The Fall of Troy [10]
boast our high descent. Ay, even Hector quailed, the battle-swift, Before us, e'en though far away he saw Our onrush to grim battle. Yea, my spear Slew him, for all his might. But thou -- thine heart Is utterly mad, that thou hast greatly dared To threaten us with death this day! On thee Thy latest hour shall swiftly come -- is come! Thee not thy sire the War-god now shall pluck Out of mine hand, but thou the debt shalt pay Of a dark doom, as when mid mountain-folds A pricket meets a lion, waster of herds. What, woman, hast thou heard not of the heaps Of slain, that into Xanthus' rushing stream Were thrust by these mine hands? -- or hast thou heard In vain, because the Blessed Ones have stol'n Wit and discretion from thee, to the end That Doom's relentless gulf might gape for thee?"
He spake; he swung up in his mighty hand And sped the long spear warrior-slaying, wrought By Chiron, and above the right breast pierced The battle-eager maid. The red blood leapt Forth, as a fountain wells, and all at once Fainted the strength of Penthesileia's limbs; Dropped the great battle-axe from her nerveless hand; A mist of darkness overveiled her eyes, And anguish thrilled her soul. Yet even so Still drew she difficult breath, still dimly saw The hero, even now in act to drag Her from the swift steed's back. Confusedly She thought: "Or shall I draw my mighty sword, And bide Achilles' fiery onrush, or Hastily cast me from my fleet horse down To earth, and kneel unto this godlike man, And with wild breath promise for ransoming Great heaps of brass and gold, which pacify The hearts of victors never so athirst For blood, if haply so the murderous might Of Aeacus' son may hearken and may spare, Or peradventure may compassionate My youth, and so vouchsafe me to behold Mine home again? -- for O, I long to live!"
So surged the wild thoughts in her; but the Gods Ordained it otherwise. Even now rushed on In terrible anger Peleus' son: he thrust With sudden spear, and on its shaft impaled The body of her tempest-footed steed, Even as a man in haste to sup might pierce Flesh with the spit, above the glowing hearth To roast it, or as in a mountain-glade A hunter sends the shaft of death clear through The body of a stag with such winged speed That the fierce dart leaps forth beyond, to plunge Into the tall stem of an oak or pine. So that death-ravening spear of Peleus' son Clear through the goodly steed rushed on, and pierced Penthesileia. Straightway fell she down Into the dust of earth, the arms of death, In grace and comeliness fell, for naught of shame Dishonoured her fair form. Face down she lay On the long spear outgasping her last breath, Stretched upon that fleet horse as on a couch; Like some tall pine snapped by the icy mace Of Boreas, earth's forest-fosterling Reared by a spring to stately height, amidst Long mountain-glens, a glory of mother earth; So from the once fleet steed low fallen lay Penthesileia, all her shattered strength Brought down to this, and all her loveliness.
Now when the Trojans saw the Warrior-queen Struck down in battle, ran through all their lines A shiver of panic. Straightway to their walls Turned they in flight, heart-agonized with grief. As when on the wide sea, 'neath buffetings Of storm-blasts, castaways whose ship is wrecked Escape, a remnant of a crew, forspent With desperate conflict with the cruel sea: Late and at last appears the land hard by, Appears a city: faint and weary-limbed With that grim struggle, through the surf they strain To land, sore grieving for the good ship 1ost, And shipmates whom the terrible surge dragged down To nether gloom; so, Troyward as they fled From battle, all those Trojans wept for her, The Child of the resistless War-god, wept For friends who died in groan-resounding fight.
Then over her with scornful laugh the son Of Peleus vaunted: "In the dust lie there A prey to teeth of dogs, to ravens' beaks, Thou wretched thing! Who cozened thee to come Forth against me? And thoughtest thou to fare Home from the war alive, to bear with thee Right royal gifts
He spake; he swung up in his mighty hand And sped the long spear warrior-slaying, wrought By Chiron, and above the right breast pierced The battle-eager maid. The red blood leapt Forth, as a fountain wells, and all at once Fainted the strength of Penthesileia's limbs; Dropped the great battle-axe from her nerveless hand; A mist of darkness overveiled her eyes, And anguish thrilled her soul. Yet even so Still drew she difficult breath, still dimly saw The hero, even now in act to drag Her from the swift steed's back. Confusedly She thought: "Or shall I draw my mighty sword, And bide Achilles' fiery onrush, or Hastily cast me from my fleet horse down To earth, and kneel unto this godlike man, And with wild breath promise for ransoming Great heaps of brass and gold, which pacify The hearts of victors never so athirst For blood, if haply so the murderous might Of Aeacus' son may hearken and may spare, Or peradventure may compassionate My youth, and so vouchsafe me to behold Mine home again? -- for O, I long to live!"
So surged the wild thoughts in her; but the Gods Ordained it otherwise. Even now rushed on In terrible anger Peleus' son: he thrust With sudden spear, and on its shaft impaled The body of her tempest-footed steed, Even as a man in haste to sup might pierce Flesh with the spit, above the glowing hearth To roast it, or as in a mountain-glade A hunter sends the shaft of death clear through The body of a stag with such winged speed That the fierce dart leaps forth beyond, to plunge Into the tall stem of an oak or pine. So that death-ravening spear of Peleus' son Clear through the goodly steed rushed on, and pierced Penthesileia. Straightway fell she down Into the dust of earth, the arms of death, In grace and comeliness fell, for naught of shame Dishonoured her fair form. Face down she lay On the long spear outgasping her last breath, Stretched upon that fleet horse as on a couch; Like some tall pine snapped by the icy mace Of Boreas, earth's forest-fosterling Reared by a spring to stately height, amidst Long mountain-glens, a glory of mother earth; So from the once fleet steed low fallen lay Penthesileia, all her shattered strength Brought down to this, and all her loveliness.
Now when the Trojans saw the Warrior-queen Struck down in battle, ran through all their lines A shiver of panic. Straightway to their walls Turned they in flight, heart-agonized with grief. As when on the wide sea, 'neath buffetings Of storm-blasts, castaways whose ship is wrecked Escape, a remnant of a crew, forspent With desperate conflict with the cruel sea: Late and at last appears the land hard by, Appears a city: faint and weary-limbed With that grim struggle, through the surf they strain To land, sore grieving for the good ship 1ost, And shipmates whom the terrible surge dragged down To nether gloom; so, Troyward as they fled From battle, all those Trojans wept for her, The Child of the resistless War-god, wept For friends who died in groan-resounding fight.
Then over her with scornful laugh the son Of Peleus vaunted: "In the dust lie there A prey to teeth of dogs, to ravens' beaks, Thou wretched thing! Who cozened thee to come Forth against me? And thoughtest thou to fare Home from the war alive, to bear with thee Right royal gifts