Book VI
How came for the helping of Troy Eurypylus, Hercules’ grandson.
Rose Dawn from Ocean and Tithonus’ bed,And climbed the steeps of heaven, scattering roundFlushed flakes of splendour; laughed all earth and air.Then turned unto their labours, each to each,Mortals, frail creatures daily dying. ThenStreamed to a folkmote all the Achaean menAt Menelaus’ summons. When the hostWere gathered all, then in their midst he spake:“Hearken my words, ye god-descended kings:Mine heart within my breast is burdened soreFor men which perish, men that for my sakeCame to the bitter war, whose home-returnParents and home shall welcome nevermore;For Fate hath cut off thousands in their prime.Oh that the heavy hand of death had fallenOn me, ere hitherward I gathered these!But now hath God laid on me cureless painIn seeing all these ills. Who could rejoiceBeholding strivings, struggles of despair?Come, let us, which be yet alive, in hasteFlee in the ships, each to his several land,Since Aias and Achilles both are dead.I look not, now they are slain, that we the restShall ’scape destruction; nay, but we shall fallBefore yon terrible Trojans for my sakeAnd shameless Helen’s! Think not that I careFor her: for you I care, when I beholdGood men in battle slain. Away with her—Her and her paltry paramour! The GodsStole all discretion out of her false heartWhen she forsook mine home and marriage-bed.Let Priam and the Trojans cherish her!But let us straight return: ‘twere better farTo flee from dolorous war than perish all.”
So spake he but to try the Argive men.Far other thoughts than these made his heart burnWith passionate desire to slay his foes,To break the long walls of their city downFrom their foundations, and to glut with bloodAres, when Paris mid the slain should fall.Fiercer is naught than passionate desire!Thus as he pondered, sitting in his place,Uprose Tydeides, shaker of the shield,And chode in fiery speech with Menelaus:“O coward Atreus’ son, what craven fearHath gripped thee, that thou speakest so to usAs might a weakling child or woman speak?Not unto thee Achaea’s noblest sonsWill hearken, ere Troy’s coronal of towersBe wholly dashed to the dust: for unto menValour is high renown, and flight is shame!If any man shall hearken to the wordsOf this thy counsel, I will smite from himHis head with sharp blue steel, and hurl it downFor soaring kites to feast on. Up! all yeWho care to enkindle men to battle: rouseOur warriors all throughout the fleet to whetThe spear, to burnish corslet, helm and shield;And cause both man and horse, all which be keenIn fight, to break their fast. Then in yon plainWho is the stronger Ares shall decide.”
So speaking, in his place he sat him down;Then rose up Thestor’s son, and in the midst,Where meet it is to speak, stood forth and cried:“Hear me, ye sons of battle-biding Greeks:Ye know I have the spirit of prophecy.Erewhile I said that ye in the tenth yearShould lay waste towered Ilium: this the GodsAre even now fulfilling; victory liesAt the Argives’ very feet. Come, let us sendTydeides and Odysseus battle-staunchWith speed to Scyros overseas, by prayersHither to bring Achilles’ hero son:A light of victory shall he be to us.”
So spake wise Thestius’ son, and all the folkShouted for joy; for all their hearts and hopesYearned to see Calchas’ prophecy fulfilled.Then to the Argives spake Laertes’ son:“Friends, it befits not to say many wordsThis day to you, in sorrow’s weariness.I know that wearied men can find no joyIn speech or song, though the Pierides,The immortal Muses, love it. At such timeFew words do men desire. But now, this thingThat pleaseth all the Achaean host, will IAccomplish, so Tydeides fare with me;For, if we twain go, we shall surely bring,Won by our words, war-fain Achilles’ son,Yea, though his mother, weeping sore, should striveWithin her halls to keep him; for mine heartTrusts that he is a hero’s valorous son.”
Then out spake Menelaus earnestly:“Odysseus, the strong Argives’ help at need,If mighty-souled Achilles’ valiant sonFrom Scyros by thy suasion come to aidUs who yearn for him, and some Heavenly OneGrant victory to our prayers, and I win homeTo Hellas, I will give to him to wifeMy noble child Hermione, with giftsMany and goodly for her marriage-dowerWith a glad heart. I trow he shall not scornEither his bride or high-born sire-in-law.”
With a great shout the Danaans hailed his words.Then was the throng dispersed, and to the shipsThey scattered hungering for the morning meatWhich strengtheneth man’s heart. So when they ceasedFrom eating, and desire was satisfied,Then with the wise Odysseus Tydeus’ sonDrew down a swift ship to the boundless sea,And victual and all tackling cast therein.Then stepped they aboard, and with them twenty men,Men skilled to row when winds were contrary,Or when the unrippled sea slept ’neath a calm.They smote the brine, and flashed the boiling foam:On leapt the ship; a watery way was cleftAbout the oars that sweating rowers tugged.As when hard-toiling oxen, ’neath the yokeStraining, drag on a massy-timbered wain,While creaks the circling axle ’neath its load,And from their weary necks and shoulders streamsDown to the ground the sweat abundantly;So at the stiff oars toiled those stalwart men,And fast they laid behind them leagues of sea.Gazed after them the Achaeans as they went,Then turned to whet their deadly darts and spears,The weapons of their warfare. In their townThe aweless Trojans armed themselves the whileWar-eager, praying to the Gods to grantRespite from slaughter, breathing-space from toil.
To these, while sorely thus they yearned, the GodsBrought present help in trouble, even the seedOf mighty Hercules, Eurypylus.A great host followed him, in battle skilled,All that by long Caicus’ outflow dwelt,Full of triumphant trust in their strong spears.Round them rejoicing thronged the sons of Troy:As when tame geese within a pen gaze upOn him who casts them corn, and round his feetThrong hissing uncouth love, and his heart warmsAs he looks down on them; so thronged the sonsOf Troy, as on fierce-heart EurypylusThey gazed; and gladdened was his aweless soulTo see those throngs: from porchways women lookedWide-eyed with wonder on the godlike man.Above all men he towered as on he strode,As looks a lion when amid the hillsHe comes on jackals. Paris welcomed him,As Hector honouring him, his cousin he,Being of one blood with him, who was born OfAstyoche, King Priam’s sister fairWhom Telephus embraced in his strong arms,Telephus, whom to aweless HerculesAuge the bright-haired bare in secret love.That babe, a suckling craving for the breast,A swift hind fostered, giving him the teatAs to her own fawn in all love; for ZeusSo willed it, in whose eyes it was not meetThat Hercules’ child should perish wretchedly.His glorious son with glad heart Paris ledUnto his palace through the wide-wayed burgBeside Assaracus’ tomb and stately hallsOf Hector, and Tritonis’ holy fane.Hard by his mansion stood, and therebesideThe stainless altar of Home-warder ZeusRose. As they went, he lovingly questioned himOf brethren, parents, and of marriage-kin;And all he craved to know Eurypylus told.So communed they, on-pacing side by side.Then came they to a palace great and rich:There goddess-like sat Helen, clothed uponWith beauty of the Graces. Maidens fourAbout her plied their tasks: others apartWithin that goodly bower wrought the worksBeseeming handmaids. Helen marvelling gazedUpon Eurypylus, on Helen he.Then these in converse each with other spakeIn that all-odorous bower. The handmaids broughtAnd set beside their lady high-seats twain;And Paris sat him down, and at his sideEurypylus. That hero’s host encampedWithout the city, where the Trojan guardsKept watch. Their armour laid they on the earth;Their steeds, yet breathing battle, stood thereby,And cribs were heaped with horses’ provender.
Upfloated night, and darkened earth and air;Then feasted they before that cliff-like wall,Ceteian men and Trojans: babel of talkRose from the feasters: all around the glowOf blazing campfires lighted up the tents:Pealed out the pipe’s sweet voice, and hautboys rangWith their clear-shrilling reeds; the witching strainOf lyres was rippling round. From far awayThe Argives gazed and marvelled, seeing the plainAglare with many fires, and hearing notesOf flutes and lyres, neighing of chariot-steedsAnd pipes, the shepherd’s and the banquet’s joy.Therefore they bade their fellows each in turnKeep watch and ward about the tents till dawn,Lest those proud Trojans feasting by their wallsShould fall on them, and set the ships aflame.
Within the halls of Paris all this whileWith kings and princes Telephus’ hero sonFeasted; and Priam and the sons of TroyEach after each prayed him to play the manAgainst the Argives, and in bitter doomTo lay them low; and blithe he promised all.So when they had supped, each hied him to his home;But there Eurypylus laid him down to restFull nigh the feast-hall, in the stately bowerWhere Paris theretofore himself had sleptWith Helen world-renowned. A bower it wasMost wondrous fair, the goodliest of them all.There lay he down; but otherwhere their restTook they, till rose the bright-throned Queen of Morn.Up sprang with dawn the son of Telephus,And passed to the host with all those other kingsIn Troy abiding. Straightway did the folkAll battle-eager don their warrior-gear,Burning to strike in forefront of the fight.And now Eurypylus clad his mighty limbsIn armour that like levin-flashes gleamed;Upon his shield by cunning hands were wroughtAll the great labours of strong Hercules.
Thereon were seen two serpents flickeringBlack tongues from grimly jaws: they seemed in actTo dart; but Hercules’ hands to right and left—Albeit a babe’s hands—now were throttling them;For aweless was his spirit. As Zeus’ strengthFrom the beginning was his strength. The seedOf Heaven-abiders never deedless isNor helpless, but hath boundless prowess, yea,Even when in the womb unborn it lies.
Nemea’s mighty lion there was seenStrangled in the strong arms of Hercules,His grim jaws dashed about with bloody foam:He seemed in verity gasping out his life.
Thereby was wrought the Hydra many-neckedFlickering its dread tongues. Of its fearful headsSome severed lay on earth, but many moreWere budding from its necks, while HerculesAnd Iolaus, dauntless-hearted twain,Toiled hard; the one with lightning sickle-sweepsLopped the fierce heads, his fellow seared each neckWith glowing iron; the monster so was slain.
Thereby was wrought the mighty tameless BoarWith foaming jaws; real seemed the pictured thing,As by Aleides’ giant strength the bruteWas to Eurystheus living borne on high.
There fashioned was the fleetfoot stag which laidThe vineyards waste of hapless husbandmen.The Hero’s hands held fast its golden horns,The while it snorted breath of ravening fire.
Thereon were seen the fierce Stymphalian Birds,Some arrow-smitten dying in the dust,Some through the grey air darting in swift flight.At this, at that one—hot in haste he seemed—Hercules sped the arrows of his wrath.
Augeias’ monstrous stable there was wroughtWith cunning craft on that invincible targe;And Hercules was turning through the sameThe deep flow of Alpheius’ stream divine,While wondering Nymphs looked down on every handUpon that mighty work. Elsewhere portrayedWas the Fire-breathing Bull: the Hero’s gripOn his strong horns wrenched round the massive neck:The straining muscles on his arm stood out:The huge beast seemed to bellow. Next theretoWrought on the shield was one in beauty arrayedAs of a Goddess, even Hippolyta.The hero by the hair was dragging herFrom her swift steed, with fierce resolve to wrestWith his strong hands the Girdle MarvellousFrom the Amazon Queen, while quailing shrank awayThe Maids of War. There in the Thracian landWere Diomedes’ grim man-eating steeds:These at their gruesome mangers had he slain,And dead they lay with their fiend-hearted lord.
There lay the bulk of giant GeryonDead mid his kine. His gory heads were castIn dust, dashed down by that resistless club.Before him slain lay that most murderous houndOrthros, in furious might like CerberusHis brother-hound: a herdman lay thereby,Eurytion, all bedabbled with his blood.
There were the Golden Apples wrought, that gleamedIn the Hesperides’ garden undefiled:All round the fearful Serpent’s dead coils lay,And shrank the Maids aghast from Zeus’ bold son.
And there, a dread sight even for Gods to see,Was Cerberus, whom the Loathly Worm had borneTo Typho in a craggy cavern’s gloomClose on the borders of Eternal Night,A hideous monster, warder of the GateOf Hades, Home of Wailing, jailer-houndOf dead folk in the shadowy Gulf of Doom.But lightly Zeus’ son with his crashing blowsTamed him, and haled him from the cataract floodOf Styx, with heavy-drooping head, and draggedThe Dog sore loth to the strange upper airAll dauntlessly. And there, at the world’s end,Were Caucasus’ long glens, where Hercules,Rending Prometheus’ chains, and hurling themThis way and that with fragments of the rockWhereinto they were riveted, set freeThe mighty Titan. Arrow-smitten layThe Eagle of the Torment therebeside.
There stormed the wild rout of the Centaurs roundThe hall of Pholus: goaded on by StrifeAnd wine, with Hercules the monsters fought.Amidst the pine-trunks stricken to death they layStill grasping those strange weapons in dead hands,While some with stems long-shafted still fought onIn fury, and refrained not from the strife;And all their heads, gashed in the pitiless fight,Were drenched with gore—the whole scene seemed to live—With blood the wine was mingled: meats and bowlsAnd tables in one ruin shattered lay.
There by Evenus’ torrent, in fierce wrathFor his sweet bride, he laid with the arrow lowNessus in mid-flight. There withal was wroughtAntaeus’ brawny strength, who challenged himTo wrestling-strife; he in those sinewy armsRaised high above the earth, was crushed to death.
There where swift Hellespont meets the outer sea,Lay the sea-monster slain by his ruthless shafts,While from Hesione he rent her chains.
Of bold Alcides many a deed besideShone on the broad shield of Eurypylus.He seemed the War-god, as from rank to rankHe sped; rejoiced the Trojans following him,Seeing his arms, and him clothed with the mightOf Gods; and Paris hailed him to the fray:“Glad am I for thy coming, for mine heartTrusts that the Argives all shall wretchedlyBe with their ships destroyed; for such a manMid Greeks or Trojans never have I seen.Now, by the strength and fury of Hercules—To whom in stature, might, and goodliheadMost like thou art I pray thee, have in mindHim, and resolve to match his deeds with thine.Be the strong shield of Trojans hard-bestead:Win us a breathing-space. Thou only, I trow,From perishing Troy canst thrust the dark doom back.”
With kindling words he spake. That hero cried:“Great-hearted Paris, like the Blessed OnesIn goodlihead, this lieth foreordainedOn the Gods’ knees, who in the fight shall fall,And who outlive it. I, as honour bids,And as my strength sufficeth, will not flinchFrom Troy’s defence. I swear to turn from fightNever, except in victory or death.”
Gallantly spake he: with exceeding joyRejoiced the Trojans. Champions then he chose,Alexander and Aeneas fiery-souled,Polydamas, Pammon, and Deiphobus,And Aethicus, of Paphlagonian menThe staunchest man to stem the tide of war;These chose he, cunning all in battle-toil,To meet the foe in forefront of the fight.Swiftly they strode before that warrior-throngThen from the city cheering charged. The hostFollowed them in their thousands, as when beesFollow by bands their leaders from the hives,With loud hum on a spring day pouring forth.So to the fight the warriors followed these;And, as they charged, the thunder-tramp of menAnd steeds, and clang of armour, rang to heaven.As when a rushing mighty wind stirs upThe barren sea-plain from its nethermost floor,And darkling to the strand roll roaring wavesBelching sea-tangle from the bursting surf,And wild sounds rise from beaches harvestless;So, as they charged, the wide earth rang again.
Now from their rampart forth the Argives pouredRound godlike Agamemnon. Rang their shoutsCheering each other on to face the fight,And not to cower beside the ships in dreadOf onset-shouts of battle-eager foes.They met those charging hosts with hearts as lightAs calves bear, when they leap to meet the kineDown faring from hill-pastures in the springUnto the steading, when the fields are greenWith corn-blades, when the earth is glad with flowers,And bowls are brimmed with milk of kine and ewes,And multitudinous lowing far and nearUprises as the mothers meet their young,And in their midst the herdman joys; so greatWas the uproar that rose when met the frontsOf battle: dread it rang on either hand.Hard-strained was then the fight: incarnateStrife Stalked through the midst, with Slaughter ghastly-faced.Crashed bull-hide shields, and spears, and helmet-crestsMeeting: the brass flashed out like leaping flames.Bristled the battle with the lances; earthRan red with blood, as slaughtered heroes fellAnd horses, mid a tangle of shattered ears,Some yet with spear-wounds gasping, while on themOthers were falling. Through the air upshriekedAn awful indistinguishable roar;For on both hosts fell iron-hearted Strife.Here were men hurling cruel jagged stones,There speeding arrows and new-whetted darts,There with the axe or twibill hewing hard,Slashing with swords, and thrusting out with spears:Their mad hands clutched all manner of tools of death.
At first the Argives bore the ranks of TroyBackward a little; but they rallied, charged,Leapt on the foe, and drenched the field with blood.Like a black hurricane rushed EurypylusCheering his men on, hewing Argives downAwelessly: measureless might was lent to himBy Zeus, for a grace to glorious Hercules.Nireus, a man in beauty like the Gods,His spear long-shafted stabbed beneath the ribs,Down on the plain he fell, forth streamed the bloodDrenching his splendid arms, drenching the formGlorious of mould, and his thick-clustering hair.There mid the slain in dust and blood he lay,Like a young lusty olive-sapling, whichA river rushing down in roaring flood,Tearing its banks away, and cleaving wideA chasm-channel, hath disrooted; lowIt lieth heavy-blossomed; so lay thenThe goodly form, the grace of lovelinessOf Nireus on earth’s breast. But o’er the slainLoud rang the taunting of Eurypylus:“Lie there in dust! Thy beauty marvellousNaught hath availed thee! I have plucked thee awayFrom life, to which thou wast so fain to cling.Rash fool, who didst defy a mightier manUnknowing! Beauty is no match for strength!”
He spake, and leapt upon the slain to stripHis goodly arms: but now against him cameMachaon wroth for Nireus, by his sideDoom-overtaken. With his spear he draveAt his right shoulder: strong albeit he was,He touched him, and blood spurted from the gash.Yet, ere he might leap back from grapple of death,Even as a lion or fierce mountain-boarMaddens mid thronging huntsmen, furious-fainTo rend the man whose hand first wounded him;So fierce Eurypylus on Machaon rushed.The long lance shot out swiftly, and pierced him throughOn the right haunch; yet would he not give back,Nor flinch from the onset, fast though flowed the blood.In haste he snatched a huge stone from the ground,And dashed it on the head of Telephus’ son;But his helm warded him from death or harmThen waxed Eurypylus more hotly wrothWith that strong warrior, and in fury of soulClear through Machaon’s breast he drave his spear,And through the midriff passed the gory point.He fell, as falls beneath a lion’s jawsA bull, and round him clashed his glancing arms.Swiftly Eurypylus plucked the lance of deathOut of the wound, and vaunting cried aloud:“Wretch, wisdom was not bound up in thine heart,That thou, a weakling, didst come forth to fightA mightier. Therefore art thou in the toilsOf Doom. Much profit shall be thine, when kitesDevour the flesh of thee in battle slain!Ha, dost thou hope still to return, to ’scapeMine hands? A leech art thou, and soothing salvesThou knowest, and by these didst haply hopeTo flee the evil day! Not thine own sire,On the wind’s wings descending from Olympus,Should save thy life, not though between thy lipsHe should pour nectar and ambrosia!”
Faint-breathing answered him the dying man:“Eurypylus, thine own weird is to liveNot long: Fate is at point to meet thee hereOn Troy’s plain, and to still thine impious tongue.”
So passed his spirit into Hades’ halls.Then to the dead man spake his conqueror:“Now on the earth lie thou. What shall betideHereafter, care I not—yea, though this dayDeath’s doom stand by my feet: no man may liveFor ever: each man’s fate is foreordained.”
Stabbing the corpse he spake. Then shouted loudTeucer, at seeing Machaon in the dust.Far thence he stood hard-toiling in the fight,For on the centre sore the battle lay:Foe after foe pressed on; yet not for thisWas Teucer heedless of the fallen brave,Neither of Nireus lying hard therebyBehind Machaon in the dust. He saw,
And with a great voice raised the rescue-cry:“Charge, Argives! Flinch not from the charging foe!For shame unspeakable shall cover usIf Trojan men hale back to IliumNoble Machaon and Nireus godlike-fair.Come, with a good heart let us face the foeTo rescue these slain friends, or fall ourselvesBeside them. Duty bids that men defendFriends, and to aliens leave them not a prey,Not without sweat of toil is glory won!”
Then were the Danaans anguish-stung: the earthAll round them dyed they red with blood of slain,As foe fought foe in even-balanced fight.By this to Podaleirius tidings cameHow that in dust his brother lay, struck downBy woeful death. Beside the ships he satMinistering to the hurts of men with spearsStricken. In wrath for his brother’s sake he rose,He clad him in his armour; in his breastDread battle-prowess swelled. For conflict grimHe panted: boiled the mad blood round his heartHe leapt amidst the foemen; his swift handsSwung the snake-headed javelin up, and hurled,And slew with its winged speed Agamestor’s sonCleitus, a bright-haired Nymph had given him birthBeside Parthenius, whose quiet streamFleets smooth as oil through green lands, till it poursIts shining ripples to the Euxine sea.Then by his warrior-brother laid he lowLassus, whom Pronoe, fair as a goddess, bareBeside Nymphaeus’ stream, hard by a cave,A wide and wondrous cave: sacred it isMen say, unto the Nymphs, even all that hauntThe long-ridged Paphlagonian hills, and allThat by full-clustered Heracleia dwell.That cave is like the work of gods, of stoneIn manner marvellous moulded: through it flowsCold water crystal-clear: in niches roundStand bowls of stone upon the rugged rock,Seeming as they were wrought by carvers’ hands.Statues of Wood-gods stand around, fair Nymphs,Looms, distaffs, all such things as mortal craftFashioneth. Wondrous seem they unto menWhich pass into that hallowed cave. It hath,Up-leading and down-leading, doorways twain,Facing, the one, the wild North’s shrilling blasts,And one the dank rain-burdened South. By thisDo mortals pass beneath the Nymphs’ wide cave;But that is the Immortals’ path: no manMay tread it, for a chasm deep and wideDown-reaching unto Hades, yawns between.This track the Blest Gods may alone behold.So died a host on either side that warredOver Machaon and Aglaia’s son.But at the last through desperate wrestle of fightThe Danaans rescued them: yet few were theyWhich bare them to the ships: by bitter stressOf conflict were the more part compassed round,And needs must still abide the battle’s brunt.But when full many had filled the measure upOf fate, mid tumult, blood and agony,Then to their ships did many Argives fleePressed by Eurypylus hard, an avalancheOf havoc. Yet a few abode the strifeRound Aias and the Atreidae rallying;And haply these had perished all, besetBy throngs on throngs of foes on every hand,Had not Oileus’ son stabbed with his spear‘Twixt shoulder and breast war-wise Polydamas;Forth gushed the blood, and he recoiled a space.Then Menelaus pierced DeiphobusBy the right breast, that with swift feet he fled.And many of that slaughter-breathing throngWere slain by Agamemnon: furiouslyHe rushed on godlike Aethicus with the spear;But he shrank from the forefront back mid friends.
Now when Eurypylus the battle-stayMarked how the ranks of Troy gave back from fight,He turned him from the host that he had chasedEven to the ships, and rushed with eagle-swoopOn Atreus’ strong sons and Oileus’ seedStout-hearted, who was passing fleet of footAnd in fight peerless. Swiftly he charged on theseGrasping his spear long-shafted: at Iris sideCharged Paris, charged Aeneas stout of heart,Who hurled a stone exceeding huge, that crashedOn Aias’ helmet: dashed to the dust he was,Yet gave not up the ghost, whose day of doomWas fate-ordained amidst Caphaerus’ rocksOn the home-voyage. Now his valiant menOut of the foes’ hands snatched him, bare him thence,Scarce drawing breath, to the Achaean ships.And now the Atreid kings, the war-renowned,Were left alone, and murder-breathing foesEncompassed them, and hurled from every sideWhate’er their hands might find the deadly shaftSome showered, some the stone, the javelin some.They in the midst aye turned this way and that,As boars or lions compassed round with palesOn that day when kings gather to the sportThe people, and have penned the mighty beastsWithin the toils of death; but these, althoughWith walls ringed round, yet tear with tusk and fangWhat luckless thrall soever draweth near.So these death-compassed heroes slew their foesEver as they pressed on. Yet had their mightAvailed not for defence, for all their will,Had Teucer and Idomeneus strong of heartCome not to help, with Thoas, Meriones,And godlike Thrasymedes, they which shrankErewhile before Eurypylus yea, had fledUnto the ships to ’scape the crushing doom,But that, in fear for Atreus’ sons, they ralliedAgainst Eurypylus: deadly waxed the fight.
Then Teucer with a mighty spear-thrust smoteAeneas’ shield, yet wounded not his flesh,For the great fourfold buckler warded him;Yet feared he, and recoiled a little space.Leapt Meriones upon LaophoonThe son of Paeon, born by Axius’ floodOf bright-haired Cleomede. Unto TroyWith noble Asteropaeus had he comeTo aid her folk: him Meriones’ keen spearStabbed ’neath the navel, and the lance-head toreHis bowels forth; swift sped his soul awayInto the Shadow-land. Alcimedes,The warrior-friend of Aias, Oileus’ son,Shot mid the press of Trojans; for he spedWith taunting shout a sharp stone from a slingInto their battle’s heart. They quailed in fearBefore the hum and onrush of the bolt.Fate winged its flight to the bold charioteerOf Pammon, Hippasus’ son: his brow it smoteWhile yet he grasped the reins, and flung him stunnedDown from the chariot-seat before the wheels.The rushing war-wain whirled his wretched form‘Twixt tyres and heels of onward-leaping steeds,And awful death in that hour swallowed himWhen whip and reins had flown from his nerveless hands.Then grief thrilled Pammon: hard necessityMade him both chariot-lord and charioteer.Now to his doom and death-day had he bowed,Had not a Trojan through that gory strifeLeapt, grasped the reins, and saved the prince, when nowHis strength failed ’neath the murderous hands of foes.
As godlike Acamas charged, the stalwart sonOf Nestor thrust the spear above his knee,And with that wound sore anguish came on him:Back from the fight he drew; the deadly strifeHe left unto his comrades: quenched was nowHis battle-lust. Eurypylus’ henchman smoteEchemmon, Thoas’ friend, amidst the frayBeneath the shoulder: nigh his heart the spearPassed bitter-biting: o’er his limbs brake outMingled with blood cold sweat of agony.He turned to flee; Eurypylus’ giant mightChased, caught him, shearing his heel-tendons through:There, where the blow fell, his reluctant feetStayed, and the spirit left his mortal frame.Thoas pricked Paris with quick-thrusting spearOn the right thigh: backward a space he ranFor his death-speeding bow, which had been leftTo rearward of the fight. IdomeneusUpheaved a stone, huge as his hands could swing,And dashed it on Eurypylus’ arm: to earthFell his death-dealing spear. Backward he steppedTo grasp another, since from out his handThe first was smitten. So had Atreus’ sonsA moment’s breathing-space from stress of war.But swiftly drew Eurypylus’ henchmen nearBearing a stubborn-shafted lance, wherewithHe brake the strength of many. In stormy mightThen charged he on the foe: whomso he metHe slew, and spread wide havoc through their ranks.
Now neither Atreus’ sons might steadfast stand,Nor any valiant Danaan beside,For ruinous panic suddenly gripped the heartsOf all; for on them all Eurypylus rushedFlashing death in their faces, chased them, slew,Cried to the Trojans and to his chariot-lords:“Friends, be of good heart! To these DanaansLet us deal slaughter and doom’s darkness now!Lo, how like scared sheep back to the ships they flee!Forget not your death-dealing battle-lore,O ye that from your youth are men of war!”
Then charged they on the Argives as one man;And these in utter panic turned and fledThe bitter battle, those hard after themFollowed, as white-fanged hounds hold deer in chaseUp the long forest-glens. Full many in dustThey dashed down, howsoe’er they longed to escape.The slaughter grim and great of that wild fray.Eurypylus hath slain Bucolion,Nesus, and Chromion and Antiphus;Twain in Mycenae dwelt, a goodly land;In Lacedaemon twain. Men of renownAlbeit they were, he slew them. Then he smoteA host unnumbered of the common throng.My strength should not suffice to sing their fate,How fain soever, though within my breastWere iron lungs. Aeneas slew withalAntimachus and Pheres, twain which leftCrete with Idomeneus. Agenor smoteMolus the princely,—with king SthenelusHe came from Argos,—hurled from far behindA dart new-whetted, as he fled from fight,Piercing his right leg, and the eager shaftCut sheer through the broad sinew, shatteringThe bones with anguished pain: and so his doomMet him, to die a death of agony.Then Paris’ arrows laid proud Phorcys low,And Mosynus, brethren both, from SalamisWho came in Aias’ ships, and nevermoreSaw the home-land. Cleolaus smote he next,Meges’ stout henchman; for the arrow struckHis left breast: deadly night enwrapped him round,And his soul fleeted forth: his fainting heartStill in his breast fluttering convulsivelyMade the winged arrow shiver. Yet againDid Paris shoot at bold Eetion.Through his jaw leapt the sudden-flashing brass:He groaned, and with his blood were mingled tears.So ever man slew man, till all the spaceWas heaped with Argives each on other cast.Now had the Trojans burnt with fire the ships,Had not night, trailing heavy-folded mist,Uprisen. So Eurypylus drew back,And Troy’s sons with him, from the ships aloofA little space, by Simois’ outfall; thereCamped they exultant. But amidst the shipsFlung down upon the sands the Argives wailedHeart-anguished for the slain, so many of whomDark fate had overtaken and laid in dust.