“In strength, Achilles, and in deeds of arms, All mortals thou surpassest; for the Gods Themselves attend thee, and protect from harm; If Saturn’s son have given thee utterly The Trojans to destroy, yet, ere thou slay, Far from my waters drive them o’er the plain; For now my lovely stream is fill’d with dead; Nor can I pour my current to the sea, With floating corpses chok’d, whilst thou pursuest The work of death, insatiate: stay thy hand! With horror I behold thee, mighty chief!” Whom answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Be it as thou wilt, Scamander, Heav’n-born stream; Yet cease I not to slay until I drive These vaunting Trojans to their walls, and prove The force of Hector, if, in single fight, I be by him, or he by me, subdued.” He said, and fiercely on the Trojans rush’d, A God in might! to Phoebus then his speech The deeply-eddying River thus address’d: “God of the silver bow, great son of Jove, Obey’st thou thus the will of Saturn’s son, Who charg’d thee by the Trojans still to stand, And aid their cause, till ev’ning’s late approach Should cast its shadows o’er the fertile earth?” Thus as he spoke, from off the lofty bank Achilles springing in mid current plung’d; Then high the swelling stream, tumultuous, rose In all its angry flood; and with a roar As of a bellowing bull, cast forth to land The num’rous corpses by Achilles slain; And many living, in his cavern’d bed, Conceal’d behind the whirling waters sav’d. Fierce, round Achilles, rose the boiling wave, And on his shield descending, drove him down; Nor might he keep his foothold; but he grasp’d A lofty elm, well-grown, which from the cliff Uprooted, all the bank had torn away, And with its tangled branches check’d the flow Of the fair river, which with all its length It bridg’d across; then, springing from the deep, Swiftly he fled in terror o’er the plain. Nor ceas’d the mighty River, but pursued, With darkly-ruffling crest, intent to stay Achilles’ course, and save the Trojan host. Far as a jav’lin’s flight he rush’d, in speed Like the dark hunter eagle, strongest deem’d, And swiftest wing’d of all the feather’d race. So on he sped; loud rattled on his breast His brazen armour, as before the God, Cow’ring, he fled; the God behind him still With thund’ring sound pursued. As when a man From some dark-water’d spring through trenches leads, ’Mid plants and gardens, th’ irrigating stream, And, spade in hand, th’ appointed channel clears: Down flows the stream anon, its pebbly bed Disturbing; fast it flows with bubbling sound, Down the steep slope, o’ertaking him who leads. Achilles so th’ advancing wave o’ertook, Though great his speed; but man must yield to Gods, Oft as Achilles, swift of foot, essay’d To turn and stand, and know if all the Gods, Who dwell in Heav’n, were leagued to daunt his soul So oft the Heav’n-born River’s mighty wave Above his shoulders dash’d; in deep distress He sprang on high; then rush’d the flood below, And bore him off his legs, and wore away