Eurypylus there, in dauntless spirit like The War-god, with mad-raging spear and hands Resistless, smote down hosts of foes: the earth Was clogged with dead men slain on either side. On strode he midst the corpses, awelessly He fought, with blood-bespattered hands and feet; Never a moment from grim strife he ceased. Peneleos the mighty-hearted came Against him in the pitiless fray: he fell Before Eurypylus' spear: yea, many more Fell round him. Ceased not those destroying hands, But wrathful on the Argives still he pressed, As when of old on Pholoe's long-ridged heights Upon the Centaurs terrible Hercules rushed Storming in might, and slew them, passing-swift And strong and battle-cunning though they were; So rushed he on, so smote he down the array, One after other, of the Danaan spears. Heaps upon heaps, here, there, in throngs they fell Strewn in the dust. As when a river in flood Comes thundering down, banks crumble on either side To drifting sand: on seaward rolls the surge Tossing wild crests, while cliffs on every hand Ring crashing echoes, as their brows break down Beneath long-leaping roaring waterfalls, And dikes are swept away; so fell in dust The war-famed Argives by Eurypylus slain, Such as he overtook in that red rout. Some few escaped, whom strength of fleeing feet Delivered. Yet in that sore strait they drew Peneleos from the shrieking tumult forth, And bare to the ships, though with swift feet themselves Were fleeing from ghastly death, from pitiless doom. Behind the rampart of the ships they fled In huddled rout: they had no heart to stand Before Eurypylus, for Hercules, To crown with glory his son's stalwart son, Thrilled them with panic. There behind their wall They cowered, as goats to leeward of a hill Shrink from the wild cold rushing of the wind That bringeth snow and heavy sleet and haft. No longing for the pasture tempteth them Over the brow to step, and face the blast, But huddling screened by rock-wall and ravine They abide the storm, and crop the scanty grass Under dim copses thronging, till the gusts Of that ill wind shall lull: so, by their towers Screened, did the trembling Danaans abide Telephus' mighty son. Yea, he had burnt The ships, and all that host had he destroyed, Had not Athena at the last inspired The Argive men with courage. Ceaselessly From the high rampart hurled they at the foe With bitter-biting darts, and slew them fast; And all the walls were splashed with reeking gore, And aye went up a moan of smitten men.