Faint-breathing answered him the dying man: "Eurypylus, thine own weird is to live Not long: Fate is at point to meet thee here On Troy's plain, and to still thine impious tongue." So passed his spirit into Hades' halls. Then to the dead man spake his conqueror: "Now on the earth lie thou. What shall betide Hereafter, care I not--yea, though this day Death's doom stand by my feet: no man may live For ever: each man's fate is foreordained." Stabbing the corpse he spake. Then shouted loud Teucer, at seeing Machaon in the dust. Far thence he stood hard-toiling in the fight, For on the centre sore the battle lay: Foe after foe pressed on; yet not for this Was Teucer heedless of the fallen brave, Neither of Nireus lying hard thereby Behind Machaon in the dust. He saw, And with a great voice raised the rescue-cry: "Charge, Argives! Flinch not from the charging foe! For shame unspeakable shall cover us If Trojan men hale back to Ilium Noble Machaon and Nireus godlike-fair. Come, with a good heart let us face the foe To rescue these slain friends, or fall ourselves Beside them. Duty bids that men defend Friends, and to aliens leave them not a prey, Not without sweat of toil is glory won!" Then were the Danaans anguish-stung: the earth All round them dyed they red with blood of slain, As foe fought foe in even-balanced fight. By this to Podaleirius tidings came How that in dust his brother lay, struck down By woeful death. Beside the ships he sat Ministering to the hurts of men with spears Stricken. In wrath for his brother's sake he rose, He clad him in his armour; in his breast Dread battle-prowess swelled. For conflict grim He panted: boiled the mad blood round his heart He leapt amidst the foemen; his swift hands Swung the snake-headed javelin up, and hurled, And slew with its winged speed Agamestor's son Cleitus, a bright-haired Nymph had given him birth Beside Parthenius, whose quiet stream Fleets smooth as oil through green lands, till it pours Its shining ripples to the Euxine sea. Then by his warrior-brother laid he low Lassus, whom Pronoe, fair as a goddess, bare Beside Nymphaeus' stream, hard by a cave, A wide and wondrous cave: sacred it is Men say, unto the Nymphs, even all that haunt The long-ridged Paphlagonian hills, and all That by full-clustered Heracleia dwell. That cave is like the work of gods, of stone In manner marvellous moulded: through it flows Cold water crystal-clear: in niches round Stand bowls of stone upon the rugged rock, Seeming as they were wrought by carvers' hands. Statues of Wood-gods stand around, fair Nymphs, Looms, distaffs, all such things as mortal craft Fashioneth. Wondrous seem they unto men Which pass into that hallowed cave. It hath, Up-leading and down-leading, doorways twain, Facing, the one, the wild North's shrilling blasts, And one the dank rain-burdened South.