The Fall of Troy | Page 8

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