelus and his lord, For that the fiery flying of his feet
Still won him second place, albeit oft Wide of the course he swerved. Then Thetis gave To Atreus’ son, while laughed his lips for joy, God-sprung Polydorus’ breastplate silver-wrought. To Sthenelus Asteropaeus’ massy helm,
Two lances, and a taslet strong, she gave. Yea, and to all the riders who that day
Came at Achilles’ funeral-feast to strive She gave gifts. But the son of the old war-lord, Laertes, inly grieved to be withheld
From contests of the strong, how fain soe’er, By that sore wound which Alcon dealt to him In the grim fight around dead Aeacas’ son.

BOOK V

How the Arms of Achilles were cause of madness and death unto Aias.

So when all other contests had an end, Thetis the Goddess laid down in the midst Great-souled Achilles’ arms divinely wrought; And all around flashed out the cunning work Wherewith the Fire-god overchased the shield Fashioned for Aeacus’ son, the dauntless-souled.

Inwrought upon that labour of a God
Were first high heaven and cloudland, and beneath Lay earth and sea: the winds, the clouds were there, The moon and sun, each in its several place; There too were all the stars that, fixed in heaven, Are borne in its eternal circlings round. Above and through all was the infinite air Where to and fro flit birds of slender beak: Thou hadst said they lived, and floated on the breeze. Here Tethys’ all-embracing arms were wrought, And Ocean’s fathomless flow. The outrushing flood Of rivers crying to the echoing hills
All round, to right, to left, rolled o’er the land.

Round it rose league-long mountain-ridges, haunts Of terrible lions and foul jackals: there Fierce bears and panthers prowled; with these were seen Wild boars that whetted deadly-clashing tusks In grimly-frothing jaws. There hunters sped After the hounds: beaters with stone and dart, To the life portrayed, toiled in the woodland sport.

And there were man-devouring wars, and all Horrors of fight: slain men were falling down Mid horse-hoofs; and the likeness of a plain Blood-drenched was on that shield invincible. Panic was there, and Dread, and ghastly Enyo With limbs all gore-bespattered hideously, And deadly Strife, and the Avenging Spirits Fierce-hearted — she, still goading warriors on To the onset they, outbreathing breath of fire. Around them hovered the relentless Fates; Beside them Battle incarnate onward pressed Yelling, and from their limbs streamed blood and sweat. There were the ruthless Gorgons: through their hair Horribly serpents coiled with flickering tongues. A measureless marvel was that cunning work Of things that made men shudder to behold Seeming as though they verily lived and moved.

And while here all war’s marvels were portrayed, Yonder were all the works of lovely peace. The myriad tribes of much-enduring men
Dwelt in fair cities. Justice watched o’er all. To diverse toils they set their hands; the fields Were harvest-laden; earth her increase bore.

Most steeply rose on that god-laboured work The rugged flanks of holy Honour’s mount, And there upon a palm-tree throned she sat Exalted, and her hands reached up to heaven. All round her, paths broken by many rocks Thwarted the climbers’ feet; by those steep tracks Daunted ye saw returning many folk:
Few won by sweat of toil the sacred height.

And there were reapers moving down long swaths Swinging the whetted sickles: ‘neath their hands The hot work sped to its close. Hard after these Many sheaf-binders followed, and the work Grew passing great. With yoke-bands on their necks Oxen were there, whereof some drew the wains Heaped high with full-eared sheaves, and further on Were others ploughing, and the glebe showed black Behind them. Youths with ever-busy goads Followed: a world of toil was there portrayed.

And there a banquet was, with pipe and harp, Dances of maids, and flashing feet of boys, All in swift movement, like to living souls.

Hard by the dance and its sweet winsomeness Out of the sea was rising lovely-crowned Cypris, foam-blossoms still upon her hair; And round her hovered smiling witchingly Desire, and danced the Graces lovely-tressed.

And there were lordly Nereus’ Daughters shown Leading their sister up from the wide sea To her espousals with the warrior-king.
And round her all the Immortals banqueted On Pelion’s ridge far-stretching. All about Lush dewy watermeads there were, bestarred With flowers innumerable, grassy groves, And springs with clear transparent water bright.

There ships with sighing sheets swept o’er the sea, Some beating up to windward, some that sped Before a following wind, and round them heaved The melancholy surge. Seared shipmen rushed This way and that, adread for tempest-gusts, Hauling the white sails in, to ‘scape the death — It all seemed real — some tugging at the oars, While the dark sea on either side the ship Grew hoary ‘neath the swiftly-plashing blades.

And there triumphant the Earth-shaker rode Amid sea-monsters’ stormy-footed steeds
Drew him, and seemed alive, as o’er the deep They raced, oft smitten by the golden whip. Around their path of flight the waves fell smooth, And all before them was unrippled calm.
Dolphins on either hand about their king Swarmed, in wild rapture of homage bowing backs, And seemed like live things o’er the hazy sea Swimming, albeit all of silver wrought.

Marvels of untold craft were imaged there By cunning-souled Hephaestus’ deathless hands Upon the shield. And Ocean’s fathomless flood