The soil beneath his feet; then, groaning, thus, As up to Heav’n he look’d, Achilles cried: “O Father Jove, will none of all the Gods In pity save me from this angry flood? Content, thereafter, would I meet my fate. Of all the pow’rs of Heav’n, my mother most Hath wrong’d me, who hath buoy’d me up with hope Delusive, that, before the walls of Troy, I should by Phoebus’ swift-wing’d arrows fall. Would that by Hector’s hand ’twere mine to die, The bravest of their brave! a warrior so Were by a warrior slain! now am I doom’d Ignobly here to sink, the mighty flood O’erwhelming me, like some poor shepherd lad, Borne down in crossing by a wintry brook.” He said; and quickly, cloth’d in mortal form, Neptune and Pallas at his side appear’d; With cheering words they took him by the hand, And thus th’ Earth-shaking God his speech began: “Achilles, fear not thou, nor be dismay’d; Such pow’rful aid, by Jove’s consent, we bring, Pallas and I, from Heav’n; ’tis not decreed That thou shouldst by the River be o’erwhelm’d; He shall retire ere long, and thou shalt see; And more, if thou wilt hear, we undertake That from the war thine arm shall not be stay’d, Till thou shalt drive beneath the walls of Troy The crowd of flying Trojans; thou thyself Shalt Hector slay, and safe regain the ships: Such high renown we give thee to achieve.” They to the other Gods, this said, return’d; He, greatly strengthen’d by the voice divine, Press’d onwards to the plain; the plain he found All flooded o’er; and, floating, armour fair, And many a corpse of men in battle slain; Yet onward, lifting high his feet, he press’d Right tow’rd the stream; nor could the mighty stream Check his advance, such vigour Pallas gave; Nor did Scamander yet his fury stay, But fiercer rose his rage; and rearing high His crested wave, to Simois thus he cried: “Dear brother, aid me with united force This mortal’s course to check; he, unrestrain’d, Will royal Priam’s city soon destroy, Nor will the Trojans his assault endure. Haste to the rescue then, and from their source Fill all thy stream, and all thy channels swell; Rouse thy big waves, and roll a torrent down Of logs and stones, to whelm this man of might, Who triumphs now, and bears him as a God. Nought shall his strength or beauty then avail, Or gallant arms, beneath the waters sunk, Deep buried in the mud: himself will I In sand imbed, and o’er his corpse a pile Of shingly gravel heap; nor shall the Greeks Be able to collect his bones, encas’d By me so deep in slime. His monument They here may raise; but when they celebrate His fun’ral rites, no mound will he require.” He said; and on Achilles, from on high Came boiling, rushing down, with thund’ring roar, With foam and blood and corpses intermix’d. High rose the Heav’n-born River’s darkling wave, And bore Achilles downward; then in fear Lest the broad waters of the eddying stream Should quite o’erwhelm him, Juno cried aloud, And Vulcan thus, her son, in haste address’d: