The Fall of Troy | Page 5

joyed Troy's folk, despite past agonies,?As when, far-gazing from a height, the hinds?Behold a rainbow spanning the wide sea,?When they be yearning for the heaven-sent shower,?When the parched fields be craving for the rain;?Then the great sky at last is overgloomed,?And men see that fair sign of coming wind?And imminent rain, and seeing, they are glad,?Who for their corn-fields' plight sore sighed before;?Even so the sons of Troy when they beheld?There in their land Penthesileia dread?Afire for battle, were exceeding glad;?For when the heart is thrilled with hope of good,?All smart of evils past is wiped away:?So, after all his sighing and his pain,?Gladdened a little while was Priam's soul.?As when a man who hath suffered many a pang?From blinded eyes, sore longing to behold?The light, and, if he may not, fain would die,?Then at the last, by a cunning leech's skill,?Or by a God's grace, sees the dawn-rose flush,?Sees the mist rolled back from before his eyes, --?Yea, though clear vision come not as of old,?Yet, after all his anguish, joys to have?Some small relief, albeit the stings of pain?Prick sharply yet beneath his eyelids; -- so?Joyed the old king to see that terrible queen --?The shadowy joy of one in anguish whelmed?For slain sons. Into his halls he led the Maid,?And with glad welcome honoured her, as one?Who greets a daughter to her home returned?From a far country in the twentieth year;?And set a feast before her, sumptuous?As battle-glorious kings, who have brought low?Nations of foes, array in splendour of pomp,?With hearts in pride of victory triumphing.?And gifts he gave her costly and fair to see,?And pledged him to give many more, so she?Would save the Trojans from the imminent doom.?And she such deeds she promised as no man?Had hoped for, even to lay Achilles low,?To smite the wide host of the Argive men,?And cast the brands red-flaming on the ships.?Ah fool! -- but little knew she him, the lord?Of ashen spears, how far Achilles' might?In warrior-wasting strife o'erpassed her own!
But when Andromache, the stately child?Of king Eetion, heard the wild queen's vaunt,?Low to her own soul bitterly murmured she:?"Ah hapless! why with arrogant heart dost thou?Speak such great swelling words? No strength is thine?To grapple in fight with Peleus' aweless son.?Nay, doom and swift death shall he deal to thee.?Alas for thee! What madness thrills thy soul??Fate and the end of death stand hard by thee!?Hector was mightier far to wield the spear?Than thou, yet was for all his prowess slain,?Slain for the bitter grief of Troy, whose folk?The city through looked on him as a God.?My glory and his noble parents' glory?Was he while yet he lived -- O that the earth?Over my dead face had been mounded high,?Or ever through his throat the breath of life?Followed the cleaving spear! But now have I?Looked -- woe is me! -- on grief unutterable,?When round the city those fleet-footed steeds?Haled him, steeds of Achilles, who had made?Me widowed of mine hero-husband, made?My portion bitterness through all my days."
So spake Eetion's lovely-ankled child?Low to her own soul, thinking on her lord.?So evermore the faithful-hearted wife?Nurseth for her lost love undying grief.
Then in swift revolution sweeping round?Into the Ocean's deep stream sank the sun,?And daylight died. So when the banqueters?Ceased from the wine-cup and the goodly feast,?Then did the handmaids spread in Priam's halls?For Penthesileia dauntless-souled the couch?Heart-cheering, and she laid her down to rest;?And slumber mist-like overveiled her eyes [depths?Like sweet dew dropping round. From heavens' blue?Slid down the might of a deceitful dream?At Pallas' hest, that so the warrior-maid?Might see it, and become a curse to Troy?And to herself, when strained her soul to meet;?The whirlwind of the battle. In this wise?The Trito-born, the subtle-souled, contrived:?Stood o'er the maiden's head that baleful dream?In likeness of her father, kindling her?Fearlessly front to front to meet in fight?Fleetfoot Achilles. And she heard the voice,?And all her heart exulted, for she weened?That she should on that dawning day achieve?A mighty deed in battle's deadly toil?Ah, fool, who trusted for her sorrow a dream?Out of the sunless land, such as beguiles?Full oft the travail-burdened tribes of men,?Whispering mocking lies in sleeping ears,?And to the battle's travail lured her then!
But when the Dawn, the rosy-ankled, leapt?Up from her bed, then, clad in mighty strength?Of spirit, suddenly from her couch uprose?Penthesileia. Then did she array?Her shoulders in those wondrous-fashioned arms?Given her of the War-god. First she laid?Beneath her silver-gleaming knees the greaves?Fashioned of gold, close-clipping the strong limbs.?Her rainbow-radiant corslet clasped she then?About her, and around her shoulders slung,?With glory in her heart, the massy brand?Whose shining length was in a scabbard sheathed?Of ivory and silver. Next, her shield?Unearthly splendid, caught she up, whose rim?Swelled like the young moon's arching chariot-rail?When high o'er Ocean's fathomless-flowing stream?She rises, with the space half filled with light?Betwixt