Nigh to Aeneas then Apollo came, And to Eurymachus, brave Antenor's son; For these against the mighty Achaeans fought Shoulder to shoulder, as two strong oxen, matched In age, yoked to a wain; nor ever ceased From battling. Suddenly spake the God to these In Polymestor's shape, the seer his mother By Xanthus bare to the Far-darter's priest: "Eurymachus, Aeneas, seed of Gods, 'Twere shame if ye should flinch from Argives! Nay, Not Ares' self should joy to encounter you, An ye would face him in the fray; for Fate Hath spun long destiny-threads for thee and thee." He spake, and vanished, mingling with the winds. But their hearts felt the God's power: suddenly Flooded with boundless courage were their frames, Maddened their spirits: on the foe they leapt Like furious wasps that in a storm of rage Swoop upon bees, beholding them draw nigh In latter-summer to the mellowing grapes, Or from their hives forth-streaming thitherward; So fiercely leapt these sons of Troy to meet War-hardened Greeks. The black Fates joyed to see Their conflict, Ares laughed, Enyo yelled Horribly. Loud their glancing armour clanged: They stabbed, they hewed down hosts of foes untold With irresistible hands. The reeling ranks Fell, as the swath falls in the harvest heat, When the swift-handed reapers, ranged adown The field's long furrows, ply the sickle fast; So fell before their hands ranks numberless: With corpses earth was heaped, with torrent blood Was streaming: Strife incarnate o'er the slain Gloated. They paused not from the awful toil, But aye pressed on, like lions chasing sheep. Then turned the Greeks to craven flight; all feet Unmaimed as yet fled from the murderous war. Aye followed on Anchises' warrior son, Smiting foes' backs with his avenging spear: On pressed Eurymachus, while glowed the heart Of Healer Apollo watching from on high. As when a man descries a herd of swine Draw nigh his ripening corn, before the sheaves Fall neath the reapers' hands, and harketh on Against them his strong dogs; as down they rush, The spoilers see and quake; no more think they Of feasting, but they turn in panic flight Huddling: fast follow at their heels the hounds Biting remorselessly, while long and loud Squealing they flee, and joys the harvest's lord; So rejoiced Phoebus, seeing from the war Fleeing the mighty Argive host. No more Cared they for deeds of men, but cried to the Gods For swift feet, in whose feet alone was hope To escape Eurymachus' and Aeneas' spears Which lightened ever all along their rear.