Teucer slew Zechis, Medon's war-famed son, Who dwelt in Phrygia, land of myriad flocks, Below that haunted cave of fair-haired Nymphs Where, as Endymion slept beside his kine, Divine Selene watched him from on high, And slid from heaven to earth; for passionate love Drew down the immortal stainless Queen of Night.
And a memorial of her couch abides Still 'neath the oaks; for mid the copses round Was poured out milk of kine; and still do men Marvelling behold its whiteness. Thou wouldst say Far off that this was milk indeed, which is A well-spring of white water: if thou draw A little nigher, lo, the stream is fringed As though with ice, for white stone rims it round.
Rushed on Alcaeus Meges, Phyleus' son, And drave his spear beneath his fluttering heart.
Loosed were the cords of sweet life suddenly, And his sad parents longed in vain to greet That son returning from the woeful war To Margasus and Phyllis lovely-girt, Dwellers by lucent streams of Harpasus, Who pours the full blood of his clamorous flow Into Maeander madly rushing aye.
With Glaucus' warrior-comrade Scylaceus Odeus' son closed in the fight, and stabbed Over the shield-rim, and the cruel spear Passed through his shoulder, and drenched his shield with blood.
Howbeit he slew him not, whose day of doom Awaited him afar beside the wall Of his own city; for when Illium's towers Were brought low by that swift avenging host Fleeing the war to Lycia then he came Alone; and when he drew nigh to the town, The thronging women met and questioned him Touching their sons and husbands; and he told How all were dead. They compassed him about, And stoned the man with great stones, that he died.
So had he no joy of his winning home, But the stones muffled up his dying groans, And of the same his ghastly tomb was reared Beside Bellerophon's grave and holy place In Tlos, nigh that far-famed Chimaera's Crag.
Yet, though he thus fulfilled his day of doom, As a God afterward men worshipped him By Phoebus' hest, and never his honour fades.
Now Poeas' son the while slew Deioneus And Acamas, Antenor's warrior son:
Yea, a great host of strong men laid he low.
On, like the War-god, through his foes he rushed, Or as a river roaring in full flood Breaks down long dykes, when, maddening round its rocks, Down from the mountains swelled by rain it pours An ever-flowing mightily-rushing stream Whose foaming crests over its forelands sweep;
So none who saw him even from afar Dared meet renowned Poeas' valiant son, Whose breast with battle-fury was fulfilled, Whose limbs were clad in mighty Hercules' arms Of cunning workmanship; for on the belt Gleamed bears most grim and savage, jackals fell, And panthers, in whose eyes there seems to lurk A deadly smile. There were fierce-hearted wolves, And boars with flashing tusks, and mighty lions All seeming strangely alive; and, there portrayed Through all its breadth, were battles murder-rife.
With all these marvels covered was the belt;
And with yet more the quiver was adorned.
There Hermes was, storm-footed Son of Zeus, Slaying huge Argus nigh to Inachus' streams, Argus, whose sentinel eyes in turn took sleep.
And there was Phaethon from the Sun-car hurled Into Eridanus. Earth verily seemed Ablaze, and black smoke hovered on the air.
There Perseus slew Medusa gorgon-eyed By the stars' baths and utmost bounds of earth And fountains of deep-flowing Ocean, where Night in the far west meets the setting sun.
There was the Titan Iapetus' great son Hung from the beetling crag of Caucasus In bonds of adamant, and the eagle tare His liver unconsumed -- he seemed to groan!
All these Hephaestus' cunning hands had wrought For Hercules; and these to Poeas' son, Most near of friends and dear, he gave to bear.
So glorying in those arms he smote the foe.
But Paris at the last to meet him sprang Fearlessly, bearing in his hands his bow And deadly arrows -- but his latest day Now met himself. A flying shaft he sped Forth from the string, which sang as leapt the dart, Which flew not vainly: yet the very mark It missed, for Philoctetes swerved aside A hair-breadth, and it smote above the breast Cleodorus war-renowned, and cleft a path Clear through his shoulder; for he had not now The buckler broad which wont to fence from death Its bearer, but was falling back from fight, Being shieldless; for Polydamas' massy lance Had cleft the shoulder-belt whereby his targe Hung, and he gave back therefore, fighting still With stubborn spear. But now the arrow of death Fell on him, as from ambush leaping forth.
For so Fate willed, I trow, to bring dread doom On noble-hearted Lernus' scion, born Of Amphiale, in Rhodes the fertile land.
But soon as Poeas' battle-eager son Marked him by Paris' deadly arrow slain, Swiftly he strained his bow, shouting aloud:
"Dog! I will give thee death, will speed thee down To the Unseen Land, who darest to brave me!
And so shall they have rest, who travail now For thy vile sake. Destruction shall have end When thou art dead, the author of our bane."
Then to his breast he drew the plaited cord.
The great bow arched, the merciless shaft was aimed Straight, and the terrible point a little peered Above the bow, in that constraining grip.
Loud sang the string, as the death-hissing shaft Leapt, and missed not: yet was not Paris' heart Stilled, but his spirit yet was strong in him;
For that first arrow was not winged with death:
It did but graze the fair flesh by his wrist.
Then once again the avenger drew the bow, And the barbed shaft of Poeas' son had plunged, Ere he could swerve, 'twixt flank and groin. No more He abode the fight, but swiftly hasted back As hastes a dog which on a lion rushed At first, then fleeth terror-stricken back.
