Book II

How Memnon, Son of the Dawn, for Troy’s sake fell in the Battle

When o’er the crests of the far-echoing hillsThe splendour of the tireless-racing sunPoured o’er the land, still in their tents rejoicedAchaea’s stalwart sons, and still acclaimedAchilles the resistless.  But in TroyStill mourned her people, still from all her towersSeaward they strained their gaze; for one great fearGripped all their hearts—to see that terrible manAt one bound overleap their high-built wall,Then smite with the sword all people therewithin,And burn with fire fanes, palaces, and homes.And old Thymoetes spake to the anguished ones:“Friends, I have lost hope: mine heart seeth notOr help, or bulwark from the storm of war,Now that the aweless Hector, who was onceTroy’s mighty champion, is in dust laid low.Not all his might availed to escape the Fates,But overborne he was by Achilles’ hands,The hands that would, I verily deem, bear downA God, if he defied him to the fight,Even as he overthrew this warrior-queenPenthesileia battle-revelling,From whom all other Argives shrank in fear.Ah, she was marvellous!  When at the firstI looked on her, meseemed a Blessed OneFrom heaven had come down hitherward to bringLight to our darkness—ah, vain hope, vain dream!Go to, let us take counsel, what to doWere best for us.  Or shall we still maintainA hopeless fight against these ruthless foes,Or shall we straightway flee a city doomed?Ay, doomed!—for never more may we withstandArgives in fighting field, when in the frontOf battle pitiless Achilles storms.”

Then spake Laomedon’s son, the ancient king:“Nay, friend, and all ye other sons of Troy,And ye our strong war-helpers, flinch we notFaint-hearted from defence of fatherland!Yet let us go not forth the city-gatesTo battle with yon foe.  Nay, from our towersAnd from our ramparts let us make defence,Till our new champion come, the stormy heartOf Memnon.  Lo, he cometh, leading onHosts numberless, Aethiopia’s swarthy sons.By this, I trow, he is nigh unto our gates;For long ago, in sore distress of soul,I sent him urgent summons.  Yea, and hePromised me, gladly promised me, to comeTo Troy, and make all end of all our woes.And now, I trust, he is nigh.  Let us endureA little longer then; for better farIt is like brave men in the fight to dieThan flee, and live in shame mid alien folk.”

So spake the old king; but Polydamas,The prudent-hearted, thought not good to warThus endlessly, and spake his patriot rede:“If Memnon have beyond all shadow of doubtPledged him to thrust dire ruin far from us,Then do I gainsay not that we awaitThe coming of that godlike man withinOur walls—yet, ah, mine heart misgives me, lest,Though he with all his warriors come, he comeBut to his death, and unto thousands more,Our people, nought but misery come thereof;For terribly against us leaps the stormOf the Achaeans’ might.  But now, go to,Let us not flee afar from this our TroyTo wander to some alien land, and there,In the exile’s pitiful helplessness, endureAll flouts and outrage; nor in our own landAbide we till the storm of Argive warO’erwhelm us.  Nay, even now, late though it be,Better it were for us to render backUnto the Danaans Helen and her wealth,Even all that glory of women brought with herFrom Sparta, and add other treasure—yea,Repay it twofold, so to save our TroyAnd our own souls, while yet the spoiler’s handIs laid not on our substance, and while yetTroy hath not sunk in gulfs of ravening flame.I pray you, take to heart my counsel!  NoneShall, well I wot, be given to Trojan menBetter than this.  Ah, would that long agoHector had hearkened to my pleading, whenI fain had kept him in the ancient home!”

So spake Polydamas the noble and strong,And all the listening Trojans in their heartsApproved; yet none dared utter openlyThe word, for all with trembling held in aweTheir prince and Helen, though for her sole sakeDaily they died.  But on that noble manTurned Paris, and reviled him to his face:“Thou dastard battle-blencher Polydamas!Not in thy craven bosom beats a heartThat bides the fight, but only fear and panic.Yet dost thou vaunt thee—quotha!—still our bestIn counsel!—no man’s soul is base as thine!Go to, thyself shrink shivering from the strife!Cower, coward, in thine halls!  But all the rest,We men, will still go armour-girt, untilWe wrest from this our truceless war a peaceThat shall not shame us!  ’Tis with travail and toilOf strenuous war that brave men win renown;But flight?—weak women choose it, and young babes!Thy spirit is like to theirs.  No whit I trustThee in the day of battle—thee, the manWho maketh faint the hearts of all the host!”

So fiercely he reviled: PolydamasWrathfully answered; for he shrank not, he,From answering to his face.  A caitiff hound,A reptile fool, is he who fawns on menBefore their faces, while his heart is blackWith malice, and, when they be gone, his tongueBackbites them.  Openly PolydamasFlung back upon the prince his taunt and scoff:“O thou of living men most mischievous!Thy valour—quotha!—brings us misery!Thine heart endures, and will endure, that strifeShould have no limit, save in utter ruinOf fatherland and people for thy sake!Ne’er may such wantwit valour craze my soul!Be mine to cherish wise discretion aye,A warder that shall keep mine house in peace.”

Indignantly he spake, and Paris foundNo word to answer him, for conscience wokeRemembrance of all woes he had brought on Troy,And should bring; for his passion-fevered heartWould rather hail quick death than severanceFrom Helen the divinely fair, althoughFor her sake was it that the sons of TroyEven then were gazing from their towers to seeThe Argives and Achilles drawing nigh.

But no long time thereafter came to themMemnon the warrior-king, and brought with himA countless host of swarthy Aethiops.From all the streets of Troy the Trojans flockedGlad-eyed to gaze on him, as seafarers,With ruining tempest utterly forspent,See through wide-parting clouds the radianceOf the eternal-wheeling Northern Wain;So joyed the Troyfolk as they thronged around,And more than all Laomedon’s son, for nowLeapt in his heart a hope, that yet the shipsMight by those Aethiop men be burned with fire;So giantlike their king was, and themselvesSo huge a host, and so athirst for fight.Therefore with all observance welcomed heThe strong son of the Lady of the DawnWith goodly gifts and with abundant cheer.So at the banquet King and Hero satAnd talked, this telling of the Danaan chiefs,And all the woes himself had suffered, thatTelling of that strange immortalityBy the Dawn-goddess given to his sire,Telling of the unending flow and ebbOf the Sea-mother, of the sacred floodOf Ocean fathomless-rolling, of the boundsOf Earth that wearieth never of her travail,Of where the Sun-steeds leap from orient waves,Telling withal of all his wayfaringFrom Ocean’s verge to Priam’s wall, and spursOf Ida.  Yea, he told how his strong handsSmote the great army of the SolymiWho barred his way, whose deed presumptuous broughtUpon their own heads crushing ruin and woe.So told he all that marvellous tale, and toldOf countless tribes and nations seen of him.And Priam heard, and ever glowed his heartWithin him; and the old lips answering spake:“Memnon, the Gods are good, who have vouchsafedTo me to look upon thine host, and theeHere in mine halls.  O that their grace would soCrown this their boon, that I might see my foesAll thrust to one destruction by thy spears.That well may be, for marvellous-like art thouTo some invincible Deathless One, yea, moreThan any earthly hero.  Wherefore thou,I trust, shalt hurl wild havoc through their host.But now, I pray thee, for this day do thouCheer at my feast thine heart, and with the mornShalt thou go forth to battle worthy of thee.”

Then in his hands a chalice deep and wideHe raised, and Memnon in all love he pledgedIn that huge golden cup, a gift of Gods;For this the cunning God-smith brought to Zeus,His masterpiece, what time the Mighty in PowerTo Hephaestus gave for bride the Cyprian Queen;And Zeus on Dardanus his godlike sonBestowed it, he on Erichthonius;Erichthonius to Tros the great of heartGave it, and he with all his treasure-storeBequeathed it unto Ilus, and he gaveThat wonder to Laomedon, and heTo Priam, who had thought to leave the sameTo his own son.  Fate ordered otherwise.And Memnon clasped his hands about that cupSo peerless-beautiful, and all his heartMarvelled; and thus he spake unto the King:“Beseems not with great swelling words to vauntAmidst the feast, and lavish promises,But rather quietly to eat in hall,And to devise deeds worthy.  Whether IBe brave and strong, or whether I be not,Battle, wherein a man’s true might is seen,Shall prove to thee.  Now would I rest, nor drinkThe long night through.  The battle-eager spiritBy measureless wine and lack of sleep is dulled.”

Marvelled at him the old King, and he said:“As seems thee good touching the banquet, doAfter thy pleasure.  I, when thou art loth,Will not constrain thee.  Yea, unmeet it isTo hold back him who fain would leave the board,Or hurry from one’s halls who fain would stay.So is the good old law with all true men.”

Then rose that champion from the board, and passedThence to his sleep—his last!  And with him wentAll others from the banquet to their rest:And gentle sleep slid down upon them soon.

But in the halls of Zeus, the Lightning-lord,Feasted the gods the while, and Cronos’ son,All-father, of his deep foreknowledge spakeAmidst them of the issue of the strife:“Be it known unto you all, to-morn shall bringBy yonder war affliction swift and sore;For many mighty horses shall ye seeIn either host beside their chariots slain,And many heroes perishing.  Therefore yeRemember these my words, howe’er ye grieveFor dear ones.  Let none clasp my knees in prayer,Since even to us relentless are the fates.”

So warned he them, which knew before, that allShould from the battle stand aside, howe’erHeart-wrung; that none, petitioning for a sonOr dear one, should to Olympus vainly come.So, at that warning of the Thunderer,The Son of Cronos, all they steeled their heartsTo bear, and spake no word against their king;For in exceeding awe they stood of him.Yet to their several mansions and their restWith sore hearts went they.  O’er their deathless eyesThe blessing-bringer Sleep his light veils spread.

When o’er precipitous crests of mountain-wallsLeapt up broad heaven the bright morning-starWho rouseth to their toils from slumber sweetThe binders of the sheaf, then his last sleepUnclasped the warrior-son of her who bringsLight to the world, the Child of Mists of Night.Now swelled his mighty heart with eagernessTo battle with the foe forthright.  And DawnWith most reluctant feet began to climbHeaven’s broad highway.  Then did the Trojans girdTheir battle-harness on; then armed themselvesThe Aethiop men, and all the mingled tribesOf those war-helpers that from many landsTo Priam’s aid were gathered.  Forth the gatesSwiftly they rushed, like darkly lowering cloudsWhich Cronos’ Son, when storm is rolling up,Herdeth together through the welkin wide.Swiftly the whole plain filled.  Onward they streamedLike harvest-ravaging locusts drifting onIn fashion of heavy-brooding rain-clouds o’erWide plains of earth, an irresistible hostBringing wan famine on the sons of men;So in their might and multitude they went.The city streets were all too strait for themMarching: upsoared the dust from underfoot.

From far the Argives gazed, and marvelling sawTheir onrush, but with speed arrayed their limbsIn brass, and in the might of Peleus’ sonPut their glad trust.  Amidst them rode he onLike to a giant Titan, gloryingIn steeds and chariot, while his armour flashedSplendour around in sudden lightning-gleams.It was as when the sun from utmost boundsOf earth-encompassing ocean comes, and bringsLight to the world, and flings his splendour wideThrough heaven, and earth and air laugh all around.So glorious, mid the Argives Peleus’ sonRode onward.  Mid the Trojans rode the whileMemnon the hero, even such to seeAs Ares furious-hearted.  Onward sweptThe eager host arrayed about their lord.

Then in the grapple of war on either sideClosed the long lines, Trojan and Danaan;But chief in prowess still the Aethiops were.Crashed they together as when surges meetOn the wild sea, when, in a day of storm,From every quarter winds to battle rush.Foe hurled at foe the ashen spear, and slew:Screams and death-groans went up like roaring fire.As when down-thundering torrents shout and raveOn-pouring seaward, when the madding rainsStream from God’s cisterns, when the huddling cloudsAre hurled against each other ceaselessly,And leaps their fiery breath in flashes forth;So ’neath the fighters’ trampling feet the earthThundered, and leapt the terrible battle-yellThrough frenzied air, for mad the war-cries were.

For firstfruits of death’s harvest Peleus’ sonSlew Thalius and Mentes nobly born,Men of renown, and many a head besideDashed he to dust.  As in its furious swoopA whirlwind shakes dark chasms underground,And earth’s foundations crumble and melt awayAround the deep roots of the shuddering world,So the ranks crumbled in swift doom to the dustBefore the spear and fury of Peleus’s son.

But on the other side the hero childOf the Dawn-goddess slew the Argive men,Like to a baleful Doom which bringeth downOn men a grim and ghastly pestilence.First slew he Pheron; for the bitter spearPlunged through his breast, and down on him he hurledGoodly Ereuthus, battle-revellers both,Dwellers in Thryus by Alpheus’ streams,Which followed Nestor to the god-built burgOf Ilium.  But when he had laid these low,Against the son of Neleus pressed he onEager to slay.  Godlike AntilochusStrode forth to meet him, sped the long spear’s flight,Yet missed him, for a little he swerved, but slewHis Aethiop comrade, son of Pyrrhasus.Wroth for his fall, against AntilochusHe leapt, as leaps a lion mad of moodUpon a boar, the beast that flincheth notFrom fight with man or brute, whose charge is a flashOf lightning; so was his swift leap.  His foeAntilochus caught a huge stone from the ground,Hurled, smote him; but unshaken abode his strength,For the strong helm-crest fenced his head from death;But rang the morion round his brows.  His heartKindled with terrible fury at the blowMore than before against Antilochus.Like seething cauldron boiled his maddened might.He stabbed, for all his cunning of fence, the sonOf Nestor above the breast; the crashing spearPlunged to the heart, the spot of speediest death.

Then upon all the Danaans at his fallCame grief; but anguish-stricken was the heartOf Nestor most of all, to see his childSlain in his sight; for no more bitter pangSmiteth the heart of man than when a sonPerishes, and his father sees him die.Therefore, albeit unused to melting mood,His soul was torn with agony for the sonBy black death slain.  A wild cry hastilyTo Thrasymedes did he send afar:“Hither to me, Thrasymedes war-renowned!Help me to thrust back from thy brother’s corse,Yea, from mine hapless son, his murderer,That so ourselves may render to our deadAll dues of mourning.  If thou flinch for fear,No son of mine art thou, nor of the lineOf Periclymenus, who dared withstandHercules’ self.  Come, to the battle-toil!For grim necessity oftentimes inspiresThe very coward with courage of despair.”

Then at his cry that brother’s heart was stungWith bitter grief.  Swift for his help drew nighPhereus, on whom for his great prince’s fallCame anguish.  Charged these warriors twain to faceStrong Memnon in the gory strife.  As whenTwo hunters ‘mid a forest’s mountain-folds,Eager to take the prey, rush on to meetA wild boar or a bear, with hearts afireTo slay him, but in furious mood he leapsOn them, and holds at bay the might of men;So swelled the heart of Memnon.  Nigh drew they,Yet vainly essayed to slay him, as they hurledThe long spears, but the lances glanced asideFar from his flesh: the Dawn-queen turned them thence.Yet fell their spears not vainly to the ground:The lance of fiery-hearted Phereus, wingedWith eager speed, dealt death to Meges’ son,Polymnius: Laomedon was slainBy the wrath of Nestor’s son for a brother dead,The dear one Memnon slew in battle-rout,And whom the slayer’s war-unwearied handsNow stripped of his all-brazen battle-gear,Nought recking, he, of Thrasymedes’ might,Nor of stout Phereus, who were unto himBut weaklings.  A great lion seemed he thereStanding above a hart, as jackals they,That, howso hungry, dare not come too nigh.

But hard thereby the father gazed thereonIn agony, and cried the rescue-cryTo other his war-comrades for their aidAgainst the foe.  Himself too burned to fightFrom his war-car; for yearning for the deadGoaded him to the fray beyond his strength.Ay, and himself had been on his dear sonLaid, numbered with the dead, had not the voiceOf Memnon stayed him even in act to rushUpon him, for he reverenced in his heartThe white hairs of an age-mate of his sire:“Ancient,” he cried, “it were my shame to fight.With one so much mine elder: I am notBlind unto honour.  Verily I weenedThat this was some young warrior, when I sawThee facing thus the foe.  My bold heart hopedFor contest worthy of mine hand and spear.Nay, draw thou back afar from battle-toilAnd bitter death.  Go, lest, how loth soe’er,I smite thee of sore need.  Nay, fall not thouBeside thy son, against a mightier manFighting, lest men with folly thee should charge,For folly it is that braves o’ermastering might.”

He spake, and answered him that warrior old:“Nay, Memnon, vain was that last word of thine.None would name fool the father who essayed,Battling with foes for his son’s sake, to thrustThe ruthless slayer back from that dear corpse,But ah that yet my strength were whole in me,That thou might’st know my spear!  Now canst thou vauntProudly enow: a young man’s heart is boldAnd light his wit.  Uplifted is thy soulAnd vain thy speech.  If in my strength of youthThou hadst met me—ha, thy friends had not rejoiced,For all thy might!  But me the grievous weightOf age bows down, like an old lion whomA cur may boldly drive back from the fold,For that he cannot, in his wrath’s despite,Maintain his own cause, being toothless now,And strengthless, and his strong heart tamed by time.So well the springs of olden strength no moreNow in my breast.  Yet am I stronger stillThan many men; my grey hairs yield to fewThat have within them all the strength of youth.”

So drew he back a little space, and leftLying in dust his son, since now no moreLived in the once lithe limbs the olden strength,For the years’ weight lay heavy on his head.Back leapt Thrasymedes likewise, spearman good,And battle-eager Phereus, and the restTheir comrades; for that slaughter-dealing manPressed hard on them.  As when from mountains highA shouting river with wide-echoing dinSweeps down its fathomless whirlpools through the gloom,When God with tumult of a mighty stormHath palled the sky in cloud from verge to verge,When thunders crash all round, when thick and fastGleam lightnings from the huddling clouds, when fieldsAre flooded as the hissing rain descends,And all the air is filled with awful roarOf torrents pouring down the hill-ravines;So Memnon toward the shores of HellespontBefore him hurled the Argives, following hardBehind them, slaughtering ever.  Many a manFell in the dust, and left his life in blood’Neath Aethiop hands.  Stained was the earth with goreAs Danaans died.  Exulted Memnon’s soulAs on the ranks of foemen ever he rushed,And heaped with dead was all the plain of Troy.And still from fight refrained he not; he hopedTo be a light of safety unto TroyAnd bane to Danaans.  But all the whileStood baleful Doom beside him, and spurred onTo strife, with flattering smile.  To right, to leftHis stalwart helpers wrought in battle-toil,Alcyoneus and Nychius, and the sonOf Asius furious-souled; Meneclus’ spear,Clydon and Alexippus, yea, a hostEager to chase the foe, men who in fightQuit them like men, exulting in their king.Then, as Meneclus on the Danaans charged,The son of Neleus slew him.  Wroth for his friend,Whole throngs of foes fierce-hearted Memnon slew.As when a hunter midst the mountains drivesSwift deer within the dark lines of his toils—The eager ring of beaters closing inPresses the huddled throng into the snaresOf death: the dogs are wild with joy of the chaseCeaselessly giving tongue, the while his dartsLeap winged with death on brocket and on hind;So Memnon slew and ever slew: his menRejoiced, the while in panic stricken routBefore that glorious man the Argives fled.As when from a steep mountain’s precipice-browLeaps a huge crag, which all-resistless ZeusBy stroke of thunderbolt hath hurled from the crest;Crash oakwood copses, echo long ravines,Shudders the forest to its rattle and roar,And flocks therein and herds and wild things fleeScattering, as bounding, whirling, it descendsWith deadly pitiless onrush; so his foesFled from the lightning-flash of Memnon’s spear.

Then to the side of Aeacus’ mighty sonCame Nestor.  Anguished for his son he cried:“Achilles, thou great bulwark of the Greeks,Slain is my child!  The armour of my deadHath Memnon, and I fear me lest his corseBe cast a prey to dogs.  Haste to his help!True friend is he who still rememberethA friend though slain, and grieves for one no more.”

Achilles heard; his heart was thrilled with grief:He glanced across the rolling battle, sawMemnon, saw where in throngs the Argives fellBeneath his spear.  Forthright he turned awayFrom where the rifted ranks of Troy fell fastBefore his hands, and, thirsting for the fight,Wroth for Antilochus and the others slain,Came face to face with Memnon.  In his handsThat godlike hero caught up from the groundA stone, a boundary-mark ‘twixt fields of wheat,And hurled.  Down on the shield of Peleus’ sonIt crashed.  But he, the invincible, shrank notBefore the huge rock-shard, but, thrusting outHis long lance, rushed to close with him, afoot,For his steeds stayed behind the battle-rout.On the right shoulder above the shield he smoteAnd staggered him; but he, despite the wound,Fought on with heart unquailing.  Swiftly he thrustAnd pricked with his strong spear Achilles’ arm.Forth gushed the blood: rejoicing with vain joyTo Aeacus’ son with arrogant words he cried:“Now shalt thou in thy death fill up, I trow,Thy dark doom, overmastered by mine hands.Thou shalt not from this fray escape alive!Fool, wherefore hast thou ruthlessly destroyedTrojans, and vaunted thee the mightiest manOf men, a deathless Nereid’s son?  Ha, nowThy doom hath found thee!  Of birth divine am I,The Dawn-queen’s mighty son, nurtured afarBy lily-slender Hesperid Maids, besideThe Ocean-river.  Therefore not from theeNor from grim battle shrink I, knowing wellHow far my goddess-mother doth transcendA Nereid, whose child thou vauntest thee.To Gods and men my mother bringeth light;On her depends the issue of all things,Works great and glorious in Olympus wroughtWhereof comes blessing unto men.  But thine—She sits in barren crypts of brine: she dwellsGlorying mid dumb sea-monsters and mid fish,Deedless, unseen!  Nothing I reck of her,Nor rank her with the immortal Heavenly Ones.”

In stern rebuke spake Aeacus’ aweless son:“Memnon, how wast thou so distraught of witThat thou shouldst face me, and to fight defyMe, who in might, in blood, in stature farSurpass thee?  From supremest Zeus I traceMy glorious birth; and from the strong Sea-godNereus, begetter of the Maids of the Sea,The Nereids, honoured of the Olympian Gods.And chiefest of them all is Thetis, wiseWith wisdom world-renowned; for in her bowersShe sheltered Dionysus, chased by mightOf murderous Lycurgus from the earth.Yea, and the cunning God-smith welcomed sheWithin her mansion, when from heaven he fell.Ay, and the Lightning-lord she once releasedFrom bonds.  The all-seeing Dwellers in the SkyRemember all these things, and reverenceMy mother Thetis in divine Olympus.Ay, that she is a Goddess shalt thou knowWhen to thine heart the brazen spear shall pierceSped by my might.  Patroclus’ death I avengedOn Hector, and Antilochus on theeWill I avenge.  No weakling’s friend thou hast slain!But why like witless children stand we hereBabbling our parents’ fame and our own deeds?Now is the hour when prowess shall decide.”

Then from the sheath he flashed his long keen sword,And Memnon his; and swiftly in fiery fightClosed they, and rained the never-ceasing blowsUpon the bucklers which with craft divineHephaestus’ self had fashioned.  Once and againClashed they together, and their cloudy crestsTouched, mingling all their tossing storm of hair.And Zeus, for that he loved them both, inspiredWith prowess each, and mightier than their wontHe made them, made them tireless, nothing likeTo men, but Gods: and gloated o’er the twainThe Queen of Strife.  In eager fury theseThrust swiftly out the spear, with fell intentTo reach the throat ‘twixt buckler-rim and helm,Thrust many a time and oft, and now would aimThe point beneath the shield, above the greave,Now close beneath the corslet curious-wroughtThat lapped the stalwart frame: hard, fast they lunged,And on their shoulders clashed the arms divine.Roared to the very heavens the battle-shoutOf warring men, of Trojans, Aethiops,And Argives mighty-hearted, while the dustRolled up from ’neath their feet, tossed to the skyIn stress of battle-travail great and strong.

As when a mist enshrouds the hills, what timeRoll up the rain-clouds, and the torrent-bedsRoar as they fill with rushing floods, and howlsEach gorge with fearful voices; shepherds quakeTo see the waters’ downrush and the mist,Screen dear to wolves and all the wild fierce thingsNursed in the wide arms of the forest; soAround the fighters’ feet the choking dustHung, hiding the fair splendour of the sunAnd darkening all the heaven.  Sore distressedWith dust and deadly conflict were the folk.Then with a sudden hand some Blessed OneSwept the dust-pall aside; and the Gods sawThe deadly Fates hurling the charging linesTogether, in the unending wrestle lockedOf that grim conflict, saw where never ceasedAres from hideous slaughter, saw the earthCrimsoned all round with rushing streams of blood,Saw where dark Havoc gloated o’er the scene,Saw the wide plain with corpses heaped, even allBounded ‘twixt Simois and Xanthus, whereThey sweep from Ida down to Hellespont.

But when long lengthened out the conflict wasOf those two champions, and the might of bothIn that strong tug and strain was equal-matched,Then, gazing from Olympus’ far-off heights,The Gods joyed, some in the invincible sonOf Peleus, others in the goodly childOf old Tithonus and the Queen of Dawn.Thundered the heavens on high from east to west,And roared the sea from verge to verge, and rockedThe dark earth ’neath the heroes’ feet, and quakedProud Nereus’ daughters all round Thetis throngedIn grievous fear for mighty Achilles’ sake;And trembled for her son the Child of the MistAs in her chariot through the sky she rode.Marvelled the Daughters of the Sun, who stoodNear her, around that wondrous splendour-ringTraced for the race-course of the tireless sunBy Zeus, the limit of all Nature’s lifeAnd death, the dally round that maketh upThe eternal circuit of the rolling years.And now amongst the Blessed bitter feudHad broken out; but by behest of ZeusThe 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-routThose heroes fought, unknowing of the FatesNow drawn so nigh, but each at other hurledHis whole heart’s courage, all his bodily might.Thou hadst said that in the strife of that dread dayHuge tireless Giants or strong Titans warred,So fiercely blazed the wildfire of their strife,Now, when they clashed with swords, now when they leaptHurling huge stones.  Nor either would give backBefore the hail of blows, nor quailed.  They stoodLike storm-tormented headlands steadfast, clothedWith might past words, unearthly; for the twainAlike could boast their lineage of high Zeus.Therefore ‘twixt these Enyo lengthened outThe even-balanced strife, while ever theyIn that grim wrestle strained their uttermost,They and their dauntless comrades, round their kingsWith ceaseless fury toiling, till their spearsStood shivered all in shields of warriors slain,And of the fighters woundless none remained;But from all limbs streamed down into the dustThe blood and sweat of that unresting strainOf fight, and earth was hidden with the dead,As heaven is hidden with clouds when meets the sunThe Goat-star, and the shipman dreads the deep.As charged the lines, the snorting chariot-steedsTrampled the dead, as on the myriad leavesYe trample in the woods at entering-inOf winter, when the autumn-tide is past.

Still mid the corpses and the blood fought onThose glorious sons of Gods, nor ever ceasedFrom wrath of fight.  But Eris now inclinedThe fatal scales of battle, which no moreWere equal-poised.  Beneath the breast-bone thenOf godlike Memnon plunged Achilles’ sword;Clear through his body all the dark-blue bladeLeapt: suddenly snapped the silver cord of life.Down in a pool of blood he fell, and clashedHis 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 hestAll the light Breathings of the Dawn took hands,And slid down one long stream of sighing windTo Priam’s plain, and floated round the dead,And softly, swiftly caught they up, and bareThrough silver mists the Dawn-queen’s son, with heartsSore aching for their brother’s fall, while moanedAround them all the air.  As on they passed,Fell many blood-gouts from those pierced limbsDown to the earth, and these were made a signTo generations yet to be.  The GodsGathered them up from many lands, and madeThereof a far-resounding river, namedOf all that dwell beneath long Ida’s flanksPaphlagoneion.  As its waters flow‘Twixt fertile acres, once a year they turnTo blood, when comes the woeful day whereonDied Memnon.  Thence a sick and choking reekSteams: thou wouldst say that from a wound unhealedCorrupting humours breathed an evil stench.Ay, so the Gods ordained: but now flew onBearing Dawn’s mighty son the rushing windsSkimming earth’s face and palled about with night.

Nor were his Aethiopian comrades leftTo wander of their King forlorn: a GodSuddenly winged those eager souls with speedSuch as should soon be theirs for ever, changedTo flying fowl, the children of the air.Wailing their King in the winds’ track they sped.As when a hunter mid the forest-brakesIs by a boar or grim-jawed lion slain,And now his sorrowing friends take up the corse,And bear it heavy-hearted; and the houndsFollow low-whimpering, pining for their lordIn that disastrous hunting lost; so theyLeft far behind that stricken field of blood,And fast they followed after those swift winds

With multitudinous moaning, veiled in mistUnearthly.  Trojans over all the plainAnd Danaans marvelled, seeing that great hostVanishing with their King.  All hearts stood stillIn dumb amazement. But the tireless windsSighing set hero Memnon’s giant corpseDown by the deep flow of Aesopus’ stream,Where is a fair grove of the bright-haired Nymphs,The which round his long barrow afterwardAesopus’ daughters planted, screening itWith many and manifold trees: and long and loudWailed those Immortals, chanting his renown,The son of the Dawn-goddess splendour-throned.

Now sank the sun: the Lady of the MornWailing her dear child from the heavens came down.Twelve maidens shining-tressed attended her,The warders of the high paths of the sunFor ever circling, warders of the nightAnd dawn, and each world-ordinance framed of Zeus,Around whose mansion’s everlasting doorsFrom 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 downFrom heaven, for Memnon wailing wild and high;And mourned with these the Pleiads.  Echoed roundFar-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 cladThy mother with a pall of grief.  Oh, I,Now thou art slain, will not endure to lightThe Immortal Heavenly Ones!  No, I will plungeDown 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 meansAnguish of heart.  For not less worship-worthyThan Nereus’ Child, by Zeus’s ordinance,Am I, who look on all things, I, who bringAll to their consummation.  RecklesslyMy light Zeus now despiseth!  Therefore IWill pass into the darkness.  Let him bringUp to Olympus Thetis from the seaTo 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 faceImmortal, like a river brimming aye:Drenched was the dark earth round the corse.  The NightGrieved in her daughter’s anguish, and the heavenDrew over all his stars a veil of mistAnd cloud, of love unto the Lady of Light.

Meanwhile within their walls the Trojan folkFor Memnon sorrowed sore, with vain regretYearning for that lost king and all his host.Nor greatly joyed the Argives, where they layCamped in the open plain amidst the dead.There, mingled with Achilles’ praise, uproseWails for Antilochus: joy clasped hands with grief.

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

Swiftly the dark-skinned Aethiops from her sightBuried their lord lamenting.  As they wailedUnceasingly, the Dawn-queen lovely-eyedChanged them to birds sweeping through air aroundThe barrow of the mighty dead.  And theseStill do the tribes of men “The Memnons” call;And still with wailing cries they dart and wheelAbove their king’s tomb, and they scatter dustDown on his grave, still shrill the battle-cry,In memory of Memnon, each to each.But he in Hades’ mansions, or perchanceAmid the Blessed on the Elysian Plain,Laugheth.  Divine Dawn comforteth her heartBeholding them: but theirs is toil of strifeUnending, till the weary victors strikeThe vanquished dead, or one and all fill upThe measure of their doom around his grave.

So by command of Eos, Lady of Light,The swift birds dree their weird.  But Dawn divineNow heavenward soared with the all-fostering Hours,Who drew her to Zeus’ threshold, sorely loth,Yet conquered by their gentle pleadings, suchAs 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 comprisedWithin 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.

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