The Fall of Troy [63]
shafts sped at him none might touch His flesh, but even as snowflakes on a rock Fell vainly ever: wholly screened was he By broad shield and strong helmet, gifts of a God. In these exulting did the Aeacid's son Stride all along the wall, with ringing shouts Cheering the dauntless Argives to the fray, Being their mightiest far, bearing a soul Insatiate of the awful onset-cry, Burning with one strong purpose, to avenge His father's death: the Myrmidons in their king Exulted. Roared the battle round the wall.
Two sons he slew of Meges rich in gold, Scion of Dymas -- sons of high renown, Cunning to hurl the dart, to drive the steed In war, and deftly cast the lance afar, Born at one birth beside Sangarius' banks Of Periboea to him, Celtus one, And Eubius the other. But not long His boundless wealth enjoyed they, for the Fates Span them a thread of life exceeding brief. As on one day they saw the light, they died On one day by the same hand. To the heart Of one Neoptolemus sped a javelin; one He smote down with a massy stone that crashed Through his strong helmet, shattered all its ridge, And dashed his brains to earth. Around them fell Foes many, a host untold. The War-god's work Waxed ever mightier till the eventide, Till failed the light celestial; then the host Of brave Eurypylus from the ships drew back A little: they that held those leaguered towers Had a short breathing-space; the sons of Troy Had respite from the deadly-echoing strife, From that hard rampart-battle. Verily all The Argives had beside their ships been slain, Had not Achilles' strong son on that day Withstood the host of foes and their great chief Eurypylus. Came to that young hero's side Phoenix the old, and marvelling gazed on one The image of Peleides. Tides of joy And grief swept o'er him -- grief, for memories Of that swift-footed father -- joy, for sight Of such a son. He for sheer gladness wept; For never without tears the tribes of men Live -- nay, not mid the transports of delight. He clasped him round as father claspeth son Whom, after long and troublous wanderings, The Gods bring home to gladden a father's heart. So kissed he Neoptolemus' head and breast, Clasping him round, and cried in rapture of joy: "Hail, goodly son of that Achilles whom I nursed a little one in mine own arms With a glad heart. By Heaven's high providence Like a strong sapling waxed he in stature fast, And daily I rejoiced to see his form And prowess, my life's blessing, honouring him As though he were the son of mine old age; For like a father did he honour me. I was indeed his father, he my son In spirit: thou hadst deemed us of one blood Who were in heart one: but of nobler mould Was he by far, in form and strength a God. Thou art wholly like him -- yea, I seem to see Alive amid the Argives him for whom Sharp anguish shrouds me ever. I waste away In sorrowful age -- oh that the grave had closed On me while yet he lived! How blest to be By loving hands of kinsmen laid to rest! Ah child, my sorrowing heart will nevermore Forget him! Chide me not for this my grief. But now, help thou the Myrmidons and Greeks In their sore strait: wreak on the foe thy wrath For thy brave sire. It shall be thy renown To slay this war-insatiate Telephus' son; For mightier art thou, and shalt prove, than he, As was thy father than his wretched sire."
Made answer golden-haired Achilles' son: "Ancient, our battle-prowess mighty Fate And the o'ermastering War-god shall decide."
But, as he spake, he had fain on that same day Forth of the gates have rushed in his sire's arms; But night, which bringeth men release from toil, Rose from the ocean veiled in sable pall.
With honour as of mighty Achilles' self Him mid the ships the glad Greeks hailed, who had won Courage from that his eager rush to war. With princely presents did they honour him, With priceless gifts, whereby is wealth increased; For some gave gold and silver, handmaids some, Brass without weight gave these, and iron those; Others in deep jars brought the ruddy wine: Yea, fleetfoot steeds they gave, and battle-gear,
Two sons he slew of Meges rich in gold, Scion of Dymas -- sons of high renown, Cunning to hurl the dart, to drive the steed In war, and deftly cast the lance afar, Born at one birth beside Sangarius' banks Of Periboea to him, Celtus one, And Eubius the other. But not long His boundless wealth enjoyed they, for the Fates Span them a thread of life exceeding brief. As on one day they saw the light, they died On one day by the same hand. To the heart Of one Neoptolemus sped a javelin; one He smote down with a massy stone that crashed Through his strong helmet, shattered all its ridge, And dashed his brains to earth. Around them fell Foes many, a host untold. The War-god's work Waxed ever mightier till the eventide, Till failed the light celestial; then the host Of brave Eurypylus from the ships drew back A little: they that held those leaguered towers Had a short breathing-space; the sons of Troy Had respite from the deadly-echoing strife, From that hard rampart-battle. Verily all The Argives had beside their ships been slain, Had not Achilles' strong son on that day Withstood the host of foes and their great chief Eurypylus. Came to that young hero's side Phoenix the old, and marvelling gazed on one The image of Peleides. Tides of joy And grief swept o'er him -- grief, for memories Of that swift-footed father -- joy, for sight Of such a son. He for sheer gladness wept; For never without tears the tribes of men Live -- nay, not mid the transports of delight. He clasped him round as father claspeth son Whom, after long and troublous wanderings, The Gods bring home to gladden a father's heart. So kissed he Neoptolemus' head and breast, Clasping him round, and cried in rapture of joy: "Hail, goodly son of that Achilles whom I nursed a little one in mine own arms With a glad heart. By Heaven's high providence Like a strong sapling waxed he in stature fast, And daily I rejoiced to see his form And prowess, my life's blessing, honouring him As though he were the son of mine old age; For like a father did he honour me. I was indeed his father, he my son In spirit: thou hadst deemed us of one blood Who were in heart one: but of nobler mould Was he by far, in form and strength a God. Thou art wholly like him -- yea, I seem to see Alive amid the Argives him for whom Sharp anguish shrouds me ever. I waste away In sorrowful age -- oh that the grave had closed On me while yet he lived! How blest to be By loving hands of kinsmen laid to rest! Ah child, my sorrowing heart will nevermore Forget him! Chide me not for this my grief. But now, help thou the Myrmidons and Greeks In their sore strait: wreak on the foe thy wrath For thy brave sire. It shall be thy renown To slay this war-insatiate Telephus' son; For mightier art thou, and shalt prove, than he, As was thy father than his wretched sire."
Made answer golden-haired Achilles' son: "Ancient, our battle-prowess mighty Fate And the o'ermastering War-god shall decide."
But, as he spake, he had fain on that same day Forth of the gates have rushed in his sire's arms; But night, which bringeth men release from toil, Rose from the ocean veiled in sable pall.
With honour as of mighty Achilles' self Him mid the ships the glad Greeks hailed, who had won Courage from that his eager rush to war. With princely presents did they honour him, With priceless gifts, whereby is wealth increased; For some gave gold and silver, handmaids some, Brass without weight gave these, and iron those; Others in deep jars brought the ruddy wine: Yea, fleetfoot steeds they gave, and battle-gear,