He said: then from the bank his javelin tore, And left the breathless warrior in his gore. The floating tides the bloody carcase lave, And beat against it, wave succeeding wave; Till, roll’d between the banks, it lies the food Of curling eels, and fishes of the flood. All scatter’d round the stream (their mightiest slain) The amazed Pæonians scour along the plain; He vents his fury on the flying crew, Thrasius, Astyplus, and Mnesus slew; Mydon, Thersilochus, with Ænius, fell; And numbers more his lance had plunged to hell, But from the bottom of his gulfs profound Scamander spoke; the shores return’d the sound. “O first of mortals! (for the gods are thine) In valour matchless, and in force divine! If Jove have given thee every Trojan head, ’Tis not on me thy rage should heap the dead. See! my choked streams no more their course can keep, Nor roll their wonted tribute to the deep. Turn then, impetuous! from our injured flood; Content, thy slaughters could amaze a god.” In human form, confess’d before his eyes, The river thus; and thus the chief replies: “O sacred stream! thy word we shall obey; But not till Troy the destined vengeance pay, Not till within her towers the perjured train Shall pant, and tremble at our arms again; Not till proud Hector, guardian of her wall, Or stain this lance, or see Achilles fall.” He said; and drove with fury on the foe. Then to the godhead of the silver bow The yellow flood began: “O son of Jove! Was not the mandate of the sire above Full and express, that Phœbus should employ His sacred arrows in defence of Troy, And make her conquer, till Hyperion’s fall In awful darkness hide the face of all?”