How by the shaft of a God laid low was Hero Achilles.
When shone the light of Dawn the splendour-throned, Then to the ships the Pylian spearmen bore Antilochus' corpse, sore sighing for their prince, And by the Hellespont they buried him With aching hearts. Around him groaning stood The battle-eager sons of Argives, all, Of love for Nestor, shrouded o'er with grief.
But that grey hero's heart was nowise crushed By sorrow; for the wise man's soul endures Bravely, and cowers not under affliction's stroke.
But Peleus' son, wroth for Antilochus His dear friend, armed for vengeance terrible Upon the Trojans. Yea, and these withal, Despite their dread of mighty Achilles' spear, Poured battle-eager forth their gates, for now The Fates with courage filled their breasts, of whom Many were doomed to Hades to descend, Whence there is no return, thrust down by hands Of Aeacus' son, who also was foredoomed To perish that same day by Priam's wall.
Swift met the fronts of conflict: all the tribes Of Troy's host, and the battle-biding Greeks, Afire with that new-kindled fury of war.
Then through the foe the son of Peleus made Wide havoc: all around the earth was drenched With gore, and choked with corpses were the streams Of Simois and Xanthus. Still he chased, Still slaughtered, even to the city's walls;
For panic fell on all the host. And now All had he slain, had dashed the gates to earth, Rending them from their hinges, or the bolts, Hurling himself against them, had he snapped, And for the Danaans into Priam's burg Had made a way, had utterly destroyed That goodly town -- but now was Phoebus wroth Against him with grim fury, when he saw Those countless troops of heroes slain of him.
Down from Olympus with a lion-leap He came: his quiver on his shoulders lay, And shafts that deal the wounds incurable.
Facing Achilles stood he; round him clashed Quiver and arrows; blazed with quenchless flame His eyes, and shook the earth beneath his feet.
Then with a terrible shout the great God cried, So to turn back from war Achilles awed By the voice divine, and save from death the Trojans:
"Back from the Trojans, Peleus' son! Beseems not That longer thou deal death unto thy foes, Lest an Olympian God abase thy pride."
But nothing quailed the hero at the voice Immortal, for that round him even now Hovered the unrelenting Fates. He recked Naught of the God, and shouted his defiance.
"Phoebus, why dost thou in mine own despite Stir me to fight with Gods, and wouldst protect The arrogant Trojans? Heretofore hast thou By thy beguiling turned me from the fray, When from destruction thou at the first didst save Hector, whereat the Trojans all through Troy Exulted. Nay, thou get thee back: return Unto the mansion of the Blessed, lest I smite thee -- ay, immortal though thou be!"
Then on the God he turned his back, and sped After the Trojans fleeing cityward, And harried still their flight; but wroth at heart Thus Phoebus spake to his indignant soul:
"Out on this man! he is sense-bereft! But now Not Zeus himself nor any other Power Shall save this madman who defies the Gods!"
From mortal sight he vanished into cloud, And cloaked with mist a baleful shaft he shot Which leapt to Achilles' ankle: sudden pangs With mortal sickness made his whole heart faint.
He reeled, and like a tower he fell, that falls Smit by a whirlwind when an earthquake cleaves A chasm for rushing blasts from underground;
So fell the goodly form of Aeacus' son.
He glared, a murderous glance, to right, to left, [Upon the Trojans, and a terrible threat]
Shouted, a threat that could not be fulfilled:
"Who shot at me a stealthy-smiting shaft?
Let him but dare to meet me face to face!
So shall his blood and all his bowels gush out About my spear, and he be hellward sped!
I know that none can meet me man to man And quell in fight -- of earth-born heroes none, Though such an one should bear within his breast A heart unquailing, and have thews of brass.
But dastards still in stealthy ambush lurk For lives of heroes. Let him face me then! -- Ay! though he be a God whose anger burns Against the Danaans! Yea, mine heart forebodes That this my smiter was Apollo, cloaked In deadly darkness. So in days gone by My mother told me how that by his shafts I was to die before the Scaean Gates A piteous death. Her words were not vain words."
Then with unflinching hands from out the wound Incurable he drew the deadly shaft In agonized pain. Forth gushed the blood; his heart Waxed faint beneath the shadow of coming doom.
Then in indignant wrath he hurled from him The arrow: a sudden gust of wind swept by, And caught it up, and, even as he trod Zeus' threshold, to Apollo gave it back;
For it beseemed not that a shaft divine, Sped forth by an Immortal, should be lost.
He unto high Olympus swiftly came, To the great gathering of immortal Gods, Where all assembled watched the war of men, These longing for the Trojans' triumph, those For Danaan victory; so with diverse wills Watched they the strife, the slayers and the slain.
Him did the Bride of Zeus behold, and straight Upbraided with exceeding bitter words:
"What deed of outrage, Phoebus, hast thou done This day, forgetful of that day whereon To godlike Peleus' spousals gathered all The Immortals? Yea, amidst the feasters thou Sangest how Thetis silver-footed left The sea's abysses to be Peleus' bride;
And as thou harpedst all earth's children came To hearken, beasts and birds, high craggy hills, Rivers, and all deep-shadowed forests came.
All this hast thou forgotten, and hast wrought A ruthless deed, hast slain a godlike man, Albeit thou with other Gods didst pour The nectar, praying that he might be the son By Thetis given to Peleus. But that prayer Hast thou forgotten, favouring the folk Of tyrannous Laomedon, whose kine Thou keptest. He, a mortal, did despite To thee, the deathless! O, thou art wit-bereft!
Thou favourest Troy, thy sufferings all forgot.
Thou wretch, and doth thy false heart know not this, What man is an offence, and meriteth Suffering, and who is honoured of the Gods?
