Book IV
How in the Funeral Games of Achilles heroes contended
Nor did the hapless Trojans leave unweptThe 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 upOut of the blazing fire, and to the windsGave him, to bear away to Lycia-land;And fast and far they bare him, ’neath the glensOf high Telandrus, to a lovely glade;And for a monument above his graveUpheaved a granite rock. The Nymphs therefromMade gush the hallowed water of a streamFor ever flowing, which the tribes of menStill call fair-fleeting Glaucus. This the godsWrought for an honour to the Lycian king.
But for Achilles still the Argives mournedBeside the swift ships: heart-sick were they allWith dolorous pain and grief. Each yearned for himAs for a son; no eye in that wide hostWas tearless. But the Trojans with great joyExulted, 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 vouchsafedA joy past hope unto our longing eyes,To see Achilles fallen before Troy.Now he is smitten down, the glorious hostsOf Troy, I trow, shall win a breathing-spaceFrom blood of death and from the murderous fray.Ever his heart devised the Trojans’ bane;In his hands maddened aye the spear of doomWith gore besprent, and none of us that facedHim in the fight beheld another dawn.But now, I wot, Achaea’s valorous sonsShall flee unto their galleys shapely-prowed,Since slain Achilles lies. Ah that the mightOf Hector still were here, that he might slayThe 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 hostWill straightway get them to the ships, to fleeOver the misty sea. Nay, still their lustIs 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 prayersA 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 headsFor grief of soul. But glad those others wereWho fain would speed Troy to a happy goal.Then unto Cronos’ Son great Hera spake:“Zeus, Lightning-father, wherefore helpest thouTroy, all forgetful of the fair-haired brideWhom once to Peleus thou didst give to wifeMidst Pelion’s glens? Thyself didst bring to passThose spousals of a Goddess: on that dayAll we Immortals feasted there, and gaveGifts 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 destroyThe city of Priam, thinking how himselfWould visit on the victors ruin dreadIn 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, suppedThe Argives, for ye cannot thrust asideHunger’s importunate craving, when it comesUpon the breast, but straightway heavy and faintLithe limbs become; nor is there remedyUntil one satisfy this clamorous guestTherefore these ate the meat of eventideIn grief for Achilles’ hard necessityConstrained them all. And, when they had broken bread,Sweet sleep came on them, loosening from their framesCare’s heavy chain, and quickening strength anew
But when the starry Bears had eastward turnedTheir heads, expectant of the uprushing lightOf Helios, and when woke the Queen of Dawn,Then rose from sleep the stalwart Argive menPurposing for the Trojans death and doom.Stirred were they like the roughly-ridging seaIcarian, or as sudden-rippling cornIn harvest field, what time the rushing wingsOf 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 livesNo longer. Come, with armour, car, and steedLet 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 heartsBefore were battle-eager, to the fightAgainst the Trojan men, O Tydeus’ son.But we must needs abide amidst the shipsTill Goddess Thetis come forth of the sea;For that her heart is purposed to set hereFair athlete-prizes for the funeral-games.This yesterday she told me, ere she plungedInto sea-depths, yea, spake to me apartFrom other Danaans; and, I trow, by thisHer haste hath brought her nigh. Yon Trojan men,Though Peleus’ son hath died, shall have small heartFor 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 doomFor him should follow hard upon those gamesBy Fate’s contrivance. Answered Tydeus’ son“O friend, if Thetis comes indeed this dayWith goodly gifts for her son’s funeral-games,Then bide we by the ships, and keep we hereAll others. Meet it is to do the willOf the Immortals: yea, to Achilles too,Though the Immortals willed it not, ourselvesMust render honour grateful to the dead.”
So spake the battle-eager Tydeus’ son.And lo, the Bride of Peleus gliding cameForth of the sea, like the still breath of dawn,And suddenly was with the Argive throngWhere eager-faced they waited, some, that lookedSoon to contend in that great athlete-strife,And some, to joy in seeing the mighty strive.Amidst that gathering Thetis sable-stoledSet down her prizes, and she summoned forthAchaea’s champions: at her best they came.
But first amidst them all rose Neleus’ son,Not as desiring in the strife of fistsTo toil, nor strain of wrestling; for his armsAnd all his sinews were with grievous eldOutworn, but still his heart and brain were strong.Of all the Achaeans none could match himselfAgainst him in the folkmote’s war of words;Yea, even Laertes’ glorious son to himEver gave place when men for speech were met;Nor he alone, but even the kingliestOf Argives, Agamemnon, lord of spears.Now in their midst he sang the gracious QueenOf Nereids, sang how she in willsomenessOf 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 passBy Pelion’s crests; sang of the ambrosial feastWhen the swift Hours brought in immortal handsMeats not of earth, and heaped in golden maunds;Sang how the silver tables were set forthIn haste by Themis blithely laughing; sangHow breathed Hephaestus purest flame of fire;Sang how the Nymphs in golden chalicesMingled ambrosia; sang the ravishing danceTwined by the Graces’ feet; sang of the chantThe Muses raised, and how its spell enthralledAll 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 outInto the Argives’ eager ears; and theyHearkened with ravished souls. Then in their midstHe sang once more the imperishable deedsOf princely Achilles. All the mighty throngAcclaimed him with delight. From that beginningWith fitly chosen words did he extolThe glorious hero; how he voyaged and smoteTwelve cities; how he marched o’er leagues on leaguesOf land, and spoiled eleven; how he slewTelephus and Eetion’s might renownedIn 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-streamsOf Xanthus, and with countless corpses chokedHis murmuring flow, when from the limbs he toreLycaon’s life beside the sounding river;And how he smote down Hector; how he slewPenthesileia, and the godlike sonOf splendour-throned Dawn;—all this he sangTo Argives which already knew the tale;Sang of his giant mould, how no man’s strengthIn fight could stand against him, nor in gamesWhere strong men strive for mastery, where the swiftContend with flying feet or hurrying wheelsOf chariots, nor in combat panoplied;And how in goodlihead he far outshoneAll Danaans, and how his bodily mightWas measureless in the stormy clash of war.Last, he prayed Heaven that he might see a sonLike that great sire from sea-washed Scyros come.
That noble song acclaiming Argives praised;Yea, silver-looted Thetis smiled, and gaveThe singer fleetfoot horses, given of oldBeside Caicus’ mouth by TelephusTo Achilles, when he healed the torturing woundWith that same spear wherewith himself had piercedTelephus’ thigh, and thrust the point clear through.These Nestor Neleus’ son to his comrades gave,And, glorying in their godlike lord, they ledThe steeds unto his ships. Then Thetis setAmidst the athlete-ring ten kine, to beHer prizes for the footrace, and by eachRan a fair suckling calf. These the bold mightOf Peleus’ tireless son had driven downFrom 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 aboutWith loin-cloths, reverencing the Goddess-brideOf Peleus, and the Sea-maids, who with herCame 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 swiftThey sped away. Long doubtful was the race:Now, as the Argives gazed, would Aias’ friendsShout, now rang out the answering cheer from friendsOf Teucer. But when in their eager speedClose on the end they were, then Teucer’s feetWere trammelled by unearthly powers: some godOr demon dashed his foot against the stockOf a deep-rooted tamarisk. Sorely wrenchedWas his left ankle: round the joint upswelledThe veins high-ridged. A great shout rang from allThat watched the contest. Aias darted pastExultant: ran his Locrian folk to hailTheir lord, with sudden joy in all their souls.Then to his ships they drave the kine, and castFodder before them. Eager-helpful friendsLed Teucer halting thence. The leeches drewBlood from his foot: then over it they laidSoft-shredded linen ointment-smeared, and swathedWith smooth bands round, and charmed away the pain.
Then swiftly rose two mighty-hearted onesEager to match their strength in wrestling strain,The son of Tydeus and the giant Aias.Into the midst they strode, and marvelling gazedThe Argives on men shapen like to gods.Then grappled they, like lions famine-stungFighting amidst the mountains o’er a stag,Whose strength is even-balanced; no whit lessIs one than other in their deadly rage;So these long time in might were even-matched,Till Aias locked his strong hands round the sonOf Tydeus, straining hard to break his back;But he, with wrestling-craft and strength combined,Shifted his hip ’neath Telamon’s son, and heavedThe giant up; with a side-twist wrenched freeFrom Aias’ ankle-lock his thigh, and soWith one huge shoulder-heave to earth he threwThat mighty champion, and himself came downAstride him: then a mighty shout went up.But battle-stormer Aias, chafed in mind,Sprang up, hot-eager to essay againThat grim encounter. From his terrible handsHe dashed the dust, and challenged furiouslyWith a great voice Tydeides: not a whitThat other quailed, but rushed to close with him.Rolled up the dust in clouds from ’neath their feet:Hurtling they met like battling mountain-bullsThat clash to prove their dauntless strength, and spurnThe dust, while with their roaring all the hillsRe-echo: in their desperate fury theseDash their strong heads together, straining longAgainst 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 necksCracked, even as when in mountain-glades the treesDash storm-tormented boughs together. OftTydeides clutched at Aias’ brawny thighs,But could not stir his steadfast-rooted feet.Oft Aias hurled his whole weight on him, bowedHis shoulders backward, strove to press him down;And to new grips their hands were shifting aye.All round the gazing people shouted, someCheering on glorious Tydeus’ son, and someThe might of Aias. Then the giant swungThe shoulders of his foe to right, to left;Then gripped him ’neath the waist; with one fierce heaveAnd giant effort hurled him like a stoneTo earth. The floor of Troyland rang againAs fell Tydeides: shouted all the folk.Yet leapt he up all eager to contendWith 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 mightiestOf Argives since the great Achilles died.”
Then these from toil refrained, and from their browsWiped with their hands the plenteous-streaming sweat:They kissed each other, and forgat their strife.Then Thetis, queen of Goddesses, gave to themFour handmaids; and those strong and aweless onesMarvelled beholding them, for these surpassedAll captive-maids in beauty and household-skill,Save only lovely-tressed Briseis. TheseAchilles captive brought from Lesbos’ Isle,And in their service joyed. The first was madeStewardess 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 shipsSent 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 allTo him, the elder-born, with reverent awe.So in their midst gave Thetis unto himA chariot and fleet steeds, which theretoforeMighty Patroclus from the ranks of TroyDrave, when he slew Sarpedon, seed of Zeus,These to his henchmen gave IdomeneusTo drive unto the ships: himself remainedStill sitting in the glorious athlete-ring.Then Phoenix to the stalwart Argives cried:“Now to Idomeneus the Gods have givenA fair prize uncontested, free of toilOf mighty arms and shoulders, honouringThe elder-born with bloodless victory.But lo, ye younger men, another prizeAwaiteth 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 playOf clenched hands, who in that noble sportHave skill, wherein young men delight, which linksGlory to toil. Ah that my thews were strongAs when we held King Pelias’ funeral-feast,I and Acastus, kinsmen joining hands,When I with godlike Polydeuces stoodIn gauntlet-strife, in even-balanced fray,And when Ancaeus in the wrestlers’ ringMightier than all beside, yet feared and shrankFrom 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 dustBy dead Amaryncus’ tomb, and thousands roundSat marvelling at my prowess and my strength.Therefore against me not a second timeRaised 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 youthWho bears away the meed of athlete-strife.”
Stirred by his gallant chiding, a brave manRose, son of haughty godlike Panopeus,The man who framed the Horse, the bane of Troy,Not long thereafter. None dared meet him nowIn play of fists, albeit in deadly craftOf war, when Ares rusheth through the field,He was not cunning. But for strife of handsThe fair prize uncontested had been wonBy stout Epeius—yea, he was at pointTo 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 girtThe hard hide-gauntlets, which Evenor’s sonAgelaus on his prince’s hands had drawnWith courage-kindling words. The comrades thenOf Panopeus’ princely son for Epeius raisedA heartening cheer. He like a lion stoodForth in the midst, his strong hands gauntletedWith bull’s hide hard as horn. Loud rang the cheersFrom side to side of that great throng, to fireThe courage of the mighty ones to clashHands in the gory play. Sooth, little spurNeeded they for their eagerness for fight.But, ere they closed, they flashed out proving blowsTo wot if still, as theretofore, their armsWere limber and lithe, unclogged by toil of war;Then faced each other, and upraised their handsWith ever-watching eyes, and short quick stepsA-tiptoe, and with ever-shifting feet,Each still eluding other’s crushing might.Then with a rush they closed like thunder-cloudsHurled on each other by the tempest-blast,Flashing forth lightnings, while the welkin thrillsAs 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 sweatBlood-streaked made on the flushed cheeks crimson bars.Fierce without pause they fought, and never flaggedEpeius, but threw all his stormy strengthInto his onrush. Yet did Theseus’ sonNever lose heart, but baffled the straight blowsOf those strong hands, and by his fighting-craftFlinging them right and left, leapt in, brought homeA blow to his eyebrow, cutting to the bone.Even then with counter-stroke Epeius reachedAcamas’ temple, and hurled him to the ground.Swift he sprang up, and on his stalwart foeRushed, smote his head: as he rushed in again,The other, slightly swerving, sent his leftClean to his brow; his right, with all his mightBehind it, to his nose. Yet Acamas stillWarded and struck with all the manifold shiftsOf fighting-craft. But now the Achaeans allBade stop the fight, though eager still were bothTo strive for coveted victory. Then cameTheir henchmen, and the gory gauntlets loosedIn haste from those strong hands. Now drew they breathFrom that great labour, as they bathed their browsWith sponges myriad-pored. Comrades and friendsWith 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 forgatThat bitter strife. Then Thetis sable-stoledGave to their glad hands two great silver bowlsThe which Euneus, Jason’s warrior sonIn sea-washed Lemnos to Achilles gaveTo ransom strong Lycaon from his hands.These had Hephaestus fashioned for his giftTo glorious Dionysus, when he broughtHis bride divine to Olympus, Minos’ childFar-famous, whom in sea-washed Dia’s isleTheseus unwitting left. The Wine-god brimmedWith nectar these, and gave them to his son;And Thoas at his death to HypsipyleWith great possessions left them. She bequeathedThe bowls to her godlike son, who gave them upUnto Achilles for Lycaon’s life.The one the son of lordly Theseus took,And goodly Epeius sent to his ship with joyThe other. Then their bruises and their scarsDid Podaleirius tend with loving care.First pressed he out black humours, then his handsDeftly knit up the gashes: salves he laidThereover, given him by his sire of old,Such as had virtue in one day to healThe deadliest hurts, yea, seeming-cureless wounds.Straight was the smart assuaged, and healed the scarsUpon their brows and ’neath their clustering hair
Then for the archery-test Oileus’ sonStood forth with Teucer, they which in the raceErewhile contended. Far away from theseAgamemnon, lord of spears, set up a helmCrested with plumes, and spake: “The master-shotIs 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 heedShot: the swift shaft hath shorn the plume away.Loud shouted all the people as they gazed,And praised him without stint, for still his footHalted in pain, yet nowise marred his aimWhen with his hands he sped the flying shaft.Then Peleus’ bride gave unto him the armsOf godlike Troilus, the goodliestOf all fair sons whom Hecuba had borneIn hallowed Troy; yet of his goodliheadNo joy she had; the prowess and the spearOf fell Achilles reft his life from him.As when a gardener with new-whetted scytheMows down, ere it may seed, a blade of cornOr poppy, in a garden dewy-freshAnd blossom-flushed, which by a water-courseCrowdeth its blooms—mows it ere it may reachIts goal of bringing offspring to the birth,And with his scythe-sweep makes its life-work vainAnd barren of all issue, nevermoreNow to be fostered by the dews of spring;So did Peleides cut down Priam’s sonThe god-like beautiful, the beardless yetAnd virgin of a bride, almost a child!Yet the Destroyer Fate had lured him onTo war, upon the threshold of glad youth,When youth is bold, and the heart feels no void.
Forthwith a bar of iron massy and longFrom the swift-speeding hand did many essayTo hurl; but not an Argive could prevailTo cast that ponderous mass. Aias aloneSped it from his strong hand, as in the timeOf harvest might a reaper fling from himA dry oak-bough, when all the fields are parched.And all men marvelled to behold how farFlew from his hand the bronze which scarce two menHard-straining had uplifted from the ground.Even this Antaeus’ might was wont to hurlErstwhile, ere the strong hands of HerculesO’ermastered him. This, with much spoil beside,Hercules took, and kept it to make sportFor his invincible hand; but afterwardGave it to valiant Peleus, who with himHad smitten fair-towered Ilium’s burg renowned;And he to Achilles gave it, whose swift shipsBare it to Troy, to put him aye in mindOf his own father, as with eager willHe fought with stalwart Trojans, and to beA worthy test wherewith to prove his strength.Even this did Aias from his brawny handFling far. So then the Nereid gave to himThe glorious arms from godlike Memnon stripped.Marvelling the Argives gazed on them: they wereA giant’s war-gear. Laughing a glad laughThat man renowned received them: he aloneCould wear them on his brawny limbs; they seemedAs they had even been moulded to his frame.The great bar thence he bore withal, to beHis joy when he was fain of athlete-toil.
Still sped the contests on; and many roseNow for the leaping. Far beyond the marksOf all the rest brave Agapenor sprang:Loud shouted all for that victorious leap;And Thetis gave him the fair battle-gearOf mighty Cycnus, who had smitten firstProtesilaus, then had reft the lifeFrom many more, till Peleus’ son slew himFirst of the chiefs of grief-enshrouded Troy.
Next, in the javelin-cast EuryalusHurled far beyond all rivals, while the folkShouted aloud: no archer, so they deemed,Could speed a winged shaft farther than his cast;Therefore the Aeacid hero’s mother gaveTo him a deep wide silver oil-flask, ta’enBy Achilles in possession, when his spearSlew Mynes, and he spoiled Lyrnessus’ wealth.
Then fiery-hearted Aias eagerlyRose, challenging to strife of hands and feetThe mightiest hero there; but marvellingThey marked his mighty thews, and no man daredConfront him. Chilling dread had palsied allTheir courage: from their hearts they feared him, lestHis hands invincible should all to-breakHis adversary’s face, and naught but painBe that man’s meed. But at the last all menMade 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 rendMine heart, if in the onset anger riseWithin him: from his hands invincible,I trow, I should not win to the ships alive.”
Loud laughed they all: but glowed with triumph-joyThe heart of Aias. Gleaming talents twainOf silver he from Thetis’ hands received,His uncontested prize. His stately heightCalled to her mind her dear son, and she sighed.
They which had skill in chariot-driving thenRose at the contest’s summons eagerly:Menelaus first, Eurypylus bold in fight,Eumelus, Thoas, godlike PolypoetesHarnessed their steeds, and led them to the carsAll panting for the joy of victory.Then rode they in a glittering chariot rankOut to one place, to a stretch of sand, and stoodRanged at the starting-line. The reins they graspedIn strong hands quickly, while the chariot-steedsShoulder to shoulder fretted, all afireTo take the lead at starting, pawed the sand,Pricked ears, and o’er their frontlets flung the foam.With sudden-stiffened sinews those ear-lordsLashed with their whips the tempest-looted steeds;Then swift as Harpies sprang they forth; they strainedFuriously at the harness, onward whirlingThe chariots bounding ever from the earth.Thou couldst not see a wheel-track, no, nor printOf hoof upon the sand—they verily flew.Up from the plain the dust-clouds to the skySoared, like the smoke of burning, or a mistRolled round the mountain-forelands by the mightOf the dark South-wind or the West, when wakesA tempest, when the hill-sides stream with rain.Burst to the front Eumelus’ steeds: behindClose pressed the team of godlike Thoas: shoutsStill answered shouts that cheered each chariot, whileOnward they swept across the wide-wayed plain.
((LACUNA))
“From hallowed Elis, when he had achievedA mighty triumph, in that he outstrippedThe swift ear of Oenomaus evil-souled,The ruthless slayer of youths who sought to wedHis 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 mightOf those good steeds, and to Atreides’ self;And filled with joy was Menelaus’ soul.Straightway his henchmen from the yoke-band loosedThe panting team, and all those chariot-lords,Who in the race had striven, now unyokedTheir tempest-footed steeds. Podaleirius thenHasted to spread salves over all the woundsOf Thoas and Eurypylus, gashes scoredUpon their frames when from the cars they fellBut Menelaus with exceeding joyOf victory glowed, when Thetis lovely-tressedGave him a golden cup, the chief possessionOnce of Eetion the godlike; ereAchilles spoiled the far-famed burg of Thebes.
Then horsemen riding upon horses cameDown to the course: they grasped in hand the whipAnd bounding from the earth bestrode their steeds,The while with foaming mouths the coursers champedThe bits, and pawed the ground, and fretted ayeTo dash into the course. Forth from the lineSwiftly they darted, eager for the strife,Wild as the blasts of roaring BoreasOr shouting Notus, when with hurricane-swoopHe heaves the wide sea high, when in the eastUprises the disastrous Altar-starBringing calamity to seafarers;So swift they rushed, spurning with flying feetThe deep dust on the plain. The riders criedEach to his steed, and ever plied the lashAnd shook the reins about the clashing bits.On strained the horses: from the people roseA shouting like the roaring of a sea.On, on across the level plain they flew;And now the flashing-footed Argive steedBy Sthenelus bestridden, had won the race,But from the course he swerved, and o’er the plainOnce and again rushed wide; nor Capaneus’ son,Good horseman though he were, could turn him backBy rein or whip, because that steed was strangeStill to the race-course; yet of lineageNoble was he, for in his veins the bloodOf swift Arion ran, the foal begottenBy the loud-piping West-wind on a Harpy,The fleetest of all earth-born steeds, whose feetCould 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 friendIn hallowed Troyland. Filled with confidenceIn those swift feet his rider led him forthUnto the contest of the steeds that day,Looking his horsemanship should surely winRenown: yet victory gladdened not his heartIn that great struggle for Achilles’ prizes;Nay, swift albeit he was, the King of MenBy skill outraced him. Shouted all the folk,“Glory to Agamemnon!” Yet they acclaimedThe steed of valiant Sthenelus and his lord,For that the fiery flying of his feetStill won him second place, albeit oftWide of the course he swerved. Then Thetis gaveTo 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 dayCame at Achilles’ funeral-feast to striveShe gave gifts. But the son of the old war-lord,Laertes, inly grieved to be withheldFrom contests of the strong, how fain soe’er,By that sore wound which Alcon dealt to himIn the grim fight around dead Aeacas’ son.