Ever Achilles showed us reverence -- yea, Was of our race. Ha, but the punishment Of Troy, I ween, shall not be lighter, though Aeacus' son have fallen; for his son Right soon shall come from Scyros to the war To help the Argive men, no less in might Than was his sire, a bane to many a foe.
But thou -- thou for the Trojans dost not care, But for his valour enviedst Peleus' son, Seeing he was the mightest of all men.
Thou fool! how wilt thou meet the Nereid's eyes, When she shall stand in Zeus' hall midst the Gods, Who praised thee once, and loved as her own son?"
So Hera spake, in bitterness of soul Upbraiding, but he answered her not a word, Of reverence for his mighty Father's bride;
Nor could he lift his eyes to meet her eyes, But sat abashed, aloof from all the Gods Eternal, while in unforgiving wrath Scowled on him all the Immortals who maintained The Danaans' cause; but such as fain would bring Triumph to Troy, these with exultant hearts Extolled him, hiding it from Hera's eyes, Before whose wrath all Heaven-abiders shrank.
But Peleus' son the while forgat not yet War's fury: still in his invincible limbs The hot blood throbbed, and still he longed for fight.
Was none of all the Trojans dared draw nigh The stricken hero, but at distance stood, As round a wounded lion hunters stand Mid forest-brakes afraid, and, though the shaft Stands in his heart, yet faileth not in him His royal courage, but with terrible glare Roll his fierce eyes, and roar his grimly jaws;
So wrath and anguish of his deadly hurt To fury stung Peleides' soul; but aye His strength ebbed through the god-envenomed wound.
Yet leapt he up, and rushed upon the foe, And flashed the lightning of his lance; it slew The goodly Orythaon, comrade stout Of Hector, through his temples crashing clear:
His helm stayed not the long lance fury-sped Which leapt therethrough, and won within the bones The heart of the brain, and spilt his lusty life.
Then stabbed he 'neath the brow Hipponous Even to the eye-roots, that the eyeball fell To earth: his soul to Hades flitted forth.
Then through the jaw he pierced Alcathous, And shore away his tongue: in dust he fell Gasping his life out, and the spear-head shot Out through his ear. These, as they rushed on him, That hero slew; but many a fleer's life He spilt, for in his heart still leapt the blood.
But when his limbs grew chill, and ebbed away His spirit, leaning on his spear he stood, While still the Trojans fled in huddled rout Of panic, and he shouted unto them:
"Trojan and Dardan cravens, ye shall not Even in my death, escape my merciless spear, But unto mine Avenging Spirits ye Shall pay -- ay, one and all -- destruction's debt!"
He spake; they heard and quailed: as mid the hills Fawns tremble at a lion's deep-mouthed roar, And terror-stricken flee the monster, so The ranks of Trojan chariot-lords, the lines Of battle-helpers drawn from alien lands, Quailed at the last shout of Achilles, deemed That he was woundless yet. But 'neath the weight Of doom his aweless heart, his mighty limbs, At last were overborne. Down midst the dead He fell, as fails a beetling mountain-cliff.
Earth rang beneath him: clanged with a thundercrash His arms, as Peleus' son the princely fell.
And still his foes with most exceeding dread Stared at him, even as, when some murderous beast Lies slain by shepherds, tremble still the sheep Eyeing him, as beside the fold he lies, And shrinking, as they pass him, far aloof And, even as he were living, fear him dead;
So feared they him, Achilles now no more.
Yet Paris strove to kindle those faint hearts;
For his own heart exulted, and he hoped, Now Peleus' son, the Danaans' strength, had fallen, Wholly to quench the Argive battle-fire:
"Friends, if ye help me truly and loyally, Let us this day die, slain by Argive men, Or live, and hale to Troy with Hector's steeds In triumph Peleus' son thus fallen dead, The steeds that, grieving, yearning for their lord To fight have borne me since my brother died.
Might we with these but hale Achilles slain, Glory were this for Hector's horses, yea, For Hector -- if in Hades men have sense Of righteous retribution. This man aye Devised but mischief for the sons of Troy;
And now Troy's daughters with exultant hearts From all the city streets shall gather round, As pantheresses wroth for stolen cubs, Or lionesses, might stand around a man Whose craft in hunting vexed them while he lived.
So round Achilles -- a dead corpse at last! -- In hurrying throngs Troy's daughters then shall come In unforgiving, unforgetting hate, For parents wroth, for husbands slain, for sons, For noble kinsmen. Most of all shall joy My father, and the ancient men, whose feet Unwillingly are chained within the walls By eld, if we shall hale him through our gates, And give our foe to fowls of the air for meat."
Then they, which feared him theretofore, in haste Closed round the corpse of strong-heart Aeacus' son, Glaucus, Aeneas, battle-fain Agenor, And other cunning men in deadly fight, Eager to hale him thence to Ilium The god-built burg. But Aias failed him not.
Swiftly that godlike man bestrode the dead:
Back from the corpse his long lance thrust them all.
Yet ceased they not from onslaught; thronging round, Still with swift rushes fought they for the prize, One following other, like to long-lipped bees Which hover round their hive in swarms on swarms To drive a man thence; but he, recking naught Of all their fury, carveth out the combs Of nectarous honey: harassed sore are they By smoke-reek and the robber; spite of all Ever they dart against him; naught cares he;
So naught of all their onsets Aias recked;
But first he stabbed Agelaus in the breast, And slew that son of Maion: Thestor next:
