From murder's grip to rescue Achilles' corse." Then turned he on the foe, hurling swift doom On such as fought around Peleides yet. 'These saw how many yielded up the ghost Neath his strong hands, and, with hearts failing them For fear, against him could they stand no more. As rascal vultures were they, which the swoop Of an eagle, king of birds, scares far away From carcasses of sheep that wolves have torn; So this way, that way scattered they before The hurtling stones, the sword, the might of Aias. In utter panic from the war they fled, In huddled rout, like starlings from the swoop Of a death-dealing hawk, when, fleeing bane, One drives against another, as they dart All terror-huddled in tumultuous flight. So from the war to Priam's burg they fled Wretchedly clad with terror as a cloak, Quailing from mighty Aias' battle-shout, As with hands dripping blood-gouts he pursued. Yea, all, one after other, had he slain, Had they not streamed through city-gates flung wide Hard-panting, pierced to the very heart with fear. Pent therewithin he left them, as a shepherd Leaves folded sheep, and strode back o'er the plain; Yet never touched he with his feet the ground, But aye he trod on dead men, arms, and blood; For countless corpses lay o'er that wide stretch Even from broad-wayed Troy to Hellespont, Bodies of strong men slain, the spoil of Doom. As when the dense stalks of sun-ripened corn Fall 'neath the reapers' hands, and the long swaths, Heavy with full ears, overspread the field, And joys the heart of him who oversees The toil, lord of the harvest; even so, By baleful havoc overmastered, lay All round face-downward men remembering not The death-denouncing war-shout. But the sons Of fair Achaea left their slaughtered foes In dust and blood unstripped of arms awhile Till they should lay upon the pyre the son Of Peleus, who in battle-shock had been Their banner of victory, charging in his might. So the kings drew him from that stricken field Straining beneath the weight of giant limbs, And with all loving care they bore him on, And laid him in his tent before the ships. And round him gathered that great host, and wailed Heart-anguished him who had been the Achaeans' strength, And now, forgotten all the splendour of spears, Lay mid the tents by moaning Hellespont, In stature more than human, even as lay Tityos, who sought to force Queen Leto, when She fared to Pytho: swiftly in his wrath Apollo shot, and laid him low, who seemed Invincible: in a foul lake of gore There lay he, covering many a rood of ground, On the broad earth, his mother; and she moaned Over her son, of blessed Gods abhorred; But Lady Leto laughed. So grand of mould There in the foemen's land lay Aeacus' son, For joy to Trojans, but for endless grief To Achaean men lamenting. Moaned the air With sighing from the abysses of the sea;