So spake he, giving glory to the might Of those good steeds, and to Atreides' self; And filled with joy was Menelaus' soul. Straightway his henchmen from the yoke-band loosed The panting team, and all those chariot-lords, Who in the race had striven, now unyoked Their tempest-footed steeds. Podaleirius then Hasted to spread salves over all the wounds Of Thoas and Eurypylus, gashes scored Upon their frames when from the cars they fell But Menelaus with exceeding joy Of victory glowed, when Thetis lovely-tressed Gave him a golden cup, the chief possession Once of Eetion the godlike; ere Achilles spoiled the far-famed burg of Thebes. Then horsemen riding upon horses came Down to the course: they grasped in hand the whip And bounding from the earth bestrode their steeds, The while with foaming mouths the coursers champed The bits, and pawed the ground, and fretted aye To dash into the course. Forth from the line Swiftly they darted, eager for the strife, Wild as the blasts of roaring Boreas Or shouting Notus, when with hurricane-swoop He heaves the wide sea high, when in the east Uprises the disastrous Altar-star Bringing calamity to seafarers; So swift they rushed, spurning with flying feet The deep dust on the plain. The riders cried Each to his steed, and ever plied the lash And shook the reins about the clashing bits. On strained the horses: from the people rose A shouting like the roaring of a sea. On, on across the level plain they flew; And now the flashing-footed Argive steed By Sthenelus bestridden, had won the race, But from the course he swerved, and o'er the plain Once and again rushed wide; nor Capaneus' son, Good horseman though he were, could turn him back By rein or whip, because that steed was strange Still to the race-course; yet of lineage Noble was he, for in his veins the blood Of swift Arion ran, the foal begotten By the loud-piping West-wind on a Harpy, The fleetest of all earth-born steeds, whose feet Could race against his father's swiftest blasts. Him did the Blessed to Adrastus give: And from him sprang the steed of Sthenelus, Which Tydeus' son had given unto his friend In hallowed Troyland. Filled with confidence In those swift feet his rider led him forth Unto the contest of the steeds that day, Looking his horsemanship should surely win Renown: yet victory gladdened not his heart In that great struggle for Achilles' prizes; Nay, swift albeit he was, the King of Men By skill outraced him. Shouted all the folk, "Glory to Agamemnon!" Yet they acclaimed The steed of valiant Sthenelus and his lord, For that the fiery flying of his feet Still won him second place, albeit oft Wide of the course he swerved. Then Thetis gave To Atreus' son, while laughed his lips for joy, God-sprung Polydorus' breastplate silver-wrought. To Sthenelus Asteropaeus' massy helm,