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Originally written in Greek, sometime about the middle of the 4th Century A.D. Translation by A.S. Way, 1913. Homer's "Iliad" begins towards the close of the last of the ten years of the Trojan War: its incidents extend over some fifty days only, and it ends with the burial of Hector. The things which came before and after were told by other bards, who between them narrated the whole "cycle" of the events of the war, and so were called the Cyclic Poets. Of their works none have survived; but the story of what befell between Hector's funeral and the taking of Troy is told in detail, and well told, in a poem about half as long as the "Iliad". Some four hundred years after Christ there lived at Smyrna a poet of whom we know scarce anything, save that his first name was Quintus. He had saturated himself with the spirit of Homer, he had caught the ring of his music, and he perhaps had before him the works of those Cyclic Poets whose stars had paled before the sun. We have practically no external evidence as to the date or place of birth of Quintus of Smyrna, or for the sources whence he drew his materials. His date is approximately settled by two passages in the poem, viz. vi. 531 sqq., in which occurs an illustration drawn from the man-and-beast fights of the amphitheatre, which were suppressed by Theodosius I. (379-395 A.D.); and xiii. 335 sqq., which contains a prophecy, the special particularity of which, it is maintained by Koechly, limits its applicability to the middle of the fourth century A.D.
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active 4th century Smyrnaeus Quintus
Table of contents
BOOK I:
BOOK III
BOOK V
BOOK VI
BOOK VIII
BOOK X
BOOK XII
BOOK XIV.
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BOOK I:
Title: The Fall of Troy
Author: Smyrnaeus Quintus
Translator: Arthur Sanders Way
Language: English
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The Fall of Troy
by
Quintus Smyrnaeus
("Quintus of Smyrna")
Fl. 4th Century A.D.
Originally written in Greek, sometime about the middle of the 4th Century A.D. Translation by A.S. Way, 1913.
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SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY:
ORIGINAL TEXT—
Way, A.S. (Ed. & Trans.): "Quintus Smyrnaeus: The Fall of Troy" (Loeb Classics #19; Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA, 1913). Greek text with side-by-side English translation.
OTHER TRANSLATIONS—
Combellack, Frederick M. (Trans.): "The War at Troy: What Homer Didn't Tell" (University of Oklahoma Press, Norman OK, 1968).
RECOMMENDED READING—
Fitzgerald, Robert (Trans.): "Homer: The Iliad" (Viking Press, New York, 1968).
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INTRODUCTION
Homer's "Iliad" begins towards the close of the last of the ten years of the Trojan War: its incidents extend over some fifty days only, and it ends with the burial of Hector. The things which came before and after were told by other bards, who between them narrated the whole "cycle" of the events of the war, and so were called the Cyclic Poets. Of their works none have survived; but the story of what befell between Hector's funeral and the taking of Troy is told in detail, and well told, in a poem about half as long as the "Iliad". Some four hundred years after Christ there lived at Smyrna a poet of whom we know scarce anything, save that his first name was Quintus. He had saturated himself with the spirit of Homer, he had caught the ring of his music, and he perhaps had before him the works of those Cyclic Poets whose stars had paled before the sun.
We have practically no external evidence as to the date or place of birth of Quintus of Smyrna, or for the sources whence he drew his materials. His date is approximately settled by two passages in the poem, viz. vi. 531 sqq., in which occurs an illustration drawn from the man-and-beast fights of the amphitheatre, which were suppressed by Theodosius I. (379-395 A.D.); and xiii. 335 sqq., which contains a prophecy, the special particularity of which, it is maintained by Koechly, limits its applicability to the middle of the fourth century A.D.
His place of birth, and the precise locality, is given by himself in xii. 308-313, and confirmatory evidence is afforded by his familiarity, of which he gives numerous instances, with many natural features of the western part of Asia Minor.
With respect to his authorities, and the use he made of their writings, there has been more difference of opinion. Since his narrative covers the same ground as the "Aethiopis" ("Coming of Memnon") and the "Iliupersis" ("Destruction of Troy") of Arctinus (circ. 776 B.C.), and the "Little Iliad" of Lesches (circ. 700 B.C.), it has been assumed that the work of Quintus "is little more than an amplification or remodelling of the works of these two Cyclic Poets." This, however, must needs be pure conjecture, as the only remains of these poets consist of fragments amounting to no more than a very few lines from each, and of the "summaries of contents" made by the grammarian Proclus (circ. 140 A.D.), which, again, we but get at second-hand through the "Bibliotheca" of Photius (ninth century). Now, not merely do the only descriptions of incident that are found in the fragments differ essentially from the corresponding incidents as described by Quintus, but even in the summaries, meagre as they are, we find, as German critics have shown by exhaustive investigation, serious discrepancies enough to justify us in the conclusion that, even if Quintus had the works of the Cyclic poets before him, which is far from certain, his poem was no mere remodelling of theirs, but an independent and practically original work. Not that this conclusion disposes by any means of all difficulties. If Quintus did not follow the Cyclic poets, from what source did he draw his materials? The German critic unhesitatingly answers, "from Homer." As regards language, versification, and general spirit, the matter is beyond controversy; but when we come to consider the incidents of the story, we find deviations from Homer even more serious than any of those from the Cyclic poets. And the strange thing is, that each of these deviations is a manifest detriment to the perfection of his poem; in each of them the writer has missed, or has rejected, a magnificent opportunity. With regard to the slaying of Achilles by the hand of Apollo only, and not by those of Apollo and Paris, he might have pleaded that Homer himself here speaks with an uncertain voice (cf. "Iliad" xv. 416-17, xxii. 355-60, and xxi. 277-78). But, in describing the fight for the body of Achilles ("Odyssey" xxiv. 36 sqq.), Homer makes Agamemnon say:
"So we grappled the livelong day, and we had not refrained us then, But Zeus sent a hurricane, stilling the storm of the battle of men."
Now, it is just in describing such natural phenomena, and in blending them with the turmoil of battle, that Quintus is in his element; yet for such a scene he substitutes what is, by comparison, a lame and impotent conclusion. Of that awful cry that rang over the sea heralding the coming of Thetis and the Nymphs to the death-rites of her son, and the panic with which it filled the host, Quintus is silent. Again, Homer ("Odyssey" iv. 274-89) describes how Helen came in the night with Deiphobus, and stood by the Wooden Horse, and called to each of the hidden warriors with the voice of his own wife. This thrilling scene Quintus omits, and substitutes nothing of his own. Later on, he makes Menelaus slay Deiphobus unresisting, "heavy with wine," whereas Homer ("Odyssey" viii. 517-20) makes him offer such a magnificent resistance, that Odysseus and Menelaus together could not kill him without the help of Athena. In fact, we may say that, though there are echoes of the "Iliad" all through the poem, yet, wherever Homer has, in the "Odyssey", given the outline-sketch of an effective scene, Quintus has uniformly neglected to develop it, has sometimes substituted something much weaker—as though he had not the "Odyssey" before him!
For this we have no satisfactory explanation to offer. He may have set his own judgment above Homer—a most unlikely hypothesis: he may have been consistently following, in the framework of his story, some original now lost to us: there may be more, and longer, lacunae in the text than any editors have ventured to indicate: but, whatever theory we adopt, it must be based on mere conjecture.
The Greek text here given is that of Koechly (1850) with many of Zimmermann's emendations, which are acknowledged in the notes. Passages enclosed in square brackets are suggestions of Koechly for supplying the general sense of lacunae. Where he has made no such suggestion, or none that seemed to the editors to be adequate, the lacuna has been indicated by asterisks, though here too a few words have been added in the translation, sufficient to connect the sense.
—A. S. Way
CONTENTS
BOOK
I How died for Troy the Queen of the Amazons, Penthesileia. II How Memnon, Son of the Dawn, for Troy's sake fell in the Battle. III How by the shaft of a God laid low was Hero Achilles. IV How in the Funeral Games of Achilles heroes contended. V How the Arms of Achilles were cause of madness and death unto Aias. VI How came for the helping of Troy Eurypylus, Hercules' grandson. VII How the Son of Achilles was brought to the War from the Isle of Scyros. VIII How Hercules' Grandson perished in fight with the Son of Achilles. IX How from his long lone exile returned to the war Philoctetes. X How Paris was stricken to death, and in vain sought help of Oenone. XI How the sons of Troy for the last time fought from her walls and her towers. XII How the Wooden Horse was fashioned, and brought into Troy by her people. XIII How Troy in the night was taken and sacked with fire and slaughter. XIV How the conquerors sailed from Troy unto judgment of tempest and shipwreck.
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.
