Book XXI

BUT when they were come to the ford of the beautiful-flowing river,
Of swirling Xanthus, the child of Zeus that abideth for ever,
There cleft he the fleers asunder: some of them plainward he chased
To the town, on the path whereby the Achaians in panic-struck haste
But yesterday fled from glorious Hector’s battle-wrath.
There they went pouring in horror of rout, and before their path
A thick mist Héré spread, and the half of them, onward hurling,
Into the river were huddled, the deep-channelled, silver-swirling.
With a mighty plashing and roar of the cataract torrent they fell:
On this side and that loud echoed the banks, and with shout and yell
Here battled and there with the rush of the eddies the drowning crowd.
And as when from the fire-blast fleeth a hovering locust-crowd
To a river, while hard behind them the tireless flames come leaping
Swiftly, and down to the flood the cowering swarm goes sweeping;
Even so in the flight from Achilles were Xanthus’ deep swirls then
Filled with confusion and din of chariots and horses and men.
But the Zeus-born left his spear propped up by a tamarisk-tree
On the bank, and into the stream like an angry God leapt he
With naught save his sword, but the deeds that he purposed were bitter and grim;
And on this side and that side he smote, and the groan and the ghastly scream
Arose from the falchion-hewn, and the water was crimsoned with blood.
And even as the fish from a dolphin, the monster-beast of the flood,
Flee, till the throng of them filleth the creeks of a sheltered bay,
In their dread, for the spoiler devoureth whatso he maketh his prey;
So the Trojans adown that terrible river’s rushing water
Under the steep banks cowered. When his hands grew weary of slaughter,
Twelve high-born youths from the river he dragged alive, to atone
With their blood ere long for the death of Patroclus, Menoitius’ son,
Dragged them ashore terror-palsied, like fawns that the hunters have found,
And their hands behind them with shapely-fashioned thongs he bound,
Even the thongs that they wore on their pleated tunics gay.
To his comrades he gave them, to lead to the hollow galleys away;
And he rushed on the fleers again unglutted, and mad to slay.
There on a child of Priam Dardanus’ son did he light,
Fleeing forth from the river, Lykaon:—himself erewhile in the night
Anigh to the city had drawn, and had seized him and dragged him away.
For the lad in his father’s vineyard stood in the dawning grey,
Cutting him wild-fig shoots, to fashion a chariot-rail:
And or ever he knew was Achilles the godlike there for his bale.
With his galleys he sent him to Lemnos, the city of stately wall,
And he sold him: the son of Iéson paid the price of the thrall.
But a bond-friend redeemed him, laying a mighty ransom down,
Eétion of Imbros, and sent him to hallowed Arisbé-town.
Thence fled he in secret, and came to his father’s house again.
For eleven days’ space with his friends had he gladdened his heart full fain
From Lemnos returned; on the twelfth once more by a God was he cast
Into the hands of Achilles; and now shall the hero at last
Speed him to Hades, loth upon that drear journey to fare.
And so soon as swift-footed Achilles the godlike beheld him there
Fenceless of helmet and shield,—no spear in his hands he bore;
All had he cast on the earth, for the toil-sweat galled him sore
From the river essaying to flee, and faint were his knees and weak;—
Then in wrathful amaze to his mighty heart did the hero speak:
“Ha! and what marvel is this that now with mine eyes I see!
Surely the very Trojans, the heroes slain by me,
Shall again rise up from the dead, and return from the shadowland home,
Seeing this man hath ’scaped from the pitiless day, and is hitherward come!
Into bondage in Lemnos the hallowed I sold him:—he stayed not, he,
For the fetters that bind full many, the arms of the hoary sea!
Go to—this time shall he taste of the point of my spear, and so
Mine heart shall be certified, and I shall surely know
If in like manner thence he shall win his way, or shall lie full long
In the arms of the life-giver Earth, the warder of the strong.”
So mused he, and tarried: the wretch terror-palsied crept to his feet,
Full fain to have clasped his knees, and it seemed to his soul most sweet
To escape from the bitter death and the black doom drawing near.
High had Achilles the godlike uplifted the long-shadowed spear
Eager to stab—but he rushed and he clasped his knees around,
Low-crouching, and over his back flew the javelin, and fast in the ground
Stood, thrilling with lust to be filled with the flesh and the blood of the foe.
But he with the one hand clung, and besought, at his knees bowed low;
With the other he clutched the lance, and he would not let it go;
And with quivering lips he gasped forth terror-winged words of prayer:
“I bow at thy knees, O Achilles, have mercy upon me and spare!
Zeus-nurtured, I stand unto thee in the sacred suppliant’s stead,
For at thy board first did I taste Déméter’s gift of bread,
In the day when thou tookest me captive in that fair garth of the vine,
And didst send me away from my sire and my friends far over the brine
Unto Lemnos the hallowed: a hecatomb’s price for thee I won,
And for thrice so much was I ransomed. It was but the twelfth day’s sun
That arose this morn since I came again to the Troyland shore
After manifold sufferings: now am I given to thine hands once more
By a baneful doom: ah, surely Zeus Allfather must hate
The man that again he hath cast unto thee! Toa short-lived fate
Laothoé bare me, the daughter of Altes; yet doth he reign,
An old king, over the Lelegan folk, the battle-fain,
Where Pedasus looks from her mountain eyry on Satniois.
His child took Priam,—yea, many a princess beside, I wis;—
With me was there born one brother, and lo, thou wilt kill us twain!
Him in the forefront of battle hast thou overmastered and slain,
Polydorus the godlike: the sharp lance sped from thine hand, and he fell.
And for me shall this hour be the hour of my bane, for I know full well
I shall ’scape not thine hand, whom a God hath driven to cross thy path.
Yet this will I tell thee,—O lay it to heart for a curb to thy wrath!—
Ah, slay me not, for not in the selfsame womb had I part
As Hector, who slew thy friend of the strong hand, merciful heart.”
So spake that son of Priam, with passionate-pleading word
Asking his life; but a pitiless voice and a stern he heard:
“Fool, babble not ransom to me, neither multiply words for naught!
Or ever Patroclus the lost to the day of his doom was brought,
So long were the lives of the captives of Troy more dear unto me
Than their death; and I took full many alive, and sold oversea.
But now is there none shall escape from death, whosoever shall fall
Into mine hands by the wrath of a God before Ilium’s wall,
Not a Trojan, and least of them all shall any Priam’s son.
Nay, die thou too, my friend: what boots it to make this moan?
Far nobler than thou was Patroclus—he could not choose but die.
Seest thou not how goodly and fair and tall am I?
A princely father begat me, a Goddess mother bore:
Yet my death and the overmastering doom are hard by the door.
It shall hap in the dawn or the eventide, or the noon of the day,
That some one shall take my life, even mine, in the midst of the fray:
With the cast of a spear, or a shaft fleeing far from the string, shall he slay.”
So spake he, and there were his knees and his very heart unstrung.
He unhanded the spear; he sank back with arms wide open flung.
Out of the scabbard Achilles had snatched his battle-brand keen;
Down on the collar-bone hard by the neck hath the double-edged sheen
Plunged out of sight. And there on his face outstretched on the ground
He lay, and the dark blood welled and drenched the earth around.
By the foot did Achilles seize him, and into the river he flung,
And the mock triumphant rang as the winged words leapt from his tongue:
“Now lie thou there mid the fishes: with careless care shall they lick
Thy blood from the wound. Ha, never that mother of thine, heart-sick,
On a bier shall outstretch thee and wail, but Skamander, thy restless grave,
Swirling shall bear thee adown to the sea’s broad-heaving wave.
Darting from under a shiver of darkling ripple shall spring
The fish, to devour Lykaon’s fat white-glistening.
So perish ye all, till we win Troy’s sacred citadel’s height,
Perish, the while ye flee, and with havoc I follow your flight!
Of the fair-flowing, silver-swirling Stream shall ye win no aid,
Unto whom long time with slaughter of many a bull ye have prayed,
And alive in his eddies have whelmed the horses for sacrifice;
But a bitter death shall ye die, till ye all shall have paid the price
Of Patroclus’ death, and the bane of Achaia’s hosts of war
Whom ye slew by the fleet-winged galleys while yet was their champion afar.”
Then at his taunt was the heart of the River stirred with ire;
And he mused in his spirit how he should quench the battle-fire
Of Achilles the godlike, and save the Trojans from bane drawn near.
And it was so, that Peleus’ son, high-lifting the long-shadowed spear,
With a purpose of death in his heart upon Asteropaius was leaping,—
Pelegon’s son, and his sire of the Axius’ flood broad-sweeping
Was born, and of Periboia: the eldest she was of the daughters
Of Akessamenus, and the bride of the Stream’s deep-swirling waters:—
Upon him did Achilles rush; but forth from the river he pressed
With lances twain to face him; and Xanthus filled his breast
With courage, for wroth for the strong men slain in the battle was he,
Whom Achilles was slaughtering down his stream unpityingly.
Now when they were drawn anigh, as against each other they strode,
First spake unto him swift-footed Achilles like to a God:
“Who art thou, and whence among men, who hast dared to cross my path?
The sons of wretched parents be they that brave my wrath.”
But Pelegon’s glorious son made answer dauntlessly:
“Peleides the mighty-hearted, what is my birth unto thee?
I come from the fair fat land of Paionia far away
Leading her long-speared warriors: now the eleventh day
Hath dawned from the time when first on the Troyland shore I stood,
And as touching my birth, I am sprung of the broad-flowing Axius’ flood—
Axius, fairest of waters on all the earth that be found,—
Of him was begotten the hero Pelegon spear-renowned:
His son do they call me. Now fight we, Achilles glory-crowned.”
So rang his defiance forth. But Achilles on high hath swung
The Pelian ash. Now the hero Asteropaius flung
Two lances together, for either hand was battle-skilled.
‘And the one spear smote on the targe, yet not clean through the shield
Did it burst, for ’twas stayed by the gold, a God’s gift adamant-hard.
By the other ’twixt elbow and wrist was the hero’s right arm scarred.
Forth spouted the dark-hued blood; but the spear flew over amain,
And it plunged in the earth, fierce-longing to feast on the flesh of the slain.
Then, then with his lance true-flying did hero Achilles throw
At Asteropaius, eager in death to lay him low.
But lo, he hath missed, and the spear hath struck the high-ridged bank:
Half-length deep in the earth the ashen javelin sank.
But Peleides hath snatched from his thigh his keen-edged battle-brand,
And in fury he sprang on the foe, while he tugged with his brawny hand
To wrench from the bank the lance of Achilles—but all in vain.
Thrice did he tug, while it quivered beneath that desperate strain:
Thrice must his sinews forbear; but the fourth, his soul was fain
To have bended and snapped the shaft of Aiakus’ son in twain:
Too late—for Achilles was on him, and smote out his life with the sword;
For hard by the navel he stabbed him, and forth of the grim gash poured
All his bowels to the ground, and a mist and a darkness swept
Over his eyes as he gasped. On his breast hath Achilles leapt,
And he stripped his battle-gear, and shouted in triumph-scorn:
“Lie there! Hard is it for thee to battle with heroes born
Of Kronion the mighty, although thou be sprung of a River-god’s line.
Ha, and thou vauntest the race of a broad-flowing river for thine!
But for me, of Zeus most high do I boast my descent to be;
And the king of the Myrmidon thousands was he that fathered me,
Peleus Aiakus’ son; and of Zeus did Aiakus spring.
Stronger is Zeus than the Rivers seaward-murmuring.
Stronger withal are the children of Zeus than a River’s seed,
Lo there a great River beside thee to help, if he can, in thy need!
Nay, there is none that in battle with Zeus Kronion may stand:
Not Lord Acheloüs himself against him dare lift his hand;
No, nor the mighty strength of Ocean’s fathomless flow,
Forth out of whom all rivers and all the sea-waves go,
And all deep-slumbering wells and fountains sunlight-plashing:
Yet he too standeth in awe of the lightning of Zeus far-flashing,
And his terrible thunder, when all the shuddering heavens are crashing.”
So spake he, and forth of the bank the brazen lance he tare,
And he left the man whose heart he had plucked out lying there
On the sands; and the dusky water lapped him the while he lay,
And the coiling eels and the fishes were swarming around the prey,
Rending the fat of the reins with ravenous teeth away.
But Achilles was gone: by the side of the eddying river he sped,
Where the rout of the tossing crests of Paionia’s warriors fled,
When they saw how their champion was fallen amidst of the desperate strife,
How the might of the hands and the sword of Achilles had reft his life.
Thersilochus, Mydon, and Astypylus hath he stretched on the plain;
Mnésus, and Thrasius, and Ainius, and Ophelestes are slain:
And many Paionians more by the hand of Achilles had died,
But the Stream deep-swirling spake, in his wrath that he turned not aside:
In the shape of a man he uprose from the depth of an eddy, and cried:
“Mighty art thou, Achilles, and lawless the deeds of thine hand
Above all men, for aye do the Gods by thy side in the battle stand.
If so be that Kronion hath given thee all the Trojans to kill,
First drive them from me to the plain: there work thy fiendish will.
For my lovely streams are filled with the folk that in battle have died;
No more can I pour my waters adown to the great sea-tide:
They be choked with the corpses; and still art thou slaying: ’tis ghastly to see.
O refrain thee, captain of war-folk: horror hath seized upon me.”
Answered Achilles the fleetfoot, and undismayed cried he:
“As thou biddest, Skamander the heaven-fed, so in the end shall it be:
Not yet,—for I will not refrain me from slaughtering this proud foe,
Till I chase them to Troy, and be face to face with Hector, and know
Whether he shall be conqueror then, or I shall lay him low.”
Then like an avenging God on the Trojans he rushed as they fled;
And thereat the Stream deep-swirling cried to Apollo, and said:
“Fie on thee, Silverbow, Kronion’s son! Why then
Hast thou kept not the counsel of Zeus, who commanded thee once and again
To abide by the Trojan folk, and defend them from bane, till the coming
Of the eventide, when the fields wax shadowy-dim in the gloaming?”
He spake; but Achilles the spear-renowned from the bank had leapt
To the stream, but with cataract surge the River against him swept,
Tossing a turmoil of torrents, and hurling the host of the slain
Onward, till squadrons of dead on the slayer were charging again.
And he roared as a bull, and he cast forth on to the land those dead;
And he wrought to deliver the living that down his fair streams fled,
Casting about them the screen of his eddies deep and wide.
Round the hero the terrible surge towered seething on every side:
And a cataract dashed and crashed on his shield: all vainly he sought
Firm ground for his feet: with his hands at a mighty elm he caught,
A wide-spreading tree; but bowing aslant from its loosened roots
It breached the bank to the water’s edge, and with myriad shoots
Lashed the beautiful waters, and forward flung full length
Bridged over the river. He sprang from the swirl with his uttermost strength,
And with feet terror-winged rushed thence to fly across the plain.
But the strong God ceased not now, but he leapt upon him again
Black-crested, that godlike Achilles might evermore refrain
Thereafter from battle-toil, and the Trojans be shielded from bane.
Bounded Peleides as far as a battle-flung javelin may fly,
And his leap was the swoop of the eagle, the black-winged scourge of the sky,
Which is strongest of sinew and fleetest of pinion of all winged things;
So seemed he in darting:—lo, on his breast how the battle-gear rings
Terribly clashing! With swift swerve suddenly turning aside
He fled, but the roar followed fast and the rush of the cataract tide.
And even as a husbandman leadeth adown from a spring dark-flowing
A runnel amidst of his plants and his gardens sultry-glowing,
While, mattock in hand, he is clearing the clods from the channel still,
And the gleaming pebbles are rolled along by the gushing rill,
And swiftly it poureth adown with laughter and tinkling song
By the fall of the land, outrunning the man as he guides it along:
Even so was Achilles outstripped evermore by the river-surge then,
Swift as he was, for the Gods be stronger far than men.
And as often as fleetfoot Achilles the godlike turned on his foe
And gathered his strength to face his fury of onset, and know
If all were against him that dwell in the broad-arched heaven for ever,
So often the mighty surge of the heaven-descended River
Dashed down from above on his shoulders. High with his feet did he leap
Chafing in anguish: the river with furious under-sweep
Overmastered his knees, and dragged from his feet the sand ever-shifting.
And Peleides groaned, to the broad-arched heaven his eyes uplifting:
“Allfather, will none of the Gods come down in my pitiful strait
From the river to save me?—Thereafter I care not what be my fate!
None of the Heaven-abiders is guilty of this in mine eyes
So much as my mother: ’twas she that beguiled me with promise of lies.
For she said that beneath the brazen-corsleted Trojans’ wall
By the swift-flying shafts of Apollo amidst of the fray I should fall.
O had Hector but killed me, the mightiest one of the sons of the land!
Then had a hero slain me, a hero had died by his hand.
But now am I doomed by a pitiful death to be spoiled of renown,
Trapped by a swollen river, even as a swineherd clown,
A boy that is drowned in a gully when winter floods come down!”
So spake he, and all in a moment Poseidon and Pallas were there
Hard by his side, and the forms of the children of men they bare;
And they spake to him comforting words with hand troth-clasped in hand.
And first did Poseidon cheer him, the Shaker of the Land:
“Quake not exceedingly, Peleus’ son, nor be sore afraid:
For behold what manner of helpers be here on thy side arrayed,—
And Zeus sayeth yea thereunto,—even Pallas Athéné and I.
It is not thy weird by the wrath of such as a River to die.
He shall weary full soon, and forbear; thou shalt see it in very deed.
And we counsel thee straitly thus, if thou wilt hearken our rede —
See thou refrain not thine hands from the strife of the wavering fray
Till in Ilium’s walls thou hast penned the Trojans’ war-array,
Even all yon fleers: and take thou Hector’s life away
Ere thou come to the galleys again. Lo, we give thee renown this day.”
To the place of the Deathless they gat them, when thus they had spoken the word:
But he went—for his heart by the hest of the Gods was mightily stirred—
On to the plain. But all with the floods outpoured was filled,
And much fair harness and corpses of strong men battle-killed
Were swept to and fro. But his knees leapt high victoriously:
Right onward against the torrent he plunged: he stayed not, he,
For the broad-rushing River: Athéné mightily strengthened him.
Yet Skamander forebore not his fury; his wrath waxed yet more grim
Against Peleus’ son; and with surge like a helmet-crest tossed high
He uplifted himself, and to Simois called with a mighty cry:
“Dear brother, let thou and I in any wise stay this foe;
Else soon shall he lay the mighty city of Priam low,
And the host of the Trojan folk no more shall abide in the fight.
Come to mine help with speed: fill thou my streams to the height
With floods from thy springs; bid all thy mountain-torrents leap:
Uplift thou a mighty surge, and charge with a thunderous sweep
Of trunks and of stones, to the end we may cause this savage to stay
Who is triumphing now, and is fain to defy the Gods this day.
For I say that his strength shall avail him not, nor his goodlihead,
Nor his splendid battle-gear, which shall lie all slime-overspread
Far down in the depths of the mere, and himself shall be shrouded o’er
With sand, and shingle around him, a measureless heap, will I pour.
Never the sons of Achaia on this man’s bones shall light
To gather them up; such a mountain of silt shall veil him from sight.
Yea, there shall his barrow be heaped; no need shall they have, not they,
To uppile him a sepulchre-mound when Achaians his death-rites pay.”
So spake he, and rushed on Achilles the stormy-seething flood
High-tossing, and roaring with foam and with dead men’s bodies and blood.
And thundercloud-black the surge of the heaven-fallen River towered
Ever higher, and Peleus’ son had he now well-nigh overpowered.
But Héré shouted aloud,—for her heart was sore adread
Lest the swirling river should drag Achilles down to the dead,—
And straightway she cried on Hephaistus her well-loved son, and she said:
“Haltfoot, arise, my son!—we have found thee a battle-peer!
Lo, Xanthus the swirling River arrayed against thee here!
Haste thee, stand up for mine help: fling forth thy flame-banner wide!
And I will away, and call fierce blasts from the wild sea-tide,
The blast of the West, and the South that sweepeth the heaven cloud-clear,
Which shall burn up the heads of his Trojan slain, and their battle-gear,
Rolling onward the ravening flame. And thou by Xanthus’ shore
Burn up the trees, flash fire to his depths, and forbear nevermore
For soft words praying, neither for curses a whit shalt thou care.
But slack not the might of thy godhead, till I shall command thee to spare
With a mighty shout: stay thou thy tameless fireblast there.”
Then at her hest Hephaistus the flame god-kindled arrayed.
First over the plain the fireblast swept: on the corpses it preyed;
For heaps upon heaps they lay where Achilles had wrought that slaughter.
Parched was the plain all over, and shrank the shining water.
And as when in the latter summer the north-wind drieth again
A watered garden with speed, that the tiller thereof is fain,
Even so was the plain all parched, and the corpses he utterly burned;
And against the River thereafter his flame far-flashing he turned.
And lo, they were blazing—the elms and the willows, the tamarisk-bushes;
And the lotos leapt into flame, and the galingale and the rushes
By the beautiful streams of the river thickly fringing the shore.
And the eels and the fishes through all his swirls were tormented sore;
And writhing they plunged through the lovely waters here and there:
By the blast of Hephaistus the Craft-king sore tormented they were.
Yea, the Might of the River is burning, and lo, he gaspeth a prayer:
“Hephaistus, none of the Gods may stand before thine ire!
No spirit is in me to battle against thy flaming fire.
O refrain thee from strife!—an thou wilt, let Achilles utterly drive
Troy’s folk from their city:—what do I in battle-aid to strive?”
All burning he spake, while bubbled his streams in the fervent glow.
And as boileth a caldron within, when a great fire blazeth below,
And the spume spurts forth all round, as the fat of a sleek-fed boar
Is seething therein, and below dry billets be spread good store;
So wrapped in flame were his streams, and the water boiled evermore:
No spirit was in him to flow, but he stayed, tormented sore
By the breath of the Might of Hephaistus the Craft-king. In anguished despair
Cried he at last unto Héré with wild-winged words of prayer:
“O Héré, why hath thy son upon my streams fallen, alone
Of all others, to vex me? Herein not I am the guiltiest one,
But all the rest of the Gods on the side of the Trojans that stand.
Lo now I refrain from the battle, if this be thy command.
O let him also refrain! I will swear this oath withal,
Never to shield Troy’s folk when their evil day shall befall;
No, not when with ravening fire all Troy shall be burnt to the ground
Flame-wrapped, and the sons of Achaia shall burn it, the war-renowned.”
When the Goddess, the white-armed Héré, heard that suppliant moan,
Straightway she spake to Hephaistus, her well-beloved son:
“Refrain thee, Hephaistus, my glorious child, for ill were it done
If still for a mortal’s sake we should buffet a deathless one.”
So did she speak, and Hephaistus quenched that flame divine,
And again down the beautiful streams did the hurrying ripples shine.
Now so soon as the might of Xanthus was overmastered, these
Had rest, for in spite of her wrath did Héré grant him peace.
But amidst of the rest of the Gods was a bolt of contention dashed;
And the winds of their passionate hearts in stormy battle clashed.
Loud was the crash of their onset: the earth roared underground,
And with thunder-clarion pealing the boundless heaven rang round.
And Zeus on Olympus enthroned heard all, and his heart within
Laughed he for glee, beholding the strife of the Gods begin.
Short time from the onset they shrank; but rose the battle-clang
When Arés the buckler-cleaver first on Athéné sprang
Grasping his brazen spear, and loud his defiance rang:
“Wherefore again, thou wasp, art thou stinging the Gods to the fight,
Thou tempest of recklessness, driven to mischief by measureless spite?
Hast thou forgotten who moved Diomedes, Tydeus’ son,
To stab me, who caught at his spear, and unswervingly guided it on
Full against me, that it wounded my flesh in the sight of the sun?
Now therefore, I ween, shalt thou pay me the price of the deeds thou hast done.”
As he spake it, he smote on her Aegis, the terrible tasselled shield,—
Not to the lightning of Zeus doth the adamant face of it yield,—-
Even there did Arés the blood-stained smite with his long-shadowed spear.
But she drew back a step, and her strong hand caught up a stone lying near
On the plain; ‘twas a rugged rock, a black and a mighty one,
Set for a boundary-mark by the men of the days long gone.
Therewithal did she smite fierce Arés’ neck, and his knees she unstrung.
Over seven roods’ length he fell, and his hair in the dust was flung:
Clashed round him his armour: and Pallas Athéné laughed at the sight,
And there in triumphant scorn she sped the winged word-flight:
“Fool!—and not yet hast thou learnt the measure of this my might,
How far above thine is my strength, that thou darest me on to the fight?
This shall for thee be the fruit of the curses thy mother spake,
Of her wrath and her purpose of evil to thee, who hast dared to forsake
The Achaians, and make thee the arrogant Trojans’ battle-stay.”
So spake she, and turned she her proud scorn-lightening eyes away.
But the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodité, led him thence by the hand,
Groaning and groaning again, scarce rallying life to stand.
And when Héré the white-armed Goddess that hero-warder espied,
Forthright unto Pallas Athéné with words swift-winged she cried:
“Ha! child of the Aegis-bearer Zeus, O tireless of might,
Lo how again from the wasting war, through the clash of the fight,
Yon carrion-fly is leading the murderer!—Follow their flight!”
So spake she, and after them darted Athéné in triumph-glee,
And on Aphrodité’s breast with her brawny hand smote she:
And there were her knees unstrung, and the strength of her heart was fled,
And there they twain on the breast of the boon earth lay as dead,
And there in triumphant scorn the winged words Pallas sped:
“Even so be all that would lend unto Troy’s folk battle-aid,
What time soever they fight with the Argives corslet-arrayed!
So valiant be they and so steadfast as she this day hath been,
Who hath braved my might, this champion of Arés, the Dalliance-queen.
Ha! were it thus, long ago had we gotten us rest from toil,
And Ilium’s fair-walled city had been our battle-spoil.”
So spake she, and Héré the Goddess, the White-armed, smiled as she heard,
The while to Apollo the Lord Earth-shaker spake the word:
“Phoebus, why stand we apart? It is nowise meet and right,
Since the rest have begun: foul shame will it be, if we shall not fight
Ere back to Olympus, the brass-paved palace of Zeus, we fare.
Begin thou; for thou art the younger, and not for mine honour it were,
Seeing I am the elder-born, and in wisdom greater than thou.
O fool and witless of heart!—hast thou clean forgotten now
All the affliction we suffered beside yon Ilian wall,
We only of all the Gods, when we came from Zeus’s hall,
And were hirelings a whole year’s space unto haughty Laomedon
For a promised wage, and he was our taskmaster, speeding us on;
And I for the Trojans builded a wall about their town,
Wide and exceeding fair; no foe might break it down.
O Phoebus, and thou didst pasture their trailfoot wreath-horned herd
Mid the folds of Ida the forest-shadowed, the many-spurred.
But at last, when the seasons brought the time of our glad desire,
The day of our toil-wage, then did he wrest from us all our hire,
And with threats that terrible king Laomedon sent us away:
Thine hands did he threaten to bind, thy feet in the fetters to lay,
And to send thee away into thraldom to isles far over the brine;
Yea, swore he would shear with the brass our ears, even thine and mine.
So we turned us aback and we went, and with rage were our hearts afire,
Wroth for the promised guerdon, the broken troth of the liar.
To his folk now art thou showing thy kindness!—not on our side
Dost thou toil that the Trojans may perish, the lawless children of pride,
In utterest wrack, yea, every child and shamefast bride.”
Then unto him Far-smiter Apollo the King replied:
“Earth-shaker, thou wouldst not say that my wisdom abode with me
If I for the wretched deathlings’ sake should war with thee,—
Creatures that like to the leaves of the forest flourish to-day,
And the life in them gloweth as flame, and the fruit of the earth eat they;
And to-morrow, behold, they be fading and perishing. Nay, but with speed
Refrain we from strife: let themselves in their own cause battle and bleed.”
So spake he, and turned him away, for that shame withheld his hand
From smiting his father’s brother, the Shaker of the Land.
But his sister chode with him hotly, the chaser of forest-prey,
Artemis, Greenwood-queen, and with mocking speech ’gan say:
“Thou art recreant, O Far-smiter, and all the triumph dost yield
To Poseidon, and giv’st him the victory-vaunt of an unfought field!
O fool, and what hast thou to do to bear the bow in vain?
Ha, in the halls of our sire let me hear thee never again
Making thy boast as of old mid the Gods that abide for aye,
How that thou with Poseidon wilt match thee face to face in the fray!”
So railed she: no word unto her Far-smiter Apollo spoke:
But the wrath of the Wife of Zeus, of the Lady of Worship, awoke;
And with words of upbraiding she cried to the Arrow-triumphant there:
“And thou, O shameless-bold, how is it that now thou dost dare
Against me to array thee? I ween I am all too strong for thee,
What though thou bearest the bow, seeing Zeus hath ordained thee to be
Unto women a lion, hath given thee to slay them as seemeth thee good.
Ha, better it is on the mountains to slaughter the beasts of the wood
And the flying stags, than in conflict to strive with a mightier foe!
Nay then, an thou wilt, make trial of war, and so shalt thou know
How mighty is she against whom thou art fain into battle to go.”
So spake she, and Artemis’ either hand by the wrist she gripped
With her left; with her right from her shoulders the bow and the quiver she stripped;
And with these did she buffet the ears of the Huntress, smiling ever,
While Artemis twisted and writhed, and the swift shafts poured from the quiver.
And weeping and cowed did she flee, as darteth a culver adread,
Which in flight from the swoop of a hawk to her haven of safety hath sped,
To a cleft of the rock, being doomed not yet for the spoiler’s prey;
So weeping she fled, and she left the bow on the ground where it lay.
Then unto Léto the Guide-god, Slayer of Argus, said:
“Léto, I fight not with thee: good sooth, he were hard bestead
Who would buffet the brides of Zeus, the arrayer of hosts of cloud.
Nay, nay, but amidst of the Deathless with lightsome heart and proud
Boast thou that in stress of battle before thy might I bowed.”
But silently Léto upgathered the bow and the arrows that lay
Hither and thither strewn in the dust of the whirl of the fray.
Then bearing the quiver and bow she followed her daughter’s flight:
She was gone unto Zeus’s brass-paved hall on Olympus’ height;
And weeping she sat on her father’s knees in sorrowful plight,
While the vesture celestial shook with her sobs. But he gathered his child
Close in his arms, and Kronion asked her, and kind he smiled:
“Now which of the Heaven-folk, darling, this unto thee hath done
Roughly and rudely, as though thou hadst sinned in the sight of the sun?”
Spake she of the garlanded hair, of the forest-ringing shout:
Father, thy wife, even Héré, hath dealt to me buffet and flout:
Still mid the Deathless her brands of dissention she flingeth about.”
So spake they each unto other, of deeds of outrage done.
But Phoebus Apollo the while into Ilium the holy was gone;
For his heart yearned over the wall of the beautiful-builded town,
Lest the Danaans ere its hour should in that day break it down.
But the rest of the ever-abiding Gods to Olympus hied,
These wrathful at heart, and those in glory of triumph-pride.
With Zeus the Cloudrack-clad sat these: but still in the plain
By Achilles’ hands were the heroes of Troy and her battle-steeds slain.
And as when storm-billows of smoke toss up to the broad-arched skies
From a burning town, when the wrath of the Gods hath bidden them rise,
And for this must all folk toil, and many a heart shall break;
So Achilles brought on the Trojans travail and sore heart-ache.
From the height of a mighty tower the ancient King gazed out
At Achilles the terrible: ever before him the huddled rout
Of the panic-struck Trojans fled, nor was any deliverance found.
And the King with a bitter cry came down from the tower to the ground;
And straight to the stalwart guards of the gates his behest he spoke:
“Hold ye the gates flung wide in your hands, till the rout of the folk
Shall all have escaped to the city; for now is Achilles drawn near
Driving them: ruin and wrack shall befall us, sorely I fear.
And when they again draw breath, safe-gathered within the wall,
Together again let the massy close-lapped gate-leaves fall,
Lest the swoop of yonder destroyer should dart through, ruining all.”
So he spake, and they thrust back the bolts, and wide the gates they flung.
So a light of safety shone through the pass. And forth hath sprung
Apollo, to meet Achilles, and shield the Trojans from bane.
On, on to the city, on to the high-built wall amain,
With throats thirst-harrowed, dust-besprent from the weary plain,
Fled they, and he with the spear followed fiercely, and madness was burning
Evermore in his heart, and for battle-fame’s crown was the soul of him yearning.
Then, then high-gated Troy had the sons of Achaia won,
Had not Apollo enkindled Anténor’s godlike son
Agénor, a princely hero, and mighty and valiant of mood.
Into his heart did he breathe battle-might: by his side he stood
In his godhead, to ward death’s overmastering doom from his head,
Leaning against an oak, but with thick mist round him shed.
When the hero espied Achilles the city-smiter fell,
He stayed, and with surging thoughts did his heart full darkly swell,
The while to his valiant spirit disquieted sore spake he:
“Ah me!—if now from the face of Achilles the mighty I flee
By the selfsame way whereby my fellows in panic fly,
Even so shall he overtake me, the dastard’s death shall I die.
But and if I shall leave yon fleers to huddle in clamorous rout
From Achilles Peleus’ son, and shall turn my feet about
Fleeing far from the wall to the Ilian plain, till at last I shall win
Unto Ida’s spurs, and shall enter her sheltering brakes within,
Then in the river’s flow might I bathe me at evenfall,
And return cool-cleansed from the battle-sweat unto Ilium’s wall:—
Nay, wherefore communeth mine heart within me thus in vain?
I doubt he will mark me as outward I swerve from the town to the plain.
After me straight will he dart, and o’ertake with his flying feet.
No hope for me then: but the death and the blackness of doom must I meet;
For beyond all menfolk stalwart he is and passing fleet.
Ha!—what if in front of the city I meet him—brave him here!—
Yea, surely his flesh is but flesh, to be pierced by the point of the spear!
There is in him but one life only, and mortal he is, men say;
And the son of Kronos giveth him this renown in the fray.”
Then he gathered his strength, and awaited Achilles: his heart of might
Swelled high with the battle-spirit to meet his foe and to fight.
As cometh a leopardess forth of her twilight lair in the brake
To meet the hunter, and nowise within her her heart doth quake,
Nor in any wise quail, when she heareth the bay of the hounds drawn near;
For though, ere she leap, ye shall stab her, or smite with the cast of a spear,
Yet even when spiked on the shaft she will not refrain her from fight,
Mad-struggling, or ever she grapple her foe, or be slain outright;
So princely Anténor’s son, Agénor the godlike, stood,
To make proof of the might of Achilles, and fled not, dauntless of mood.
But in front of his breast the fence of his shapely shield did he hold:
At the hero he aimed his lance, and his voice rang loud and bold:
“Ha! didst thou hope in thine heart, O Achilles, king of renown,
This day to bring down to the dust the lordly Trojans’ town?
Ah fool! pains many and sore shall be suffered for her ere then,
For heroes therein there be many, and battle-valiant men.
For our fathers’ and mothers’ sake, for our wives and our babes, will we save
Fair Ilium: thou, even thou, shalt win thee here but a grave,
For all thy terrible prowess, O warrior stalwart and brave!”
Then from his brawny hand the dart keen-pointed he shot,
And it smote Achilles beneath the knee, and missed him not.
And around his ankle the greave of the tin fresh-smithied rang
Terribly: backward the spear from the smitten armour sprang;
For the god-given war-gear stayed the point, that it won not through.
Thereafter Peleus’ son on Agénor the godlike flew;.
But Apollo suffered him not with glory to crown that fight,
For he snatched Agénor away, and in thick mist veiled him from sight;
And he sent him in peace safe home, plucked forth of the peril of war,
And by guile drew Peleus’ son from the hunted people afar.
For there in the shape of Agénor before Achilles’ face
Far-smiter stood, and the hero with swift feet rushed in chase.
Over the plain wheat-waving the God fled fast from the man;
By Xanthus the silver-eddying swerving aside they ran;
And scantly outrunning him ever Apollo beguiled him on,
That aye he might hope by the speed of his feet that prey to have won;
The while the rest of the Trojan rout with exceeding joy
Pressed into the city in panic, and thronged were the streets of Troy.
Ha, but they had no will without the wall to abide,
And to tarry their fellows’ coming, and know who among them had died,
And who had escaped from the war, but glad, O glad they poured
Into the town, whosoever was saved by his feet from the sword.