But Aias still fought on: here, there he slew With thrusts like lightning-flashes. His great heart Ached sorely for his mighty cousin slain. And now the warrior-king Laertes' son Fought at his side: before him blenched the foe, As he smote down Peisander's fleetfoot son, The warrior Maenalus, who left his home In far-renowned Abydos: down on him He hurled Atymnius, the goodly son Whom Pegasis the bright-haired Nymph had borne To strong Emathion by Granicus' stream. Dead by his side he laid Orestius' son, Proteus, who dwelt 'neath lofty Ida's folds. Ah, never did his mother welcome home That son from war, Panaceia beauty-famed! He fell by Odysseus' hands, who spilt the lives Of many more whom his death-hungering spear Reached in that fight around the mighty dead. Yet Alcon, son of Megacles battle-swift, Hard by Odysseus' right knee drave the spear Home, and about the glittering greave the blood Dark-crimson welled. He recked not of the wound, But was unto his smiter sudden death; For clear through his shield he stabbed him with his spear Amidst his battle-fury: to the earth Backward he dashed him by his giant might And strength of hand: clashed round him in the dust His armour, and his corslet was distained With crimson life-blood. Forth from flesh and shield The hero plucked the spear of death: the soul Followed the lance-head from the body forth, And life forsook its mortal mansion. Then Rushed on his comrades, in his wound's despite, Odysseus, nor from that stern battle-toil Refrained him. And by this a mingled host Of Danaans eager-hearted fought around The mighty dead, and many and many a foe Slew they with those smooth-shafted ashen spears. Even as the winds strew down upon the ground The flying leaves, when through the forest-glades Sweep the wild gusts, as waneth autumn-tide, And the old year is dying; so the spears Of dauntless Danaans strewed the earth with slain, For loyal to dead Achilles were they all, And loyal to hero Aias to the death. For like black Doom he blasted the ranks of Troy. Then against Aias Paris strained his bow; But he was ware thereof, and sped a stone Swift to the archer's head: that bolt of death Crashed through his crested helm, and darkness closed Round him. In dust down fell he: naught availed His shafts their eager lord, this way and that Scattered in dust: empty his quiver lay, Flew from his hand the bow. In haste his friends Upcaught him from the earth, and Hector's steeds Hurried him thence to Troy, scarce drawing breath, And moaning in his pain. Nor left his men The weapons of their lord, but gathered up All from the plain, and bare them to the prince; While Aias after him sent a wrathful shout: "Dog, thou hast 'scaped the heavy hand of death To-day! But swiftly thy last hour shall come By some strong Argive's hands, or by mine own, But now have I a nobler task in hand,