Book XI: The Third Battle, and Exploits of Agamemnon

Now did the Morning from her couch besideRenowned Tithonus rise, that she might bringThe light to gods and men, when JupiterTo the swift galleys of the Grecian hostSent baleful Strife, who bore in hand aloftWar’s ensigns. On the huge black ship that broughtUlysses, in the centre of the fleet,She stood, where she might shout to either side—To Telamonian Ajax in his tentsAnd to Achilles, who had ranged their shipsAt each extreme of the Achaian camp,Relying on their valor and strong arms.Loud was the voice, and terrible, in whichShe shouted from her station to the Greeks,And into every heart it carried strengthAnd the resolve to combat manfullyAnd never yield. The battle now to themSeemed more to be desired than the returnTo their dear country in their roomy ships.Atrides called aloud, exhorting themTo gird themselves for battle. Then he cladHimself in glittering brass. First to his thighsHe bound the beautiful greaves with silver clasps,Then fitted to his chest the breastplate givenBy Cinyras, a pledge of kind intent;—For, when he heard in Cyprus that the GreeksWere bound for Ilium in their ships, he sentThis gift, a homage to the king of men;—Ten were its bars of tawny bronze, and twelveWere gold, and twenty tin; and on each sideWere three bronze serpents stretching toward the neck,Curved like the colored bow which Saturn’s sonSets in the clouds, a sign to men. He hungHis sword, all glittering with its golden studs,About his shoulders. In a silver sheathIt nestled, which was slung on golden rings.And then he took his shield, a mighty orb,And nobly wrought and strong and beautiful,Bound with ten brazen circles. On its diskWere twenty bosses of white tin, and oneOf tawny bronze just in the midst, where glaredA Gorgon’s-head with angry eyes, round whichWere sculptured Fear and Flight. Along its bandOf silver twined a serpent wrought in bronze,With three heads springing from one neck and formedInto an orb. Upon his head he placedA helmet rough with studs on every side,And with four bosses, and a horse-hair plumeThat nodded fearfully on high. He tookIn hand two massive spears, brass-tipped and sharp,That shone afar and sent their light to heaven,Where Juno and Minerva made a soundLike thunder in mid-sky, as honoringThe sovereign of Mycenae rich in gold.

Each chief gave orders to his charioteerTo stay his horses firmly by the trench,While they rushed forth in arms. At once arose,Ere yet the sun was up, a mighty din.They marshalled by the trench the men on foot;The horse came after, with short space between.The son of Saturn sent among their ranksConfusion, and dropped down upon the hostDews tinged with blood, in sign that he that dayWould send to Hades many a valiant chief.

The Trojans, on their side, in the mid-plainDrew up their squadrons on a hill, aroundThe mighty Hector, and PolydamasThe blameless, and Aeneas, who amongThe sons of Troy was honored like a god,And three sons of Antenor, who were namedAgenor and the noble PolybusAnd the young Acamas of godlike bloom,There Hector in the van uplifted boreHis broad round shield. As some portentous starBreaks from the clouds and shines, and then againEnters their shadow, Hector thus appearedAmong the foremost, issuing his commands,Then sought the hindmost. All in brass, he shoneLike lightnings of the Aegis-bearer, Jove.

As when two lines of reapers, face to face,In some rich landlord’s field of barley or wheatMove on, and fast the severed handfuls fall,So, springing on each other, they of TroyAnd they of Argos smote each other down,And neither thought of ignominious flight.They met each other man to man; they rushedLike wolves to combat. Cruel Strife looked onRejoicing; she alone of all the godsWas present in the battle; all the rest,Far off, sat quiet in their palaces,The glorious mansions built for them alongThe summits of Olympus. Yet they allBlamed Saturn’s son that he should honor thusThe Trojans. The All-Father heeded notTheir murmurings, but, seated by himselfApart, exulting in his sovereignty,Looked on the city of Troy, the ships of Greece,The gleam of arms, the slayers, and the slain.

While yet ’twas morn, and still the holy lightOf day was brightening, fast the weapons smoteOn either side, and fast the people fell;But at the hour when on the mountain-slopeThe wood cutter makes ready his repast,Weary with felling lofty trees, and gladTo rest, and eager for the grateful meal,The Greeks, encouraging each other, chargedAnd broke the serried phalanxes of Troy.First Agamemnon, springing forward, slewThe shepherd of his people and their chief,Bienor, and his trusty comrade next—The charioteer Oileus, who had leapedDown from his chariot to confront the king.Him Agamemnon with his trenchant spearSmote in the forehead as he came. The helmOf massive brass was vain to stay the blow:The weapon pierced it and the bone, and stainedThe brain with blood; it felled him rushing on.The monarch stripped the slain, and, leaving themWith their white bosoms bare, went on to slayIsus and Antiphus, King Priam’s sons—One born in wedlock, one of baser birth—Both in one chariot. Isus held the reinsWhile Antiphus, the high-born brother, fought.These had Achilles once on Ida’s heightMade prisoners, as they fed their flocks; he boundTheir limbs with osier bands, but gave them upFor ransom to the Trojans. Now the kingOf men, Atrides Agamemnon, piercedIsus above the nipple with his spear,And with his falchion smiting AntiphusBeside the ear, he hurled him from his car.Then hastening up, and stripping from the deadTheir shining mail, he knew them; he had seenBoth at the ships to which the fleet of foot,Achilles, brought them bound from Ida’s side.As when a lion comes upon the hauntOf a swift hind, to make an easy preyOf her young fawns, and, with his powerful teethSeizing them, takes their tender lives; while she,Though nigh, can bring no aid but yields herselfTo mortal fear, and, to escape his rage,Flies swiftly through the wood of close-grown oaks,With sweaty sides—thus none of all the hostOf Trojans could avert from Priam’s sonsTheir fate, but fled in terror from the Greeks.Next on Pisander and HippolochusAtrides rushed—brave warriors both, and sonsOf brave Antimachus, the chief who tookGold and rich gifts from Paris, and refusedTo let the Trojans render Helen backTo fair-haired Menelaus. His two sons,Both in one car, and reining their fleet steeds,Atrides intercepted; they let fallThe embroidered reins, dismayed, as, lion-like,Forward he came; and, cowering, thus they prayed:—

“Take us alive, Atrides, and acceptA worthy ransom, for AntimachusKeeps in his halls large treasures—brass and gold.And well-wrought steel; and he will send, from these,Large ransom, hearing we are at the fleetAlive.” So prayed they with bland words, and metHarsh answer: “Since ye call AntimachusYour father, who in Trojan council onceProposed that Menelaus, whom we sentA legate with Ulysses the divine,Should not return to Greece, but suffer death,Your blood must answer for your father’s guilt.”

So spake the king, and, striking with his spearPisander’s breast, he dashed him from the car.Prone on the ground he lay. HippolochusLeaped down and met the sword. Atrides loppedHis hands and drave the weapon through his neck,And sent the head to roll among the crowd.And then he left the dead, and rushed to whereThe ranks were in disorder; with him wentHis-well-armed Greeks; there they who fought on footSlaughtered the flying foot; the horsemen thereClove horsemen down: the coursers’ trampling feetRaised the thick dust to shadow all the plain;While Agamemnon cheered the Achaians on,And chased and slew the foe. As when a fireSeizes a thick-grown forest, and the windDrives it along in eddies, while the trunksFall with the boughs amid devouring flames,So fell the flying Trojans by the handOf Agamemnon. Many high-maned steedsDragged noisily their empty cars amongThe ranks of battle, never more to bearTheir charioteers, who lay upon the earthThe vulture’s feast, a sorrow to their wives.

But Jove beyond the encountering arms, the dust,The carnage, and the bloodshed and the dinBore Hector, while Atrides in pursuitWas loudly cheering the Achaians on.Meantime the Trojans fled across the plainToward the wild fig-tree growing near the tombOf ancient Ilus, son of Dardanus—Eager to reach the town; and still the sonOf Atreus followed, shouting, and with handsBlood-stained and dust-begrimed. And when they reachedThe Scaean portals and the beechen tree,They halted, waiting for the rear, like beevesChased panting by a lion who has comeAt midnight on them, and has put the herdTo flight, and one of them to certain death—Whose neck he breaks with his strong teeth and thenDevours the entrails, lapping up the blood.Thus did Atrides Agamemnon chaseThe Trojans; still he slew the hindmost; stillThey fled before him. Many by his handFell from their chariots prone, for terribleBeyond all others with the spear was he.But when he now was near the city-wall,The Father of immortals and of menCame down from the high heaven, and took his seatOn many-fountained Ida. In his graspHe held a thunderbolt, and this commandHe gave to Iris of the golden wings:—

“Haste, Iris fleet of wing, and bear my wordsTo Hector:—While he sees the king of men,Atrides, in the van and dealing deathAmong the ranks of warriors, let him stillGive way, encouraging his men to holdUnflinching battle with the enemy.But when Atrides, wounded by a spearOr arrow, shall ascend his chariot, thenWill I nerve Hector’s arm with strength to slayUntil he come to the good ships of Greece,And the sun set, and hallowed night come down.”

He spake; and she, whose feet are like the windIn swiftness, heeded the command, and flewFrom Ida’s summit to the sacred townOf Troy, and found the noble Hector, sonOf warlike Priam, standing mid the steedsAnd the strong chariots, and, approaching, said:—

“O Hector, son of Priam, and like JoveIn council! Jove the All-Father bids me say,As long as thou shalt see the king of men,Atrides, in the van, and dealing deathAmong the ranks of warriors, thou shalt stillGive way, encouraging thy men to holdUnflinching battle with the enemy;But when Atrides, wounded by a spearOr arrow, shall ascend his chariot, thenWill Jove endue thy arm with strength to slayUntil thou come to the good ships of Greece,And the sun set, and hallowed night come down.”

So the fleet Iris spake, and went her way;While Hector, leaping from his car in arms,And wielding his sharp spears, went everywhereAmong the Trojan ranks, exhorting themTo combat, and renewed the stubborn fight.They rallied and stood firm against the Greeks.The Greeks, in turn, made strong their phalanxes.The battle raged again, as front to frontThey stood, while Agamemnon eagerlyPressed forward, proud to lead the van in fight.

Say, Muses, dwellers of Olympus! WhoFirst of the Trojans or their brave alliesEncountered Atreus’ son? Iphidamas,Son of Antenor, strong and daring, bredOn the rich soil of Thrace, the nurse of flocks.His grandsire Cisseus, from whose loins the fairTheano sprang, had reared him from a childWithin his palace; and, when he attainedYouth’s glorious prime, still kept him, giving himHis child to wife. He wedded her, but leftAt once the bridal chamber when he heardOf the Greek war on Ilium, and set sailWith twelve beaked galleys. These he afterwardLeft at Percope—marching on to Troy.And he it was who came to meet the sonOf Atreus. As the heroes now drew nearEach other, Agamemnon missed his aim;His thrust was parried. Then IphidamasDealt him beneath the breastplate on the beltA vigorous blow, and urged the spear with allHis strength of arm; yet through the plated beltIt could not pierce, for there it met a plateOf silver, and its point was turned like lead.With lion strength, Atrides seized and drewThe weapon toward him, plucked it from the handThat held it, and let fall his falchion’s edgeUpon the Trojan’s neck and laid him dead.Unhappy youth! He slept an iron sleep—Slain fighting for his country, far awayFrom the young virgin bride yet scarcely his,For whom large marriage-gifts he made—of beevesA hundred—and had promised from the flocksThat thronged his fields a thousand sheep and goats.Atrides Agamemnon spoiled the slain,And bore his glorious armor off amongThe Argive host. Antenor’s elder son,Illustrious Coön, saw, and bitter griefFor his slain brother dimmed his eyes. He stoodAside, with his spear couched, while unawareThe noble Agamemnon passed, and piercedThe middle of the monarch’s arm belowThe elbow; through the flesh the shining pointPassed to the other side. The king of men,Atrides, shuddered, yet refrained not thenFrom combat; but with his wind-seasoned spearHe rushed on Coön, who, to drag awayHis father’s son Iphidamas, had seizedThe body by the feet, and called his friends,The bravest, to his aid. Atrides thrustHis brazen spear below the bossy shield,And slew him as he drew the corpse, and o’erThe dead Iphidamas struck off his head.Thus were Antenor’s sons—their doom fulfilled—Sent by Atrides to the realm of death.And then he ranged among the enemy’s ranksWith wielded lance and sword and ponderous stones,While yet the warm blood issued from his wound.But when the wound grew dry, and ceased to flowWith blood, keen anguish seized his vigorous frameAs when a woman feels the piercing pangsOf travail brought her by the Ilythian maids,Daughters of Juno, who preside at births,And walk the ministers of bitter pains—Such anguish seized on Agamemnon’s frame;And, leaping to his chariot-seat, he badeThe guider of the steeds make haste to reachThe roomy ships, for he was overcomeWith pain; but first he shouted to the Greeks:—

“O friends, the chiefs and princes of the Greeks!Yours is the duty to drive back the warFrom our good ships, since all-disposing JoveForbids me, for this day, to lead the fight.”

He spake. The charioteer applied the lash,And not unwillingly the long-maned steedsFlew toward the hollow ships; upon their breastsGathered the foam; beneath their rapid feetArose the dust, as from the battle’s dinThey bore the wounded warrior. Hector sawThe flight of Agamemnon, and aloudCalled to the Trojans and the Lycians thus:—

“Trojan and Lycian warriors, and ye sonsOf Dardanus, who combat hand to hand,Be men; be mindful of your fame in war.Our mightiest foe withdraws; Saturnian JoveCrowns me with glory. Urge your firm-paced steedsOn the brave Greeks, and win yet nobler fame.”

He spake. His words gave courage and new strengthTo every heart. As when a hunter cheersHis white-toothed dogs against some lionessOr wild boar from the forest, Hector thus,The son of Priam, terrible as MarsThe slayer of men, cheered on the gallant sonsOf Troy against the Greeks. Himself, inspiredWith fiery valor, rushed among the foesIn the mid-battle foremost, like a stormThat swoops from heaven, and on the dark-blue seaFalls suddenly, and stirs it to its depths.

Who then was slain the first, and who the last,By Hector, Priam’s son, whom Jove designedTo honor? First, Asaeus; Uolops, sonOf Clytis; and Autonoüs; and thenOpites and Opheltius; next to whomAesymnus, Agelaus, Orus fell,And resolute Hipponous the last.All these, the princes of the Greeks, he slew,Then smote the common crowd. As when a galeBlows from the west upon the mass of cloudPiled up before the south-wind’s powerful breath,And tears it with a mighty hurricane,While the swol’n billows tumble, and their foamIs flung on high before the furious blast,So by the sword of Hector fell the headsOf the Greek soldiery; and there had beenRuin and ravage not to be repaired,And the defeated Greeks had flung themselvesInto their ships, had not Ulysses thenExhorted thus Tydides Diomed:—

“Tydides! What has quenched within our heartsTheir fiery valor? Come, my friend, and takeThy stand beside me: foul disgrace were oursShould crested Hector make our fleet his prize.”

And thus the valiant Diomed replied:—“Most willingly I stand, and bear my partIn battle; but with little hope, for Jove,The God of storms, awards the day to Troy.”

He spake, and pierced Thymbraeus with his spearThrough the left breast, and dashed him from his car.Meanwhile Ulysses struck Molion down,The prince’s stately comrade. These they leftNever to fight again, and made their wayThrough the thick squadrons, carrying, as they went,Confusion with them. As two fearless boarsRush on the hounds, so, mingling in the war,They bore the foe before them, and the GreeksWelcomed a respite from the havoc madeBy noble Hector. Next they seized a carWhich bore two chiefs, the bravest of their host—Sons of Percosian Merops, who was skilledBeyond all men in portents. He enjoinedHis sons to keep aloof from murderous war.Yet did they not obey him, for the fateThat doomed the twain to death impelled them on;And Diomed, the mighty with the spear,Spoiled them of life, and bore their armor off,A glittering prize. Meantime Ulysses slewHippodamus, and next Hypirochus.The son of Saturn looked from Ida’s height,And bade the battle rage on either sideWith equal fury: both the encountering hostsSlew and were slain. Tydides with his spearSmote on the hip the chief Agastrophus,The son of Paeon, thoughtless wretch, whose steedsWere not at hand for flight; his charioteerHeld them at distance, while their master rushedAmong the foremost warriors till he fell.Hector perceived his fall, as through the filesHe looked, and straightway hastened to the spotWith shouts; and after him came rapidlyThe phalanxes of Trojans. Diomed,The great in battle, shuddered as he saw,And thus addressed Ulysses, who was near:—

“Lo! The destroyer, furious Hector, comes!Let us stand firm, and face and drive him back.”

He said, and cast his brandished lance, nor missedThe mark: it smote the helm on Hector’s head.The brass glanced from the brass; it could not pierceTo the fair skin; the high and threefold helm—A gift from Phoebus—turned the point aside.The chief fell back, and, mingling with the throng,Dropped on one knee, and yet upheld himselfWith one broad palm upon the ground, while nightDarkened his eyes. The son of Tydeus sprangTo seize his spear, which now stood fixed in earthAmong the foremost warriors. In that timeDid Hector breathe again, and, having leapedInto his chariot, he avoided death,By mingling with the crowd; while, spear in hand,Brave Diomed pursued him, shouting thus:—

“This time, thou cur, hast thou escaped thy doom,Though it was nigh thee. Phoebus rescues thee—The god to whom thou dost address thy prayers—Whene’er thou venturest mid the clash of spears.Yet will I surely slay thee when we meet,If any god be on my side; and nowI go to strike where’er I find a foe.”

He spake, and struck the son of Paeon down,Skilful to wield the spear. But now the spouseOf fair-haired Helen—Alexander—stoodLeaning against a pillar by the tombOf the Dardanian Ilus, who had beenAn elder of the people; and he bentHis bow against the monarch Diomed,Who at that moment knelt to strip the slainOf the rich breastplate, and the shield that hungUpon his shoulders, and the massive casque.The Trojan drew the bow’s elastic horn,And sent an arrow that not vainly flew,But, striking the right foot, pierced through, and reachedThe ground beneath. Then Paris, with a laugh,Sprang from his ambush, shouting boastfully:—

“Lo, thou art smitten! Not in vain my shaftHas flown; and would that it had pierced thy groinAnd slain thee! Then the Trojans had obtainedReprieve from slaughter—they who dread thee nowAs bleating goats a lion.” Undismayed,The valiant Diomed made answer thus:—

“Archer and railer! Proud of thy smart bow,And ogler of the women! Wouldst thou makeTrial of valor hand to hand with me,Thy bow should not avail thee, nor thy sheafOf many arrows. Thou dost idly boastThat thou hast hit my foot. I heed it not.It is as if a woman or a childHad struck me. Lightly falls the weapon-strokeOf an unwarlike weakling. ’Tis not soWith me, for when one feels my weapon’s touch,It passes through him, and he dies; his wifeTears with her hands her cheeks; his little onesAre orphans; earth is crimsoned with his blood;And flocking round his carcass in decay,More numerous than women, are the birds.”

He spake. Ulysses, mighty with the spear,Came near and stood before him while he satConcealed, and drew the arrow from his foot.Keen was the agony that suddenlyShot through his frame: he leaped into his car,And bade his charioteer make haste to reachThe roomy ships: the pain had reached his heart.Ulysses, the great spearman, now was leftAlone, no Greek remaining by his side;For fear had seized them all. With inward griefThe hero thus addressed his mighty soul:—

“What will become of me? A great disgraceWill overtake me if I flee in fearBefore this multitude; and worse will beMy fate if I am taken here alone,While Jove has driven away the other GreeksIn terror. Why these questions, since I knowThat cowards skulk from combat, while the brave,Wounded or wounding others, keeps his ground?”

While thus he reasoned with himself, the ranksOf Trojans armed with bucklers came and closedAround their dreaded enemy. As whenA troop of vigorous dogs and youths assailFrom every side a wild boar issuing forthFrom a deep thicket, whetting the white tusksWithin his crooked jaws; they press around,And hear his gnashings, yet beware to comeToo nigh the terrible animal—so rushedThe Trojans round Ulysses, the belovedOf Jupiter. Then first the hero smoteDeïopites on the shoulder-blade,And next struck Thoön down, and Ennomus,And in the navel pierced ChersidamasWith his sharp spear, below the bossy shield,When leaping from his chariot. In the dustHe fell, and grasped the earth with dying hands.Ulysses left them there, and with his spearHe wounded Charops, son of Hippasus,And brother of brave Socus. Socus saw,And hastened to his aid, and, standing near,The godlike chief bespake Ulysses thus:—

“Renowned Ulysses! of whose arts and toilsThere is no end, thou either shalt todayBoast to have slain two sons of Hippasus,Brave as they are, and stripped them of their arms,Or, smitten by my javelin, lose thy life.”

He spake, and smote the Grecian’s orbèd shield.The swift spear, passing through the shining disk,And fixed in the rich breastplate, tore the skinFrom all his side; yet Pallas suffered notThe blade to reach the inner parts. At onceThe chief perceived that Socus had not givenA mortal wound, and, falling back a step,Thus spake: “Unhappy youth, thy doom will soonO’ertake thee. Though thou forcest me to pauseFrom combat with the Trojans, I declare,This day thou sufferest the black doom of death.Thou, smitten by my spear, shalt bring to meIncrease of glory, and shalt yield thy soulTo the grim horseman Pluto.” Thus he spake,While Socus turned to flee; and as he turned,Ulysses with the spear transfixed his back,And drave the weapon through his breast: he fell,With armor clashing, to the earth, while thusThe great Ulysses gloried over him:—

“O Socus! son of warlike HippasusThe horseman! Death has overtaken thee,And thou couldst not escape. Unhappy one!Now thou art dead thy father will not comeTo close thy eyes, nor she, the honored oneWho gave thee birth; but birds of prey shall flapTheir heavy wings above thee, and shall tearThy flesh, while I in dying shall receiveDue funeral honors from the noble Greeks.”

He spake, and from his wounded side drew forth,And from his bossy shield, the ponderous spearWhich warlike Socus threw. A gush of bloodFollowed, and torturing pain. Now, when they sawUlysses bleed, the gallant sons of TroyCalled to each other, rushing in a crowdTo where he stood. Retreating as they came,He shouted to his comrades. Thrice he raisedHis voice as loud as human lungs could shout;Thrice warlike Menelaus heard the cry,And spake at once to Ajax at his side:—

“Most noble Ajax, son of Telamon,Prince of thy people! To my ear is broughtThe cry of that unconquerable man,Ulysses, seemingly as if the foeHad hemmed him round alone, and pressed him soreIn combat. Break we through the crowd, and bringSuccor, lest harm befall him, though so brave—Fighting among the Trojans thus alone—And lest the Greeks should lose their mighty chief.”

He spake, and led the way; his godlike friendFollowed. They found Ulysses, dear to Jove—The Trojans thronging round him like a troopOf ravening jackals round an antlered stagWhich one who hunts upon the mountain-sideHath stricken with an arrow from his bow:By flight the stag escapes, while yet the bloodIs warm and easily the limbs are moved;But when at last the shaft hath quelled his strength,The hungry jackals in the forest shadeAmong the hills attack him, till by chanceThe dreaded lion comes; alarmed, they flee,And he devours the prey. So in that hour,Many and brave, the sons of Troy pursuedUlysses, skilled in war and wiles; while heWielded the spear and warded off the dayOf death. Then Ajax, coming near him, stood,With his tall buckler, like a tower of strengthBeside him, and the Trojans fled in fearOn all sides. Warlike Menelaus tookUlysses by the hand, and led him forthFrom the thronged spot, while his attendant broughtThe chariot near him. Ajax sprang uponThe Trojans, slaying Doryclus, a sonOf Priam basely born. Then PandorusHe wounded; next he struck Lysander down,Pyrasus and Pylartes. As a stream,Swol’n to a torrent by the showers of JoveSweeps down, from hill to plain, dry oaks and pines,And pours into the sea a muddy flood,So mighty Ajax routed and pursuedThe Trojans o’er the plain, and cut his wayThrough steeds and warriors. Hector knew not this.He fought where, on the battle’s left, besideThe Xanthus, fastest fell the slain, and roundGreat Nestor and the brave IdomeneusArose a mighty tumult. In that throngDid Hector mingle with his spear and steeds,Performing feats of valor, and laid wasteThe ranks of youthful warriors. Yet the GreeksWould not have yielded ground, if Paris, spouseOf fair-haired Helen, had not forced the chiefMachaon, fighting gallantly, to pause;For with an arrow triple-barbed he piercedThe chiefs right shoulder, and the valiant GreeksFeared lest the battle turn and he be slain.And thus Idomeneus to Nestor said:—

“Neleian Nestor, glory of the Greeks,Haste, mount thy chariot; let Machaon takeA place beside thee; urge thy firm-paced steedsRapidly toward the fleet; a leech like him,Who cuts the arrow from the wound and soothesThe pain with balms, is worth a host to us.”

He spake; and the Gerenian knight obeyed,And climbed the car in haste. Machaon, sonOf Aesculapius the peerless leech,Mounted beside him; Nestor lashed the steeds,And toward the roomy ships, which well they knew,And longed to reach, they flew with eager speed.

Meantime Cebriones, who had his seatBy Hector in the chariot, saw the ranksOf Troy disordered, and addressed the chief:—

“While we, O Hector, here are mid the GreeksJust in the skirts of the tumultuous fray,The other Trojans, men and steeds, are thrownInto confusion where the warriors throng,For Telamonian Ajax puts their ranksTo rout; I know him well by that broad shieldBorne on his shoulders. Thither let us driveOur steeds and chariot, where in desperate strifeMeet horse and foot and hew each other down,And a perpetual clamor fills the air.”

He spake; and with the whistling lash he struckThe long-maned steeds, and, as they felt the stroke,Forward they flew with the swift car amongThe Greeks and Trojans, trampling in their wayCorpses and shields. The axle underneathWas steeped in blood; the rim of the chariot-seatWas foul with the red drops which from their hoofsThe coursers sprinkled and the wheels threw up.Then Hector strove, by rushing on the crowd,To pierce it and break through it. To the GreeksHis coming brought destruction and dismay;And well his spear was wielded. Through the ranksOf other warriors with the spear he ranged,With sword and ponderous stones; yet warilyHe shunned the fight with Ajax Telamon.

Then Father Jove Almighty touched with fearThe heart of Ajax. All amazed he stood,And cast his sevenfold buckler of bull’s-hideUpon his back, and, terrified, withdrew.Now casting glances like a beast of preyFrom side to side, he turned to right and left,And, slowly yielding, moved knee after knee.As when the rustics with their hounds drive offA hungry lion from their stalls of kine,Whom, watching all the night, they suffer notTo make their herd a prey; but he, intentOn ravin, rushes forward, yet in vain;For many a javelin flies from daring handsAgainst him, many a blazing torch is swung,At which, though fierce, he trembles, and at mornStalks off in sullen mood;—so Ajax, sadAt heart, and fearing for the Grecian fleet,Unwillingly fell back before the foe.And as, when entering in a field, an assSlow-paced, whose flanks have broken many a shaftTo splinters, crops the harvest as it grows,And boys attack him with their rods—though smallTheir strength—but scarce, till he has browsed his fill,Can drive him forth—so did the gallant sonsOf Troy, and their allies from distant lands,Continually pursue the mighty sonOf Telamon, and hurl their spears againstThe centre of his shield. And now he wheeled,As conscious of great valor, and repulsedThe crowding phalanxes; and now againHe turned to flee. And thus he kept the foeFrom reaching the swift galleys, while he stoodBetween the Greeks and Trojans, terribleIn wrath. The javelins hurled by daring handsAgainst him—some hung fixed in his broad shield;And many, ere they came to his fair skin,Fell midway—eager though they were to pierceThe warrior’s side—and plunged into the earth.

Eurypylus, Evaemon’s noble son,Saw Ajax sorely pressed with many darts,And came and stood beside him, taking aimWith his bright spear, and in the liver smote,Beneath the midriff, Apisaon, sonOf Phausias, and a prince among his tribe.His knees gave way, and down he sank in death.But godlike Alexander, who beheldThe slayer stripping Apisaon’s corpseOf armor, at that moment bent his bow,And pierced Eurypylus in the right thigh.The reed brake in the wound. He writhed with pain,And mingled with his fellows in the ranks,Avoiding death, yet shouting to the Greeks:—

“O friends, the chiefs and leaders of the Greeks,Rally and keep your ground; ward off the fateOf death from Ajax, who is sorely pressedWith darts, and, much I fear, may not escapeSafe from this stormy conflict. Stand ye firmAround the mighty son of Telamon.”

So spake the wounded warrior; while his friendsRallied around him, with their shields inclinedAgainst their shoulders, and with lifted spears.And Ajax came and joined them; then he turned,And firmly faced the foe. The Greeks renewedThe combat with a rage like that of fire.

Now meantime the Neleian coursers, steepedIn sweat, were bearing Nestor and the princeMachaon from the battle. On the prowOf his great ship, Achilles, swift of foot,Looked forth, and, gazing on the hard-fought frayAnd the sad rout, beheld them. Then he calledHis friend Patroclus, shouting from the ship.Patroclus heard, within the tent, and came,Glorious as Mars;—yet with that day beganHis woes. The gallant MenoetiadesMade answer thus: “Why callest thou my name,Achilles, and what needest thou of me?”

And thus rejoined Achilles, swift of foot:—“Son of Menoetius, nobly born, and wellBeloved by me, the Greeks, I deem, will soonBe at my knees, imploring aid; for nowA hard necessity besets their host.But go, Patroclus, dear to Jove, and askOf Nestor who it is that he hath broughtThus wounded from the field. Seen from behind,His form was like Machaon—wholly likeThat son of Aesculapius; but the faceI saw not, as the rapid steeds flew by.”

He spake. Patroclus hearkened to his friend,And hastened to the Grecian tents and ships.

Now when they reached the tent of Neleus’ son,The warriors in the chariot set their feetUpon the nourishing earth. Eurymedon,The old man’s charioteer, took from the maresTheir harness; while the chieftains cooled themselves,And dried their sweaty garments in the breeze,Facing the border of the sea, and then,Entering the tent of Nestor, sat them downOn couches. Hecamede, bright of hair,Prepared for them a mingled draught; the maid,A daughter of the great Arsinoüs, cameFrom Tenedos with Nestor, when the townWas ravaged by Achilles, and the GreeksGave her to Nestor, chosen from the restFor him, as wisest of their counsellors.First she drew forth a table fairly wrought,Of polished surface, and with steel-blue feet,And on it placed a brazen tray which boreA thirst-provoking onion, honeycomb,And sacred meal of wheat. Near these she setA noble beaker which the ancient chiefHad brought from home, embossed with studs of gold.Four were its handles, and each handle showedTwo golden turtles feeding, while belowTwo others formed the base. Another handCould scarce have raised that beaker from its place,But Nestor lifted it with ease. The maid,Fair as a goddess, mingled Pramnian wine,And grated o’er it, with a rasp of brass,A goat’s-milk cheese, and, sprinkling the white flourUpon it, bade them drink. With this they quenchedTheir parching thirst, and then amused the timeWith pleasant talk. Patroclus to the doorMeantime, a godlike presence, came, and stood.The old man, as he saw him, instantlyRose from his princely seat and seized his hand,And led him in and bade him sit; but heRefused the proffered courtesy, and said:—

“Nay, ’tis no time to sit: persuade me not,Nursling of Jove; for he is to be feared,And prone to wrath, who sent me to inquireWhat wounded man is with thee; but I know—Now that I see Machaon sitting here,The shepherd of the people. I must hasteBack to Achilles, bearing my report.Thou knowest, ancient chief, how quick he isTo take offence and blame the innocent.”

Then Nestor, the Gerenian knight, rejoined:—“Why does Achilles pity thus the sonsOf Greece when wounded? Little can he knowWhat sorrow reigns throughout the Grecian hostWhile, smitten in the close or distant fight,Our bravest lie disabled in their ships.The valiant son of Tydeus—Diomed—Is wounded—wounded Agamemnon lies,And the great wielder of the javelin,Ulysses. By an arrow in the thighEurypylus is smitten, and I nowBring home this warrior with an arrow-wound.Yet doth Achilles, valiant as he is,Care nothing for the Greeks. Will he then waitTill our swift galleys, moored upon the shore,After a vain defence shall feed the flamesLit by the enemy’s hand, and we be slain,And perish, heaps on heaps? My strength is nowNot that which dwelt in these once active limbs.Would I were strong and vigorous as of yore,When strife arose between our men and thoseOf Elis for our oxen driven away,And, driving off their beeves in turn, I slewThe Elean chief, the brave Itymoneus,Son of Hypirochus! For, as he soughtTo save his herd, a javelin from my armSmote him the first among his band. He fell;His rustic followers fled on every side;And mighty was the spoil we took: of beevesWe drave off fifty herds, as many flocksOf sheep, of swine as many, and of goatsAn equal number, and of yellow steedsThrice fifty;—these were mares, and by their sidesRan many a colt. We drave them all withinNeleian Pylos in the night. Well pleasedWas Neleus, that so large a booty fellTo me, who entered on the war so young.When morning brake, the heralds’ cry was heardSummoning all the citizens to meetTo whom from fruitful Elis debts were due;And then the princes of the Pyleans came,And made division of the spoil. For muchThe Epeians owed us: we were yet but fewIn Pylos, and had suffered grievously.The mighty Hercules in former yearsHad made us feel his wrath, and of our menHad slain the bravest: of the twelve who drewTheir birth from Neleus, I alone am left;The others fell. The Epeians brazen-mailedSaw this, delighted, and insulted usAnd did us wrong. When now the spoil was sharedThe old man for himself reserved a herdOf oxen, and a numerous flock of sheep—Three hundred, with their shepherds—for to himLarge debts were due in Elis. He had sentFour horses once, of peerless speed, with cars,To win a tripod, the appointed prize.Augeias, king of men, detained them there,And sent the grieving charioteer away.My father, angered at the monarch’s wordsAnd acts, took large amends, and gave the restTo share among the people, that no oneMight leave the ground, defrauded of his right.All this was justly done, and we performedDue sacrifices to the gods, throughoutThe city;—when the third day came, and broughtThe Epeians all at once, in all their strength—Both men on foot and prancing steeds. With theseCame the Molions twain, well armed, though youngAnd yet untrained to war. There is a townNamed Thryoëssa, on a lofty hillFar off beside Alpheius, on the edgeOf sandy Pylos. They beleaguered this,And sought to overthrow it. As they crossedThe plain, Minerva came, a messenger,By night from Mount Olympus, bidding usPut on our armor. Not unwillinglyThe Pyleans mustered, but in eager hasteFor battle. Yet did Neleus not consentThat I should arm myself—he hid my steeds;For still he deemed me inexpert in war.Yet even then, although I fought on foot,I won great honor even among the knights;For so had Pallas favored me. A streamNamed Minyeius pours into the seaNear to Arena, where the Pylean knightsWaited the coming of the holy morn,While those who fought on foot came throngingThence, with our host complete, and all in arms,We marched, and reached at noon the sacred stream atAlpheius, where to Jove OmnipotentWe offered chosen victims, and a bullTo the river-god, another to the godOf ocean, and a heifer yet unbrokeTo blue-eyed Pallas. Then we banqueted,In bands, throughout the army, and lay downIn armor by the river-side to sleep.Meantime the brave Epeians stood aroundThe city, resolute to lay it waste.But first was to be done a mighty workOf war; for as the glorious sun appearedAbove the earth we dashed against the foe,Praying to Jove and Pallas. When the fightBetween the Eleans and the Pylean hostWas just begun, I slew a youthful chief—Mulius—and bore away his firm-paced steeds.The fair-haired Agamedé, eldest-bornOf King Augeias’ daughters, was his spouse;And well to her each healing herb was knownThat springs from the great earth. As he drew near,I smote him with my brazen lance: he fellTo earth: I sprang into his car, and stoodAmong the foremost warriors; while, around,The brave Epeians, as they saw him fall—The leader of their knights, their mightiestIn battle—turned and, panic-stricken, fled,Each his own way. I followed on their flightLike a black tempest; fifty cars I took,And from each car I dashed two warriors down,Pierced by my spear. And now I should have slainThe young Molions also, Actor’s sons,Had not their father, he who shakes the earth,Enshrouded them in mist, and hidden themFrom all pursuit. Then with victorious mightDid Jove endue our arms, while we pursuedThe foe across a region strewn with shields—Slaying, and gathering spoil—until our steedsCame to Buprasium, rich in fields of wheat,And to the Olenian rock, and to the hillAlesium in Coloné. Pallas thereStayed our pursuit, and bade our host return.There slew I the last man, and left him there.And then the Achaians, guiding their swift steedsHomeward to Pylos from Euprasium, gaveGreat thanks to Jupiter among the gods,And Nestor among men. Such was I thenAmong the heroes; but Achilles keepsHis valor for himself alone—and yetBitterly must he grieve when he beholdsOur people perish. O my friend! How wellMenoetius charged thee when he sent thee forth,From Phthia, to Atrides! We were both—The nobly born Ulysses and myself—Within the palace, and we clearly heardWhat he commanded thee. For we had comeTo Peleus’ stately dwelling, on our wayGathering a host in fertile Greece, and sawThe great Menoetius there, and there we foundAchilles with thee. There the aged knightPeleus was burning, in the palace-court,A steer’s fat thighs to Jove the Thunderer,And lifted up a golden cup and pouredDark wine upon the blazing sacrifice.And both of you were busy with the fleshWhen we were at the threshold. As he sawOur coming, in surprise Achilles sprangToward us, and took our hands and led us in,Bade us be seated, and before us placedThe generous banquet due to stranger-guests.Then, having feasted, I began discourse,Exhorting you to join us. Both of youAt once consented, and your fathers gaveTheir admonitions. Aged Peleus chargedHis son Achilles to excel the restIn valor, while Menoetius, in his turn,The son of Actor, gave thee this command:—

“ ‘My son, Achilles is the nobler born,But thou art elder. He surpasses theeBy far in warlike might, but thou must promptHis mind with prudent counsels; thou must warnAnd guide him; he will hearken to thy wordsMeant for his good.’ The old man charged thee thus.Thou hast forgotten it. Yet speak thou nowTo Peleus’ warlike son; and haply heMay heed thy counsels. Thou perchance mayst bendHis will—who knows?—by thy persuasive wordsFor wholesome are the warnings of a friend.Yet, if he shrink from some predicted doom,Or if his goddess-mother have revealedAught of Jove’s counsels to him, then, at leastLet him send thee to war, and let his troopOf Myrmidons go with thee, so that thouMayst carry succor to the Greeks. Yet more—Let him permit thee in the field to wearHis glorious armor, that the Trojan host,Beholding thee so like to him, may shunThe combat, and the warlike sons of Greece,Hard-pressed, may breathe again, and find at lengthA respite from the conflict. Ye, who stillAre fresh and vigorous, shall assault and driveTownward the weary foe from camp and fleet.”

He spake. The spirit of the youth took fire,And instantly he hastened toward the shipsOf Peleus’ son. But when he came where layThe galleys of Ulysses the divine,Where was the assembly-place and judgment-seat,And where the altars of the immortals stood,Evaemon’s noble son, Eurypylus,Met him as from the battle-field he cameHalting, and with an arrow in his thigh.The sweat ran down his shoulders and his brow,And the black blood was oozing from his wound,Yet was his spirit untamed. The gallant youth,Son of Menoetius, saw with grief, and said:—

“Unhappy chiefs and princes of the Greeks!Are ye then doomed to feast with your fair limbsThe famished dogs of Ilium, far awayFrom friends and country? Tell me, child of Jove,Gallant Eurypylus, will yet the GreeksWithstand the mighty Hector, or give wayAnd perish, overtaken by his spear?”

And thus the wise Eurypylus replied:—“Nursling of Jove, Patroclus! For the GreeksThere is no help, and all at their black shipsMust perish; for within them even nowAll those who were our bravest warriors lie,Wounded in close encounter, or from far,By Trojan hands, whose strength with every hourBecomes more terrible. Give now thine aidAnd take me to my ship, and cut awayThe arrow from my thigh, and from the partCleanse with warm water the dark blood, and shedSoothing and healing balms upon the wound,As taught thee by Achilles, who had learnedThe art from Chiron, righteous in his dayBeyond all other Centaurs. Now the leechMachaon lies, I think, among the tents,Wounded, and needs the aid of others’ skill,And Podalirius out upon the plainHelps stem the onset of the Trojan host.”

Then spake the valiant Menoetiades:—“O brave Eurypylus! What yet will beThe end of this, and what are we to do?Even now I bear a message on my wayFrom reverend Nestor, guardian of the Greeks,To the great warrior, Peleus’ son; and yetI must not leave thee in thine hour of need.”

He spake; and, lifting in his arms the prince,He bore him to his tent. A servant spread,Upon his entering, hides to form a couch;And there Patroclus laid him down and cutThe rankling arrow from his thigh, and shedWarm water on the wound to cleanse awayThe purple blood, and last applied a rootOf bitter flavor to assuage the smart,Bruising it first within his palms: the pangsCeased; the wound dried; the blood no longer flowed.