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,