By this Peleides' son had swiftly slain Twelve Trojan warriors with his father's spear. First Cebrus fell, Harmon, Pasitheus then, Hysminus, Schedius, and Imbrasius, Phleges, Mnesaeus, Ennomus, Amphinous, Phasis, Galenus last, who had his home By Gargarus' steep--a mighty warrior he Among Troy's mighties: with a countless host To Troy he came: for Priam Dardanus' son Promised him many gifts and passing fair. Ah fool! his own doom never he foresaw, Whose weird was suddenly to fall in fight Ere he bore home King Priam's glorious gifts. Doom the Destroyer against the Argives sped Valiant Aeneas' friend, Eurymenes. Wild courage spurred him on, that he might slay Many--and then fill death's cup for himself. Man after man he slew like some fierce beast, And foes shrank from the terrible rage that burned On his life's verge, nor reeked of imminent doom. Yea, peerless deeds in that fight had he done, Had not his hands grown weary, his spear-head Bent utterly: his sword availed him not, Snapped at the hilt by Fate. Then Meges' dart Smote 'neath his ribs; blood spurted from his mouth, And in death's agony Doom stood at his side. Even as he fell, Epeius' henchmen twain, Deileon and Amphion, rushed to strip His armour; but Aeneas brave and strong Chilled their hot hearts in death beside the dead. As one in latter summer 'mid his vines Kills wasps that dart about his ripening grapes, And so, ere they may taste the fruit, they die; So smote he them, ere they could seize the arms. Menon and Amphinous Tydeides slew, Both goodly men. Paris slew Hippasus' son Demoleon, who in Laconia's land Beside the outfall of Eurotas dwelt, The stream deep-flowing, and to Troy he came With Menelaus. Under his right breast The shaft of Paris smote him unto death, Driving his soul forth like a scattering breath. 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.