His teeth he gnasht, and his eye-balls flasht
Like the flame of a burning brand:
His soul with grief and rage was fraught;
And wrapping his heart in vengeful thought,
He harnest himself in the armour wrought
And given by Hephaistos' hand.
First, with the grasp of silver clasp,
His greaves did he buckle on;
Then he armed his breast with a bright cuirass,
Flung round his shoulders his sword of brass,
Uplifted his shield, a ponderous mass,
Like the moon from afar it shone.
As when sailors, who keep on the storm-vext deep
Their way with unwilling oar,
The blaze of a distant fire espy
From some lonely fold in the mountains high,
When forced by the blast their course they ply,
Driven away from their native shore;
So from heaven shot the light from the buckler bright
That guarded Achilleus' breast.
Next lifted up to sheath his head
His helmet of strength fit for combat dread,
Around like a star was its lustre shed
Beneath the horse-hair crest.
And the golden thread so thickly spread
By Hephaistos the cone around,
Waved in the air, as the chief essayed
If close to his shape were the armour laid,
If his shapely limbs in free motion played,
With its harness bound.
With the lightsome spring of a bird's fleet wing
Buoyant they bore him on;
And next from the spear-case he went to take
His father's spear, huge, massy, of make
Which no other hand in the host could shake
Save his good right hand alone.
An ash-tree spear for his father dear
Hewed down by Cheiron's stroke
From Pelion's summits where waves the wood,
He sent it to drip in warriors' blood.
Meanwhile the squires by the horses stood
As they set them beneath the yoke.
They fasten the trace and they firmly place
In the bending jaws the bit;
Back to the car the reins are thrown,
And seizing the whip to his hand well known,
Sprung to his seat Automedon,
Where long he had loved to sit.
And behind that seat in arms complete,
Stood Achilleus girt for war;
He glowed like the sun in his noon-day gyre,
And his chiding voice sounded fierce and dire,
As thus to the chargers of his sire
He shouted from the car.
" My bright bay horse — my fleet of course,
Podarge's far-famed brood, —
Yours be it your master back to bear
From the battle-field now with surer care,
Leave me not as you left Patroclos there,
All weltering in his blood. "
Then out upspoke from beneath the yoke
His dapple-foot steed of bay,
Low stoopt his head, and the yoke around
His mane encircling swept over the ground,
For Here had given him vocal sound
Achilleus' fate to say.
" Once yet again from the battle-plain,
Safe back we bear thee home.
But thy hour of death is hastening nigh,
All blameless are we, yet thou must die,
Slain by the hand of a godhead high;
Such is Fate's relentless doom.
By no lack of speed, no sloth of steed,
Patroclos' arms were lost;
It was he, most glorious god of light,
The son of fair Leto, of tresses bright,
Who slew him amid the foremost fight,
And gave Hector the fame to boast.
" By our flight as fast as Zephyros' blast
Was thy chariot whirled along,
Yet here it is fated thy bones be laid,
By a god's strong power and a mortal's blade! "
Mute was the horse when these words were said,
For the Furies chained his tongue.
Then with angry word the swift-foot lord,
Thus spoke his prophetic horse: —
" Why, Xanthos thus in boding tone
Hast thou my coming death foreshown?
Needless to tell what so well is known,
That here I lay my corse.
" It is fixt by Fate that I end my date
From my father's land afar:
But still, ere my day of life runs out,
No war shall the Trojans lack or rout. "
So said he; and with a thundering shout
Drove his steeds to the thickest war.
Like the flame of a burning brand:
His soul with grief and rage was fraught;
And wrapping his heart in vengeful thought,
He harnest himself in the armour wrought
And given by Hephaistos' hand.
First, with the grasp of silver clasp,
His greaves did he buckle on;
Then he armed his breast with a bright cuirass,
Flung round his shoulders his sword of brass,
Uplifted his shield, a ponderous mass,
Like the moon from afar it shone.
As when sailors, who keep on the storm-vext deep
Their way with unwilling oar,
The blaze of a distant fire espy
From some lonely fold in the mountains high,
When forced by the blast their course they ply,
Driven away from their native shore;
So from heaven shot the light from the buckler bright
That guarded Achilleus' breast.
Next lifted up to sheath his head
His helmet of strength fit for combat dread,
Around like a star was its lustre shed
Beneath the horse-hair crest.
And the golden thread so thickly spread
By Hephaistos the cone around,
Waved in the air, as the chief essayed
If close to his shape were the armour laid,
If his shapely limbs in free motion played,
With its harness bound.
With the lightsome spring of a bird's fleet wing
Buoyant they bore him on;
And next from the spear-case he went to take
His father's spear, huge, massy, of make
Which no other hand in the host could shake
Save his good right hand alone.
An ash-tree spear for his father dear
Hewed down by Cheiron's stroke
From Pelion's summits where waves the wood,
He sent it to drip in warriors' blood.
Meanwhile the squires by the horses stood
As they set them beneath the yoke.
They fasten the trace and they firmly place
In the bending jaws the bit;
Back to the car the reins are thrown,
And seizing the whip to his hand well known,
Sprung to his seat Automedon,
Where long he had loved to sit.
And behind that seat in arms complete,
Stood Achilleus girt for war;
He glowed like the sun in his noon-day gyre,
And his chiding voice sounded fierce and dire,
As thus to the chargers of his sire
He shouted from the car.
" My bright bay horse — my fleet of course,
Podarge's far-famed brood, —
Yours be it your master back to bear
From the battle-field now with surer care,
Leave me not as you left Patroclos there,
All weltering in his blood. "
Then out upspoke from beneath the yoke
His dapple-foot steed of bay,
Low stoopt his head, and the yoke around
His mane encircling swept over the ground,
For Here had given him vocal sound
Achilleus' fate to say.
" Once yet again from the battle-plain,
Safe back we bear thee home.
But thy hour of death is hastening nigh,
All blameless are we, yet thou must die,
Slain by the hand of a godhead high;
Such is Fate's relentless doom.
By no lack of speed, no sloth of steed,
Patroclos' arms were lost;
It was he, most glorious god of light,
The son of fair Leto, of tresses bright,
Who slew him amid the foremost fight,
And gave Hector the fame to boast.
" By our flight as fast as Zephyros' blast
Was thy chariot whirled along,
Yet here it is fated thy bones be laid,
By a god's strong power and a mortal's blade! "
Mute was the horse when these words were said,
For the Furies chained his tongue.
Then with angry word the swift-foot lord,
Thus spoke his prophetic horse: —
" Why, Xanthos thus in boding tone
Hast thou my coming death foreshown?
Needless to tell what so well is known,
That here I lay my corse.
" It is fixt by Fate that I end my date
From my father's land afar:
But still, ere my day of life runs out,
No war shall the Trojans lack or rout. "
So said he; and with a thundering shout
Drove his steeds to the thickest war.