第22章 BOOK III(4)

"Dog, thou hast 'scaped the heavy hand of death To-day! But swiftly thy last hour shall come By some strong Argive's hands, or by mine own, But now have I a nobler task in hand, From murder's grip to rescue Achilles' corse."

Then turned he on the foe, hurling swift doom On such as fought around Peleides yet.

'These saw how many yielded up the ghost Neath his strong hands, and, with hearts failing them For fear, against him could they stand no more.

As rascal vultures were they, which the swoop Of an eagle, king of birds, scares far away From carcasses of sheep that wolves have torn;

So this way, that way scattered they before The hurtling stones, the sword, the might of Aias.

In utter panic from the war they fled, In huddled rout, like starlings from the swoop Of a death-dealing hawk, when, fleeing bane, One drives against another, as they dart All terror-huddled in tumultuous flight.

So from the war to Priam's burg they fled Wretchedly clad with terror as a cloak, Quailing from mighty Aias' battle-shout, As with hands dripping blood-gouts he pursued.

Yea, all, one after other, had he slain, Had they not streamed through city-gates flung wide Hard-panting, pierced to the very heart with fear.

Pent therewithin he left them, as a shepherd Leaves folded sheep, and strode back o'er the plain;

Yet never touched he with his feet the ground, But aye he trod on dead men, arms, and blood;

For countless corpses lay o'er that wide stretch Even from broad-wayed Troy to Hellespont, Bodies of strong men slain, the spoil of Doom.

As when the dense stalks of sun-ripened corn Fall 'neath the reapers' hands, and the long swaths, Heavy with full ears, overspread the field, And joys the heart of him who oversees The toil, lord of the harvest; even so, By baleful havoc overmastered, lay All round face-downward men remembering not The death-denouncing war-shout. But the sons Of fair Achaea left their slaughtered foes In dust and blood unstripped of arms awhile Till they should lay upon the pyre the son Of Peleus, who in battle-shock had been Their banner of victory, charging in his might.

So the kings drew him from that stricken field Straining beneath the weight of giant limbs, And with all loving care they bore him on, And laid him in his tent before the ships.

And round him gathered that great host, and wailed Heart-anguished him who had been the Achaeans' strength, And now, forgotten all the splendour of spears, Lay mid the tents by moaning Hellespont, In stature more than human, even as lay Tityos, who sought to force Queen Leto, when She fared to Pytho: swiftly in his wrath Apollo shot, and laid him low, who seemed Invincible: in a foul lake of gore There lay he, covering many a rood of ground, On the broad earth, his mother; and she moaned Over her son, of blessed Gods abhorred;

But Lady Leto laughed. So grand of mould There in the foemen's land lay Aeacus' son, For joy to Trojans, but for endless grief To Achaean men lamenting. Moaned the air With sighing from the abysses of the sea;

And passing heavy grew the hearts of all, Thinking: "Now shall we perish by the hands Of Trojans!" Then by those dark ships they thought Of white-haired fathers left in halls afar, Of wives new-wedded, who by couches cold Mourned, waiting, waiting, with their tender babes For husbands unreturning; and they groaned In bitterness of soul. A passion of grief Came o'er their hearts; they fell upon their faces On the deep sand flung down, and wept as men All comfortless round Peleus' mighty son, And clutched and plucked out by the roots their hair, And east upon their heads defiling sand.

Their cry was like the cry that goeth up From folk that after battle by their walls Are slaughtered, when their maddened foes set fire To a great city, and slay in heaps on heaps Her people, and make spoil of all her wealth;

So wild and high they wailed beside the sea, Because the Danaans' champion, Aeacus' son, Lay, grand in death, by a God's arrow slain, As Ares lay, when She of the Mighty Father With that huge stone down dashed him on Troy's plain.

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

Then Aias first, deep-groaning, uttered forth His yearning o'er his father's brother's son God-stricken -- ay, no man had smitten him Of all upon the wide-wayed earth that dwell!

Him glorious Aias heavy-hearted mourned, Now wandering to the tent of Peleus' son, Now cast down all his length, a giant form, On the sea-sands; and thus lamented he:

"Achilles, shield and sword of Argive men, Thou hast died in Troy, from Phthia's plains afar, Smitten unwares by that accursed shaft, Such thing as weakling dastards aim in fight!

For none who trusts in wielding the great shield, None who for war can skill to set the helm Upon his brows, and sway the spear in grip, And cleave the brass about the breasts of foes, Warreth with arrows, shrinking from the fray.

Not man to man he met thee, whoso smote;

Else woundless never had he 'scaped thy lance!

But haply Zeus purposed to ruin all, And maketh all our toil and travail vain -- Ay, now will grant the Trojans victory Who from Achaea now hath reft her shield!

Ah me! how shall old Peleus in his halls Take up the burden of a mighty grief Now in his joyless age! His heart shall break At the mere rumour of it. Better so, Thus in a moment to forget all pain.

But if these evil tidings slay him not, Ah, laden with sore sorrow eld shall come Upon him, eating out his heart with grief By a lone hearth Peleus so passing dear Once to the Blessed! But the Gods vouchsafe No perfect happiness to hapless men."

So he in grief lamented Peleus' son.

Then ancient Phoenix made heart-stricken moan, Clasping the noble form of Aeacus' seed, And in wild anguish wailed the wise of heart: