Book I

How died for Troy the Queen of the Amazons, Penthesileia.

  When godlike Hector by Peleides slain
  Passed, and the pyre had ravined up his flesh,
  And earth had veiled his bones, the Trojans then
  Tarried in Priam's city, sore afraid
  Before the might of stout-heart Aeacus' son:
  As kine they were, that midst the copses shrink
  From faring forth to meet a lion grim,
  But in dense thickets terror-huddled cower;
  So in their fortress shivered these to see
  That mighty man. Of those already dead
  They thought of all whose lives he reft away
  As by Scamander's outfall on he rushed,
  And all that in mid-flight to that high wall
  He slew, how he quelled Hector, how he haled
  His corse round Troy;—yea, and of all beside
  Laid low by him since that first day whereon
  O'er restless seas he brought the Trojans doom.
  Ay, all these they remembered, while they stayed
  Thus in their town, and o'er them anguished grief
  Hovered dark-winged, as though that very day
  All Troy with shrieks were crumbling down in fire.

  Then from Thermodon, from broad-sweeping streams,
  Came, clothed upon with beauty of Goddesses,
  Penthesileia—came athirst indeed
  For groan-resounding battle, but yet more
  Fleeing abhorred reproach and evil fame,
  Lest they of her own folk should rail on her
  Because of her own sister's death, for whom
  Ever her sorrows waxed, Hippolyte,
  Whom she had struck dead with her mighty spear,
  Not of her will—'twas at a stag she hurled.
  So came she to the far-famed land of Troy.
  Yea, and her warrior spirit pricked her on,
  Of murder's dread pollution thus to cleanse
  Her soul, and with such sacrifice to appease
  The Awful Ones, the Erinnyes, who in wrath
  For her slain sister straightway haunted her
  Unseen: for ever round the sinner's steps
  They hover; none may 'scape those Goddesses.
  And with her followed twelve beside, each one
  A princess, hot for war and battle grim,
  Far-famous each, yet handmaids unto her:
  Penthesileia far outshone them all.
  As when in the broad sky amidst the stars
  The moon rides over all pre-eminent,
  When through the thunderclouds the cleaving heavens
  Open, when sleep the fury-breathing winds;
  So peerless was she mid that charging host.
  Clonie was there, Polemusa, Derinoe,
  Evandre, and Antandre, and Bremusa,
  Hippothoe, dark-eyed Harmothoe,
  Alcibie, Derimacheia, Antibrote,
  And Thermodosa glorying with the spear.
  All these to battle fared with warrior-souled
  Penthesileia: even as when descends
  Dawn from Olympus' crest of adamant,
  Dawn, heart-exultant in her radiant steeds
  Amidst the bright-haired Hours; and o'er them all,
  How flawless-fair soever these may be,
  Her splendour of beauty glows pre-eminent;
  So peerless amid all the Amazons Unto
  Troy-town Penthesileia came.
  To right, to left, from all sides hurrying thronged
  The Trojans, greatly marvelling, when they saw
  The tireless War-god's child, the mailed maid,
  Like to the Blessed Gods; for in her face
  Glowed beauty glorious and terrible.
  Her smile was ravishing: beneath her brows
  Her love-enkindling eyes shone like to stars,
  And with the crimson rose of shamefastness
  Bright were her cheeks, and mantled over them
  Unearthly grace with battle-prowess clad.

  Then joyed Troy's folk, despite past agonies,
  As when, far-gazing from a height, the hinds
  Behold a rainbow spanning the wide sea,
  When they be yearning for the heaven-sent shower,
  When the parched fields be craving for the rain;
  Then the great sky at last is overgloomed,
  And men see that fair sign of coming wind
  And imminent rain, and seeing, they are glad,
  Who for their corn-fields' plight sore sighed before;
  Even so the sons of Troy when they beheld
  There in their land Penthesileia dread
  Afire for battle, were exceeding glad;
  For when the heart is thrilled with hope of good,
  All smart of evils past is wiped away:
  So, after all his sighing and his pain,
  Gladdened a little while was Priam's soul.
  As when a man who hath suffered many a pang
  From blinded eyes, sore longing to behold
  The light, and, if he may not, fain would die,
  Then at the last, by a cunning leech's skill,
  Or by a God's grace, sees the dawn-rose flush,
  Sees the mist rolled back from before his eyes,—
  Yea, though clear vision come not as of old,
  Yet, after all his anguish, joys to have
  Some small relief, albeit the stings of pain
  Prick sharply yet beneath his eyelids;—so
  Joyed the old king to see that terrible queen—
  The shadowy joy of one in anguish whelmed
  For slain sons. Into his halls he led the Maid,
  And with glad welcome honoured her, as one
  Who greets a daughter to her home returned
  From a far country in the twentieth year;
  And set a feast before her, sumptuous
  As battle-glorious kings, who have brought low
  Nations of foes, array in splendour of pomp,
  With hearts in pride of victory triumphing.
  And gifts he gave her costly and fair to see,
  And pledged him to give many more, so she
  Would save the Trojans from the imminent doom.
  And she such deeds she promised as no man
  Had hoped for, even to lay Achilles low,
  To smite the wide host of the Argive men,
  And cast the brands red-flaming on the ships.
  Ah fool!—but little knew she him, the lord
  Of ashen spears, how far Achilles' might
  In warrior-wasting strife o'erpassed her own!

  But when Andromache, the stately child
  Of king Eetion, heard the wild queen's vaunt,
  Low to her own soul bitterly murmured she:
  "Ah hapless! why with arrogant heart dost thou
  Speak such great swelling words? No strength is thine
  To grapple in fight with Peleus' aweless son.
  Nay, doom and swift death shall he deal to thee.
  Alas for thee! What madness thrills thy soul?
  Fate and the end of death stand hard by thee!
  Hector was mightier far to wield the spear
  Than thou, yet was for all his prowess slain,
  Slain for the bitter grief of Troy, whose folk
  The city through looked on him as a God.
  My glory and his noble parents' glory
  Was he while yet he lived—O that the earth
  Over my dead face had been mounded high,
  Or ever through his throat the breath of life
  Followed the cleaving spear! But now have I
  Looked—woe is me!—on grief unutterable,
  When round the city those fleet-footed steeds
  Haled him, steeds of Achilles, who had made
  Me widowed of mine hero-husband, made
  My portion bitterness through all my days."

  So spake Eetion's lovely-ankled child
  Low to her own soul, thinking on her lord.
  So evermore the faithful-hearted wife
  Nurseth for her lost love undying grief.

  Then in swift revolution sweeping round
  Into the Ocean's deep stream sank the sun,
  And daylight died. So when the banqueters
  Ceased from the wine-cup and the goodly feast,
  Then did the handmaids spread in Priam's halls
  For Penthesileia dauntless-souled the couch
  Heart-cheering, and she laid her down to rest;
  And slumber mist-like overveiled her eyes [depths
  Like sweet dew dropping round. From heavens' blue
  Slid down the might of a deceitful dream
  At Pallas' hest, that so the warrior-maid
  Might see it, and become a curse to Troy
  And to herself, when strained her soul to meet;
  The whirlwind of the battle. In this wise
  The Trito-born, the subtle-souled, contrived:
  Stood o'er the maiden's head that baleful dream
  In likeness of her father, kindling her
  Fearlessly front to front to meet in fight
  Fleetfoot Achilles. And she heard the voice,
  And all her heart exulted, for she weened
  That she should on that dawning day achieve
  A mighty deed in battle's deadly toil
  Ah, fool, who trusted for her sorrow a dream
  Out of the sunless land, such as beguiles
  Full oft the travail-burdened tribes of men,
  Whispering mocking lies in sleeping ears,
  And to the battle's travail lured her then!

  But when the Dawn, the rosy-ankled, leapt
  Up from her bed, then, clad in mighty strength
  Of spirit, suddenly from her couch uprose
  Penthesileia. Then did she array
  Her shoulders in those wondrous-fashioned arms
  Given her of the War-god. First she laid
  Beneath her silver-gleaming knees the greaves
  Fashioned of gold, close-clipping the strong limbs.
  Her rainbow-radiant corslet clasped she then
  About her, and around her shoulders slung,
  With glory in her heart, the massy brand
  Whose shining length was in a scabbard sheathed
  Of ivory and silver. Next, her shield
  Unearthly splendid, caught she up, whose rim
  Swelled like the young moon's arching chariot-rail
  When high o'er Ocean's fathomless-flowing stream
  She rises, with the space half filled with light
  Betwixt her bowing horns. So did it shine
  Unutterably fair. Then on her head
  She settled the bright helmet overstreamed
  With a wild mane of golden-glistering hairs.
  So stood she, lapped about with flaming mail,
  In semblance like the lightning, which the might,
  The never-wearied might of Zeus, to earth
  Hurleth, what time he showeth forth to men
  Fury of thunderous-roaring rain, or swoop
  Resistless of his shouting host of winds.
  Then in hot haste forth of her bower to pass
  Caught she two javelins in the hand that grasped
  Her shield-band; but her strong right hand laid hold
  On a huge halberd, sharp of either blade,
  Which terrible Eris gave to Ares' child
  To be her Titan weapon in the strife
  That raveneth souls of men. Laughing for glee
  Thereover, swiftly flashed she forth the ring
  Of towers. Her coming kindled all the sons
  Of Troy to rush into the battle forth
  Which crowneth men with glory. Swiftly all
  Hearkened her gathering-ery, and thronging came,
  Champions, yea, even such as theretofore
  Shrank back from standing in the ranks of war
  Against Achilles the all-ravager.
  But she in pride of triumph on she rode
  Throned on a goodly steed and fleet, the gift
  Of Oreithyia, the wild North-wind's bride,
  Given to her guest the warrior-maid, what time
  She came to Thrace, a steed whose flying feet
  Could match the Harpies' wings. Riding thereon
  Penthesileia in her goodlihead
  Left the tall palaces of Troy behind.
  And ever were the ghastly-visaged Fates
  Thrusting her on into the battle, doomed
  To be her first against the Greeks—and last!
  To right, to left, with unreturning feet
  The Trojan thousands followed to the fray,
  The pitiless fray, that death-doomed warrior-maid,
  Followed in throngs, as follow sheep the ram
  That by the shepherd's art strides before all.
  So followed they, with battle-fury filled,
  Strong Trojans and wild-hearted Amazons.
  And like Tritonis seemed she, as she went
  To meet the Giants, or as flasheth far
  Through war-hosts Eris, waker of onset-shouts.
  So mighty in the Trojans' midst she seemed,
  Penthesileia of the flying feet.

  Then unto Cronos' Son Laomedon's child
  Upraised his hands, his sorrow-burdened hands,
  Turning him toward the sky-encountering fane
  Of Zeus of Ida, who with sleepless eyes
  Looks ever down on Ilium; and he prayed:
  "Father, give ear! Vouchsafe that on this day
  Achaea's host may fall before the hands
  Of this our warrior-queen, the War-god's child;
  And do thou bring her back unscathed again
  Unto mine halls: we pray thee by the love
  Thou bear'st to Ares of the fiery heart
  Thy son, yea, to her also! is she not
  Most wondrous like the heavenly Goddesses?
  And is she not the child of thine own seed?
  Pity my stricken heart withal! Thou know'st
  All agonies I have suffered in the deaths
  Of dear sons whom the Fates have torn from me
  By Argive hands in the devouring fight.
  Compassionate us, while a remnant yet
  Remains of noble Dardanus' blood, while yet
  This city stands unwasted! Let us know
  From ghastly slaughter and strife one breathing-space!"

  In passionate prayer he spake:—lo, with shrill scream
  Swiftly to left an eagle darted by
  And in his talons bare a gasping dove.
  Then round the heart of Priam all the blood
  Was chilled with fear. Low to his soul he said:
  "Ne'er shall I see return alive from war
  Penthesileia!" On that selfsame day
  The Fates prepared his boding to fulfil;
  And his heart brake with anguish of despair.

  Marvelled the Argives, far across the plain
  Seeing the hosts of Troy charge down on them,
  And midst them Penthesileia, Ares' child.
  These seemed like ravening beasts that mid the hills
  Bring grimly slaughter to the fleecy flocks;
  And she, as a rushing blast of flame she seemed
  That maddeneth through the copses summer-scorched,
  When the wind drives it on; and in this wise
  Spake one to other in their mustering host:
  "Who shall this be who thus can rouse to war
  The Trojans, now that Hector hath been slain—
  These who, we said, would never more find heart
  To stand against us? Lo now, suddenly
  Forth are they rushing, madly afire for fight!
  Sure, in their midst some great one kindleth them
  To battle's toil! Thou verily wouldst say
  This were a God, of such great deeds he dreams!
  Go to, with aweless courage let us arm
  Our own breasts: let us summon up our might
  In battle-fury. We shall lack not help
  Of Gods this day to close in fight with Troy."

  So cried they; and their flashing battle-gear
  Cast they about them: forth the ships they poured
  Clad in the rage of fight as with a cloak.
  Then front to front their battles closed, like beasts
  Of ravin, locked in tangle of gory strife.
  Clanged their bright mail together, clashed the spears,
  The corslets, and the stubborn-welded shields
  And adamant helms. Each stabbed at other's flesh
  With the fierce brass: was neither ruth nor rest,
  And all the Trojan soil was crimson-red.

  Then first Penthesileia smote and slew
  Molion; now Persinous falls, and now
  Eilissus; reeled Antitheus 'neath her spear
  The pride of Lernus quelled she: down she bore
  Hippalmus 'neath her horse-hoofs; Haemon's son
  Died; withered stalwart Elasippus' strength.
  And Derinoe laid low Laogonus,
  And Clonie Menippus, him who sailed
  Long since from Phylace, led by his lord
  Protesilaus to the war with Troy.
  Then was Podarces, son of Iphiclus,
  Heart-wrung with ruth and wrath to see him lie
  Dead, of all battle-comrades best-beloved.
  Swiftly at Clonie he hurled, the maid
  Fair as a Goddess: plunged the unswerving lance
  'Twixt hip and hip, and rushed the dark blood forth
  After the spear, and all her bowels gushed out.
  Then wroth was Penthesileia; through the brawn
  Of his right arm she drave the long spear's point,
  She shore atwain the great blood-brimming veins,
  And through the wide gash of the wound the gore
  Spirted, a crimson fountain. With a groan
  Backward he sprang, his courage wholly quelled
  By bitter pain; and sorrow and dismay
  Thrilled, as he fled, his men of Phylace.
  A short way from the fight he reeled aside,
  And in his friends' arms died in little space.
  Then with his lance Idomeneus thrust out,
  And by the right breast stabbed Bremusa. Stilled
  For ever was the beating of her heart.
  She fell, as falls a graceful-shafted pine
  Hewn mid the hills by woodmen: heavily,
  Sighing through all its boughs, it crashes down.
  So with a wailing shriek she fell, and death
  Unstrung her every limb: her breathing soul
  Mingled with multitudinous-sighing winds.
  Then, as Evandre through the murderous fray
  With Thermodosa rushed, stood Meriones,
  A lion in the path, and slew: his spear
  Right to the heart of one he drave, and one
  Stabbed with a lightning sword-thrust 'twixt the hips:
  Leapt through the wounds the life, and fled away.
  Oileus' fiery son smote Derinoe
  'Twixt throat and shoulder with his ruthless spear;
  And on Alcibie Tydeus' terrible son
  Swooped, and on Derimacheia: head with neck
  Clean from the shoulders of these twain he shore
  With ruin-wreaking brand. Together down
  Fell they, as young calves by the massy axe
  Of brawny flesher felled, that, shearing through
  The sinews of the neck, lops life away.
  So, by the hands of Tydeus' son laid low
  Upon the Trojan plain, far, far away
  From their own highland-home, they fell. Nor these
  Alone died; for the might of Sthenelus
  Down on them hurled Cabeirus' corse, who came
  From Sestos, keen to fight the Argive foe,
  But never saw his fatherland again.
  Then was the heart of Paris filled with wrath
  For a friend slain. Full upon Sthenelus
  Aimed he a shaft death-winged, yet touched him not,
  Despite his thirst for vengeance: otherwhere
  The arrow glanced aside, and carried death
  Whither the stern Fates guided its fierce wing,
  And slew Evenor brazen-tasleted,
  Who from Dulichium came to war with Troy.
  For his death fury-kindled was the son
  Of haughty Phyleus: as a lion leaps
  Upon the flock, so swiftly rushed he: all
  Shrank huddling back before that terrible man.
  Itymoneus he slew, and Hippasus' son
  Agelaus: from Miletus brought they war
  Against the Danaan men by Nastes led,
  The god-like, and Amphimachus mighty-souled.
  On Mycale they dwelt; beside their home
  Rose Latmus' snowy crests, stretched the long glens
  Of Branchus, and Panormus' water-meads.
  Maeander's flood deep-rolling swept thereby,
  Which from the Phrygian uplands, pastured o'er
  By myriad flocks, around a thousand forelands
  Curls, swirls, and drives his hurrying ripples on
  Down to the vine-clad land of Carian men
  These mid the storm of battle Meges slew,
  Nor these alone, but whomsoe'er his lance
  Black-shafted touched, were dead men; for his breast
  The glorious Trito-born with courage thrilled
  To bring to all his foes the day of doom.
  And Polypoetes, dear to Ares, slew
  Dresaeus, whom the Nymph Neaera bare
  To passing-wise Theiodamas for these
  Spread was the bed of love beside the foot
  Of Sipylus the Mountain, where the Gods
  Made Niobe a stony rock, wherefrom
  Tears ever stream: high up, the rugged crag
  Bows as one weeping, weeping, waterfalls
  Cry from far-echoing Hermus, wailing moan
  Of sympathy: the sky-encountering crests
  Of Sipylus, where alway floats a mist
  Hated of shepherds, echo back the cry.
  Weird marvel seems that Rock of Niobe
  To men that pass with feet fear-goaded: there
  They see the likeness of a woman bowed,
  In depths of anguish sobbing, and her tears
  Drop, as she mourns grief-stricken, endlessly.
  Yea, thou wouldst say that verily so it was,
  Viewing it from afar; but when hard by
  Thou standest, all the illusion vanishes;
  And lo, a steep-browed rock, a fragment rent
  From Sipylus—yet Niobe is there,
  Dreeing her weird, the debt of wrath divine,
  A broken heart in guise of shattered stone.

  All through the tangle of that desperate fray
  Stalked slaughter and doom. The incarnate Onset-shout
  Raved through the rolling battle; at her side
  Paced Death the ruthless, and the Fearful Faces,
  The Fates, beside them strode, and in red hands
  Bare murder and the groans of dying men.
  That day the beating of full many a heart,
  Trojan and Argive, was for ever stilled,
  While roared the battle round them, while the fury
  Of Penthesileia fainted not nor failed;
  But as amid long ridges of lone hills
  A lioness, stealing down a deep ravine,
  Springs on the kine with lightning leap, athirst
  For blood wherein her fierce heart revelleth;
  So on the Danaans leapt that warrior-maid.
  And they, their souls were cowed: backward they shrank,
  And fast she followed, as a towering surge
  Chases across the thunder-booming sea
  A flying bark, whose white sails strain beneath
  The wind's wild buffering, and all the air
  Maddens with roaring, as the rollers crash
  On a black foreland looming on the lee
  Where long reefs fringe the surf-tormented shores.
  So chased she, and so dashed the ranks asunder
  Triumphant-souled, and hurled fierce threats before:
  "Ye dogs, this day for evil outrage done
  To Priam shall ye pay! No man of you
  Shall from mine hands deliver his own life,
  And win back home, to gladden parents eyes,
  Or comfort wife or children. Ye shall lie
  Dead, ravined on by vultures and by wolves,
  And none shall heap the earth-mound o'er your clay.
  Where skulketh now the strength of Tydeus' son,
  And where the might of Aeacus' scion?
  Where is Aias' bulk? Ye vaunt them mightiest men
  Of all your rabble. Ha! they will not dare
  With me to close in battle, lest I drag
  Forth from their fainting frames their craven souls!"

  Then heart-uplifted leapt she on the foe,
  Resistless as a tigress, crashing through
  Ranks upon ranks of Argives, smiting now
  With that huge halberd massy-headed, now
  Hurling the keen dart, while her battle-horse
  Flashed through the fight, and on his shoulder bare
  Quiver and bow death-speeding, close to her hand,
  If mid that revel of blood she willed to speed
  The bitter-biting shaft. Behind her swept
  The charging lines of men fleet-footed, friends
  And brethren of the man who never flinched
  From close death-grapple, Hector, panting all
  The hot breath of the War-god from their breasts,
  All slaying Danaans with the ashen spear,
  Who fell as frost-touched leaves in autumn fall
  One after other, or as drops of rain.
  And aye went up a moaning from earth's breast
  All blood-bedrenched, and heaped with corse on corse.
  Horses pierced through with arrows, or impaled
  On spears, were snorting forth their last of strength
  With screaming neighings. Men, with gnashing teeth
  Biting the dust, lay gasping, while the steeds
  Of Trojan charioteers stormed in pursuit,
  Trampling the dying mingled with the dead
  As oxen trample corn in threshing-floors.

  Then one exulting boasted mid the host
  Of Troy, beholding Penthesileia rush
  On through the foes' array, like the black storm
  That maddens o'er the sea, what time the sun
  Allies his might with winter's Goat-horned Star;
  And thus, puffed up with vain hope, shouted he:
  "O friends, in manifest presence down from heaven
  One of the deathless Gods this day hath come
  To fight the Argives, all of love for us,
  Yea, and with sanction of almighty Zeus,
  He whose compassion now remembereth
  Haply strong-hearted Priam, who may boast
  For his a lineage of immortal blood.
  For this, I trow, no mortal woman seems,
  Who is so aweless-daring, who is clad
  In splendour-flashing arms: nay, surely she
  Shall be Athene, or the mighty-souled
  Enyo—haply Eris, or the Child
  Of Leto world-renowned. O yea, I look
  To see her hurl amid yon Argive men
  Mad-shrieking slaughter, see her set aflame
  Yon ships wherein they came long years agone
  Bringing us many sorrows, yea, they came
  Bringing us woes of war intolerable.
  Ha! to the home-land Hellas ne'er shall these
  With joy return, since Gods on our side fight."

  In overweening exultation so
  Vaunted a Trojan. Fool!—he had no vision
  Of ruin onward rushing upon himself
  And Troy, and Penthesileia's self withal.
  For not as yet had any tidings come
  Of that wild fray to Aias stormy-souled,
  Nor to Achilles, waster of tower and town.
  But on the grave-mound of Menoetius' son
  They twain were lying, with sad memories
  Of a dear comrade crushed, and echoing
  Each one the other's groaning. One it was
  Of the Blest Gods who still was holding back
  These from the battle-tumult far away,
  Till many Greeks should fill the measure up
  Of woeful havoc, slain by Trojan foes
  And glorious Penthesileia, who pursued
  With murderous intent their rifled ranks,
  While ever waxed her valour more and more,
  And waxed her might within her: never in vain
  She aimed the unswerving spear-thrust: aye she pierced
  The backs of them that fled, the breasts of such
  As charged to meet her. All the long shaft dripped
  With steaming blood. Swift were her feet as wind
  As down she swooped. Her aweless spirit failed
  For weariness nor fainted, but her might
  Was adamantine. The impending Doom,
  Which roused unto the terrible strife not yet
  Achilles, clothed her still with glory; still
  Aloof the dread Power stood, and still would shed
  Splendour of triumph o'er the death-ordained
  But for a little space, ere it should quell
  That Maiden 'neath the hands of Aeaeus' son.
  In darkness ambushed, with invisible hand
  Ever it thrust her on, and drew her feet
  Destruction-ward, and lit her path to death
  With glory, while she slew foe after foe.
  As when within a dewy garden-close,
  Longing for its green springtide freshness, leaps
  A heifer, and there rangeth to and fro,
  When none is by to stay her, treading down
  All its green herbs, and all its wealth of bloom,
  Devouring greedily this, and marring that
  With trampling feet; so ranged she, Ares' child,
  Through reeling squadrons of Achaea's sons,
  Slew these, and hunted those in panic rout.

  From Troy afar the women marvelling gazed
  At the Maid's battle-prowess. Suddenly
  A fiery passion for the fray hath seized
  Antimachus' daughter, Meneptolemus' wife,
  Tisiphone. Her heart waxed strong, and filled
  With lust of fight she cried to her fellows all,
  With desperate-daring words, to spur them on
  To woeful war, by recklessness made strong.
  "Friends, let a heart of valour in our breasts
  Awake! Let us be like our lords, who fight
  With foes for fatherland, for babes, for us,
  And never pause for breath in that stern strife!
  Let us too throne war's spirit in our hearts!
  Let us too face the fight which favoureth none!
  For we, we women, be not creatures cast
  In diverse mould from men: to us is given
  Such energy of life as stirs in them.
  Eyes have we like to theirs, and limbs: throughout
  Fashioned we are alike: one common light
  We look on, and one common air we breathe:
  With like food are we nourished—nay, wherein
  Have we been dowered of God more niggardly
  Than men? Then let us shrink not from the fray
  See ye not yonder a woman far excelling
  Men in the grapple of fight? Yet is her blood
  Nowise akin to ours, nor fighteth she
  For her own city. For an alien king
  She warreth of her own heart's prompting, fears
  The face of no man; for her soul is thrilled
  With valour and with spirit invincible.
  But we—to right, to left, lie woes on woes
  About our feet: this mourns beloved sons,
  And that a husband who for hearth and home
  Hath died; some wail for fathers now no more;
  Some grieve for brethren and for kinsmen lost.
  Not one but hath some share in sorrow's cup.
  Behind all this a fearful shadow looms,
  The day of bondage! Therefore flinch not ye
  From war, O sorrow-laden! Better far
  To die in battle now, than afterwards
  Hence to be haled into captivity
  To alien folk, we and our little ones,
  In the stern grip of fate leaving behind
  A burning city, and our husbands' graves."

  So cried she, and with passion for stern war
  Thrilled all those women; and with eager speed
  They hasted to go forth without the wall
  Mail-clad, afire to battle for their town
  And people: all their spirit was aflame.
  As when within a hive, when winter-tide
  Is over and gone, loud hum the swarming bees
  What time they make them ready forth to fare
  To bright flower-pastures, and no more endure
  To linger therewithin, but each to other
  Crieth the challenge-cry to sally forth;
  Even so bestirred themselves the women of Troy,
  And kindled each her sister to the fray.
  The weaving-wool, the distaff far they flung,
  And to grim weapons stretched their eager hands.

  And now without the city these had died
  In that wild battle, as their husbands died
  And the strong Amazons died, had not one voice
  Of wisdom cried to stay their maddened feet,
  When with dissuading words Theano spake:
  "Wherefore, ah wherefore for the toil and strain
  Of battle's fearful tumult do ye yearn,
  Infatuate ones? Never your limbs have toiled
  In conflict yet. In utter ignorance
  Panting for labour unendurable,
  Ye rush on all-unthinking; for your strength
  Can never be as that of Danaan men,
  Men trained in daily battle. Amazons
  Have joyed in ruthless fight, in charging steeds,
  From the beginning: all the toil of men
  Do they endure; and therefore evermore
  The spirit of the War-god thrills them through.
  'They fall not short of men in anything:
  Their labour-hardened frames make great their hearts
  For all achievement: never faint their knees
  Nor tremble. Rumour speaks their queen to be
  A daughter of the mighty Lord of War.
  Therefore no woman may compare with her
  In prowess—if she be a woman, not
  A God come down in answer to our prayers.
  Yea, of one blood be all the race of men,
  Yet unto diverse labours still they turn;
  And that for each is evermore the best
  Whereto he bringeth skill of use and wont.
  Therefore do ye from tumult of the fray
  Hold you aloof, and in your women's bowers
  Before the loom still pace ye to and fro;
  And war shall be the business of our lords.
  Lo, of fair issue is there hope: we see
  The Achaeans falling fast: we see the might
  Of our men waxing ever: fear is none
  Of evil issue now: the pitiless foe
  Beleaguer not the town: no desperate need
  There is that women should go forth to war."

  So cried she, and they hearkened to the words
  Of her who had garnered wisdom from the years;
  So from afar they watched the fight. But still
  Penthesileia brake the ranks, and still
  Before her quailed the Achaeans: still they found
  Nor screen nor hiding-place from imminent death.
  As bleating goats are by the blood-stained jaws
  Of a grim panther torn, so slain were they.
  In each man's heart all lust of battle died,
  And fear alone lived. This way, that way fled
  The panic-stricken: some to earth had flung
  The armour from their shoulders; some in dust
  Grovelled in terror 'neath their shields: the steeds
  Fled through the rout unreined of charioteers.
  In rapture of triumph charged the Amazons,
  With groan and scream of agony died the Greeks.
  Withered their manhood was in that sore strait;
  Brief was the span of all whom that fierce maid
  Mid the grim jaws of battle overtook.
  As when with mighty roaring bursteth down
  A storm upon the forest-trees, and some
  Uprendeth by the roots, and on the earth
  Dashes them down, the tail stems blossom-crowned,
  And snappeth some athwart the trunk, and high
  Whirls them through air, till all confused they lie
  A ruin of splintered stems and shattered sprays;
  So the great Danaan host lay, dashed to dust
  By doom of Fate, by Penthesileia's spear.

  But when the very ships were now at point
  To be by hands of Trojans set aflame,
  Then battle-bider Aias heard afar
  The panic-cries, and spake to Aeacus' son:
  "Achilles, all the air about mine ears
  Is full of multitudinous eries, is full
  Of thunder of battle rolling nearer aye.
  Let us go forth then, ere the Trojans win
  Unto the ships, and make great slaughter there
  Of Argive men, and set the ships aflame.
  Foulest reproach such thing on thee and me
  Should bring; for it beseems not that the seed
  Of mighty Zeus should shame the sacred blood
  Of hero-fathers, who themselves of old
  With Hercules the battle-eager sailed
  To Troy, and smote her even at her height
  Of glory, when Laomedon was king.
  Ay, and I ween that our hands even now
  Shall do the like: we too are mighty men."

  He spake: the aweless strength of Aeacus' son
  Hearkened thereto, for also to his ears
  By this the roar of bitter battle came.
  Then hasted both, and donned their warrior-gear
  All splendour-gleaming: now, in these arrayed
  Facing that stormy-tossing rout they stand.
  Loud clashed their glorious armour: in their souls
  A battle-fury like the War-god's wrath
  Maddened; such might was breathed into these twain
  By Atrytone, Shaker of the Shield,
  As on they pressed. With joy the Argives saw
  The coming of that mighty twain: they seemed
  In semblance like Aloeus' giant sons
  Who in the old time made that haughty vaunt
  Of piling on Olympus' brow the height
  Of Ossa steeply-towering, and the crest
  Of sky-encountering Pelion, so to rear
  A mountain-stair for their rebellious rage
  To scale the highest heaven. Huge as these
  The sons of Aeacus seemed, as forth they strode
  To stem the tide of war. A gladsome sight
  To friends who have fainted for their coming, now
  Onward they press to crush triumphant foes.
  Many they slew with their resistless spears;
  As when two herd-destroying lions come
  On sheep amid the copses feeding, far
  From help of shepherds, and in heaps on heaps
  Slay them, till they have drunken to the full
  Of blood, and filled their maws insatiate
  With flesh, so those destroyers twain slew on,
  Spreading wide havoc through the hosts of Troy.

  There Deiochus and gallant Hyllus fell
  By Alas slain, and fell Eurynomus
  Lover of war, and goodly Enyeus died.
  But Peleus' son burst on the Amazons
  Smiting Antandre, Polemusa then,
  Antibrote, fierce-souled Hippothoe,
  Hurling Harmothoe down on sisters slain.
  Then hard on all their-reeling ranks he pressed
  With Telamon's mighty-hearted son; and now
  Before their hands battalions dense and strong
  Crumbled as weakly and as suddenly
  As when in mountain-folds the forest-brakes
  Shrivel before a tempest-driven fire.

  When battle-eager Penthesileia saw
  These twain, as through the scourging storm of war
  Like ravening beasts they rushed, to meet them there
  She sped, as when a leopard grim, whose mood
  Is deadly, leaps from forest-coverts forth,
  Lashing her tail, on hunters closing round,
  While these, in armour clad, and putting trust
  In their long spears, await her lightning leap;
  So did those warriors twain with spears upswung
  Wait Penthesileia. Clanged the brazen plates
  About their shoulders as they moved. And first
  Leapt the long-shafted lance sped from the hand
  Of goodly Penthesileia. Straight it flew
  To the shield of Aeacus' son, but glancing thence
  This way and that the shivered fragments sprang
  As from a rock-face: of such temper were
  The cunning-hearted Fire-god's gifts divine.
  Then in her hand the warrior-maid swung up
  A second javelin fury-winged, against
  Aias, and with fierce words defied the twain:
  "Ha, from mine hand in vain one lance hath leapt!
  But with this second look I suddenly
  To quell the strength and courage of two foes,—
  Ay, though ye vaunt you mighty men of war
  Amid your Danaans! Die ye shall, and so
  Lighter shall be the load of war's affliction
  That lies upon the Trojan chariot-lords.
  Draw nigh, come through the press to grips with me,
  So shall ye learn what might wells up in breasts
  Of Amazons. With my blood is mingled war!
  No mortal man begat me, but the Lord
  Of War, insatiate of the battle-cry.
  Therefore my might is more than any man's."

  With scornful laughter spake she: then she hurled
  Her second lance; but they in utter scorn
  Laughed now, as swiftly flew the shaft, and smote
  The silver greave of Aias, and was foiled
  Thereby, and all its fury could not scar
  The flesh within; for fate had ordered not
  That any blade of foes should taste the blood
  Of Aias in the bitter war. But he
  Recked of the Amazon naught, but turned him thence
  To rush upon the Trojan host, and left
  Penthesileia unto Peleus' son
  Alone, for well he knew his heart within
  That she, for all her prowess, none the less
  Would cost Achilles battle-toil as light,
  As effortless, as doth the dove the hawk.

  Then groaned she an angry groan that she had sped
  Her shafts in vain; and now with scoffing speech
  To her in turn the son of Peleus spake:
  "Woman, with what vain vauntings triumphing
  Hast thou come forth against us, all athirst
  To battle with us, who be mightier far
  Than earthborn heroes? We from Cronos' Son,
  The Thunder-roller, 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 lost,
  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 from Priam the old king,
  Thy guerdon for slain Argives? Ha, 'twas not
  The Immortals who inspired thee with this thought,
  Who know that I of heroes mightiest am,
  The Danaans' light of safety, but a woe
  To Trojans and to thee, O evil-starred!
  Nay, but it was the darkness-shrouded Fates
  And thine own folly of soul that pricked thee on
  To leave the works of women, and to fare
  To war, from which strong men shrink shuddering back."

  So spake he, and his ashen spear the son
  Of Peleus drew from that swift horse, and from
  Penthesileia in death's agony.
  Then steed and rider gasped their lives away
  Slain by one spear. Now from her head he plucked
  The helmet splendour-flashing like the beams
  Of the great sun, or Zeus' own glory-light.
  Then, there as fallen in dust and blood she lay,
  Rose, like the breaking of the dawn, to view
  'Neath dainty-pencilled brows a lovely face,
  Lovely in death. The Argives thronged around,
  And all they saw and marvelled, for she seemed
  Like an Immortal. In her armour there
  Upon the earth she lay, and seemed the Child
  Of Zeus, the tireless Huntress Artemis
  Sleeping, what time her feet forwearied are
  With following lions with her flying shafts
  Over the hills far-stretching. She was made
  A wonder of beauty even in her death
  By Aphrodite glorious-crowned, the Bride
  Of the strong War-god, to the end that he,
  The son of noble Peleus, might be pierced
  With the sharp arrow of repentant love.
  The warriors gazed, and in their hearts they prayed
  That fair and sweet like her their wives might seem,
  Laid on the bed of love, when home they won.
  Yea, and Achilles' very heart was wrung
  With love's remorse to have slain a thing so sweet,
  Who might have borne her home, his queenly bride,
  To chariot-glorious Phthia; for she was
  Flawless, a very daughter of the Gods,
  Divinely tall, and most divinely fair.

  Then Ares' heart was thrilled with grief and rage
  For his child slain. Straight from Olympus down
  He darted, swift and bright as thunderbolt
  Terribly flashing from the mighty hand Of
  Zeus, far leaping o'er the trackless sea,
  Or flaming o'er the land, while shuddereth
  All wide Olympus as it passeth by.
  So through the quivering air with heart aflame
  Swooped Ares armour-clad, soon as he heard
  The dread doom of his daughter. For the Gales,
  The North-wind's fleet-winged daughters, bare to him,
  As through the wide halls of the sky he strode,
  The tidings of the maiden's woeful end.
  Soon as he heard it, like a tempest-blast
  Down to the ridges of Ida leapt he: quaked
  Under his feet the long glens and ravines
  Deep-scored, all Ida's torrent-beds, and all
  Far-stretching foot-hills. Now had Ares brought
  A day of mourning on the Myrmidons,
  But Zeus himself from far Olympus sent
  Mid shattering thunders terror of levin-bolts
  Which thick and fast leapt through the welkin down
  Before his feet, blazing with fearful flames.
  And Ares saw, and knew the stormy threat
  Of the mighty-thundering Father, and he stayed
  His eager feet, now on the very brink
  Of battle's turmoil. As when some huge crag
  Thrust from a beetling cliff-brow by the winds
  And torrent rains, or lightning-lance of Zeus,
  Leaps like a wild beast, and the mountain-glens
  Fling back their crashing echoes as it rolls
  In mad speed on, as with resistless swoop
  Of bound on bound it rushes down, until
  It cometh to the levels of the plain,
  And there perforce its stormy flight is stayed;

  So Ares, battle-eager Son of Zeus,
  Was stayed, how loth soe'er; for all the Gods
  To the Ruler of the Blessed needs must yield,
  Seeing he sits high-throned above them all,
  Clothed in his might unspeakable. Yet still
  Many a wild thought surged through Ares' soul,
  Urging him now to dread the terrible threat
  Of Cronos' wrathful Son, and to return
  Heavenward, and now to reck not of his Sire,
  But with Achilles' blood to stain those hands,
  The battle-tireless. At the last his heart
  Remembered how that many and many a son
  Of Zeus himself in many a war had died,
  Nor in their fall had Zeus availed them aught.
  Therefore he turned him from the Argives—else,
  Down smitten by the blasting thunderbolt,
  With Titans in the nether gloom he had lain,
  Who dared defy the eternal will of Zeus.

  Then did the warrior sons of Argos strip
  With eager haste from corpses strown all round
  The blood-stained spoils. But ever Peleus' son
  Gazed, wild with all regret, still gazed on her,
  The strong, the beautiful, laid in the dust;
  And all his heart was wrung, was broken down
  With sorrowing love, deep, strong as he had known
  When that beloved friend Patroclus died.

  Loud jeered Thersites, mocking to his face:
  "Thou sorry-souled Achilles! art not shamed
  To let some evil Power beguile thine heart
  To pity of a pitiful Amazon
  Whose furious spirit purposed naught but ill
  To us and ours? Ha, woman-mad art thou,
  And thy soul lusts for this thing, as she were
  Some lady wise in household ways, with gifts
  And pure intent for honoured wedlock wooed!
  Good had it been had her spear reached thine heart,
  The heart that sighs for woman-creatures still!
  Thou carest not, unmanly-souled, not thou,
  For valour's glorious path, when once thine eye
  Lights on a woman! Sorry wretch, where now
  Is all thy goodly prowess? where thy wit?
  And where the might that should beseem a king
  All-stainless? Dost not know what misery
  This self-same woman-madness wrought for Troy?
  Nothing there is to men more ruinous
  Than lust for woman's beauty; it maketh fools
  Of wise men. But the toil of war attains
  Renown. To him that is a hero indeed
  Glory of victory and the War-god's works
  Are sweet. 'Tis but the battle-blencher craves
  The beauty and the bed of such as she!"

  So railed he long and loud: the mighty heart
  Of Peleus' son leapt into flame of wrath.
  A sudden buffet of his resistless hand
  Smote 'neath the railer's ear, and all his teeth
  Were dashed to the earth: he fell upon his face:
  Forth of his lips the blood in torrent gushed:
  Swift from his body fled the dastard soul
  Of that vile niddering. Achaea's sons
  Rejoiced thereat, for aye he wont to rail
  On each and all with venomous gibes, himself
  A scandal and the shame of all the host.
  Then mid the warrior Argives cried a voice:
  "Not good it is for baser men to rail
  On kings, or secretly or openly;
  For wrathful retribution swiftly comes.
  The Lady of Justice sits on high; and she
  Who heapeth woe on woe on humankind,
  Even Ate, punisheth the shameless tongue."

  So mid the Danaans cried a voice: nor yet
  Within the mighty soul of Peleus' son
  Lulled was the storm of wrath, but fiercely he spake:
  "Lie there in dust, thy follies all forgot!
  'Tis not for knaves to beard their betters: once
  Thou didst provoke Odysseus' steadfast soul,
  Babbling with venomous tongue a thousand gibes,
  And didst escape with life; but thou hast found
  The son of Peleus not so patient-souled,
  Who with one only buffet from his hand
  Unkennels thy dog's soul! A bitter doom
  Hath swallowed thee: by thine own rascalry
  Thy life is sped. Hence from Achaean men,
  And mouth out thy revilings midst the dead!"

  So spake the valiant-hearted aweless son
  Of Aeacus. But Tydeus' son alone
  Of all the Argives was with anger stirred
  Against Achilles for Thersites slain,
  Seeing these twain were of the self-same blood,
  The one, proud Tydeus' battle-eager son,
  The other, seed of godlike Agrius:
  Brother of noble Oeneus Agrius was;
  And Oeneus in the Danaan land begat
  Tydeus the battle-eager, son to whom
  Was stalwart Diomedes. Therefore wroth
  Was he for slain Thersites, yea, had raised
  Against the son of Peleus vengeful hands,
  Except the noblest of Aehaea's sons
  Had thronged around him, and besought him sore,
  And held him back therefrom. With Peleus' son
  Also they pleaded; else those mighty twain,
  The mightiest of all Argives, were at point
  To close with clash of swords, so stung were they
  With bitter wrath; yet hearkened they at last
  To prayers of comrades, and were reconciled.

  Then of their pity did the Atreid kings—
  For these too at the imperial loveliness
  Of Penthesileia marvelled—render up
  Her body to the men of Troy, to bear
  Unto the burg of Ilus far-renowned
  With all her armour. For a herald came
  Asking this boon for Priam; for the king
  Longed with deep yearning of the heart to lay
  That battle-eager maiden, with her arms,
  And with her war-horse, in the great earth-mound
  Of old Laomedon. And so he heaped
  A high broad pyre without the city wall:
  Upon the height thereof that warrior-queen
  They laid, and costly treasures did they heap
  Around her, all that well beseems to burn
  Around a mighty queen in battle slain.
  And so the Fire-god's swift-upleaping might,
  The ravening flame, consumed her. All around
  The people stood on every hand, and quenched
  The pyre with odorous wine. Then gathered they
  The bones, and poured sweet ointment over them,
  And laid them in a casket: over all
  Shed they the rich fat of a heifer, chief
  Among the herds that grazed on Ida's slope.
  And, as for a beloved daughter, rang
  All round the Trojan men's heart-stricken wail,
  As by the stately wall they buried her
  On an outstanding tower, beside the bones
  Of old Laomedon, a queen beside
  A king. This honour for the War-god's sake
  They rendered, and for Penthesileia's own.
  And in the plain beside her buried they
  The Amazons, even all that followed her
  To battle, and by Argive spears were slain.
  For Atreus' sons begrudged not these the boon
  Of tear-besprinkled graves, but let their friends,
  The warrior Trojans, draw their corpses forth,
  Yea, and their own slain also, from amidst
  The swath of darts o'er that grim harvest-field.
  Wrath strikes not at the dead: pitied are foes
  When life has fled, and left them foes no more.

  Far off across the plain the while uprose
  Smoke from the pyres whereon the Argives laid
  The many heroes overthrown and slain
  By Trojan hands what time the sword devoured;
  And multitudinous lamentation wailed
  Over the perished. But above the rest
  Mourned they o'er brave Podarces, who in fight
  Was no less mighty than his hero-brother
  Protesilaus, he who long ago
  Fell, slain of Hector: so Podarces now,
  Struck down by Penthesileia's spear, hath cast
  Over all Argive hearts the pall of grief.
  Wherefore apart from him they laid in clay
  The common throng of slain; but over him
  Toiling they heaped an earth-mound far-descried
  In memory of a warrior aweless-souled.
  And in a several pit withal they thrust
  The niddering Thersites' wretched corse.
  Then to the ships, acclaiming Aeacus' son,
  Returned they all. But when the radiant day
  Had plunged beneath the Ocean-stream, and night,
  The holy, overspread the face of earth,
  Then in the rich king Agamemnon's tent
  Feasted the might of Peleus' son, and there
  Sat at the feast those other mighty ones
  All through the dark, till rose the dawn divine.