Statius, Thebaid Book 9
Translated by J. H. Mozley
Formatted by C. Chinn

	The news of the mad fury of blood-stained Tydeus exasperates 
	the Aonians; even the Inachidae themselves grieve but little for 
	the fallen warrior, and blame him, complaining that he has transgressed 
	the lawful bounds of hatred; nay, thou too, O Gradivus, most violent of gods, 
5	though at that time the furious work of slaughter did most occupy thee, 
	thou too wert offended, as they relate, by such hardihood,1 nor turned 
	thy own gaze thereon, but drove another way thy affrighted steeds. 
	Therefore the Cadmean youth rise up to avenge the shameful 
	profanation of Melanippus’ corpse, as much inflamed 
10	as though their father’s bones had been disturbed from 
	their sepulchres and their urns flung a prey to cruel monsters. 
	The king himself infuriates them still further: “Who any more is merciful 
	or humane to the Pelasgians? Why, with hooked fangs 
	they rend our limbs – shame on such madness! Have we then so 
15	glutted their weapons? – Do ye not think ye are making war 
	on Hyrcanian tigers or facing angry Libyan lions? 
	And now he lies – O! noble solace of death! – his jaws fastened 
	in his enemy’s head, and meets his unhallowed end in welcome 
	gore. Our weapons are ruthless steel and brands of fire, 
20	but theirs is naked hate, and savagery that needs no arms. 
	May they continue in their frenzy and enjoy a renown so glorious, 
	do thou but look upon it, O Father supreme! But they complained that 
	the battle-field gaped and they marvel that the earth fled: would even 
	their own soil bear such as them?” So speaking, he led his men forward 
25	in a fierce onset shouting loud, and all alike furious to seize 
	the corpse of hated Tydeus and to gain his spoils. 
	Not otherwise do swarms of obscene birds veil 
	the stars, when the breezes have told them afar 
	of tainted air and bodies left unburied; 
30	thither in clamorous greed they haste, the lofty sky is loud 
	with flapping of wings, and lesser fowl withdraw from heaven.
	
	Fame, travelling in swift rumours about the Aonian plain, 
	is spread from troop to troop, a more rapid messenger than of wont 
	when her tidings are evil, until she glides into the affrighted ears 
35	of Polynices, to whom her tale brings most grievous news of loss. 
	The youth stiffened with horror, his ready tears stood congealed, 
	and slow was he to give credence; for Oenides’ well-known valour 
	now prompts and now forbids him to believe his death. 
	But when the disaster was confirmed on undoubted warrant, 
40	his mind and vision are whelmed in night; his blood stands still; 
	together his arms, together his limbs sink down, his lofty helm is already 
	moist with tears, and his greaves caught the shield as it fell. 
	Sadly he goes, dragging faint knees and trailing spear, 
	as though burdened by a thousand wounds and maimed in every 
45	limb; his comrades shrink from him and point to him with groans. 
	At length he throws away the armour he scarce has power to carry, 
	and falling naked on the now lifeless body of his 
	peerless friend speaks thus with streaming tears:
	
	“Oenides, last hope of my emprise, is this my gratitude, 
50	is this my due reward and recompense to thee, that thou 
	shouldst lie bare on Cadmus’ hated earth and I be 
	unharmed? Now for ever am I an exile and for ever banished, 
	since my other, ay and truer, brother has, alas, been taken from me. 
	No more do I seek the old decrees of lot or the perjured diadem 
55	of a guilty throne: to what purpose are joys so dearly bought, 
	or a sceptre that thy hand will not place in mine? 
	Depart from me, ye warriors, and leave me to face my cruel kinsman alone: 
	nought avails it to try further battle and be wasteful of deaths. 
	Depart, I pray you; what greater thing can ye give me now?2 
60	I have squandered Tydeus. By what death can I atone for that? 
	O father of my bride! O Argos! and that first night’s honest quarrel, 
	and our mutual blows, and the short wrath that was the pledge 
	of long affection!3 Ah! why was I not then slain by thy sword, great Tydeus – 
	thou wert able – on the threshold of our host Adrastus? 
65	Nay more, on my account thou didst go to Thebes, and willingly enter 
	my brother’s impious palace, whence none other would have returned, 
	as though to win a sceptre and honours for thyself alone. 
	Already of devoted Telamon, already of Theseus fame ceased to tell – 
	and lo! in what plight thou liest here! Which wounds shall I first marvel at? 
70	Which is they blood, which thy foe’s? What troops, what 
	countless bands o’erthrew thee? Nay, the Father himself, and I mistake not, 
	envied thee, and Mars smote thee with all the force of his spear.”
	
	So he speaks and weeping cleanses with his tears the hero’s 
	face that still runs blood, and composes it with his own hand. 
75	“Didst thou then hate my foes thus far, and do I outlive 
	thee?” – in his blind passion he had pulled the sword from its sheath, 
	and was pointing it for death – his friends restrained him, and his father-in-law 
	rebukes him, and calling to his mind the chances of war and the will of fate 
	consoles his swelling heart, and from that dear body, 
80	whence comes his grief and eager will for death, little by little he drags 
	him far away, and mid his converse silently puts back the weapon. 
	He is led like a bull that having lost the partner of his toils deserts 
	in numb despair the furrow he has begun among all the acres 
	round, and on his drooping neck drags part of the unsightly 
85	yoke, while part the weeping ploughman bears.
	
	But see! rallying to the battle-cry of Eteocles a chosen band 
	of warriors advances, who neither Tritonia would have despised in the fray 
	nor Mavors in the encounter with the lance: against them, 
	when he had set his protecting shield before his breast 
90	and thrust forth his long spear tall Hippomedon stands 
	his ground: even as a rock that fronts the waves, and hath no fear 
	from heaven, and the waters are broken and give way before it: 
	firm it stands, unmoved by threats; the very sea flees from its 
	stark face, and from afar the troubled4 barks recognize it. 
95	Then first the Aonian – choosing withal a stalwart spear: 
	“Hast thou no shame in the presence of the gods and with heaven 
	as witness to guard this ghost, this corpse that defames our warfare? 
	Surely ‘tis a glorious task and a memorable exploit to compass burial 
	for this wild beast, in fear he go not to Argos to win 
100	his meed of tears and obsequies, nor on the soft bier 
	spew out his cursed gore! Dismiss your care; 
	him no birds nor foul monsters will devour, not even the sacred 
	fire itself, were we to grant it.”
	
				No more he spake, but hurled 
	a huge javelin, that, checked by the hard bronze, yet 
105	passing through, is stayed in the second layer of the shield. 
	Then Pheres aims, and vigorous Lycus; but the dart of Pheres 
	falls vainly to earth, while Lycus cleaves the casque with its terrible 
	streaming plume; torn by the lance-point the crest 
	is scattered far, and lays bare the inglorious helm. 
110	He himself neither retires, nor leaps out to attack the 
	foeman, but ever turning in his own ground to every side 
	now advances and now draws back, nor ever 
	for long gives his right arm play, but in all his movements keeps nigh 
	the body, keeps the body in view, hovering over and around it. 
115	Not so jealously does its mother shield and protect 
	a helpless calf, her first-born, when a wolf is threatening, 
	and wheel round in perplexity with lowered horns; 
	for herself she has no fear, but foregetful of her weaker sex 
	foams at the mouth, and, female as she is, imitates mighty bulls. 
120	At last he cloud of darts grew less, and they could hurl 
	weapons back again; and by now Alcon of Sicyon 
	had come in succour, and the Pisaean squadron of fleet 
	Idas arrives, and they reinforce the phalanx. Rejoicing thereat 
	he flings a Lernaean shaft against the foe: it flies with all an arrow’s 
125	speed, and tarrying not a whit pierces Polites through the middle, 
	and still persistent passes through the shield of Mopsus his close comrade. 
	Then he transfixes Cydon the Phocian, and Phalanthus of Tanagra, 
	and Eryx, the latter as he turns rearward in search of weapons, 
	with no thought of death, through the long tresses of his head; 
130	the other expiring marvels that he has received the lance not 
	in his face but in his hollow throat, and therewith the blood gushes forth, 
	full of his dying wail, and the teeth that the spear-point has dislodged. 
	Leonteus, lurking behind the battle of the heroes, stealthily dared 
	to put forth his right hand, and pulled at the prostrate corpse, 
135	seizing its hair: Hippomedon spied him, though faced by many a threat 
	on every side, and with his grim blade lopped off the impudent 
	hand, taunting him withal: “’Tis Tydeus, Tydeus himself 
	who robs thee of it! Have fear of heroes even when they are slain 
	and touch not, miserable man, the mighty dead!” 
140	Thrice did the Cadmean phalanx pull away the dreadful corpse, 
	thrice do the Danaans drag it back again: just as an anxious vessel 
	strays in a lawless tumult of the Sicilian sea, despite the helmsman’s 
	fruitless efforts, and then returns on her path with canvas backward-blown.
	
	No Sidonian forces would there have availed to drive Hippomedon 
145	from his purpose, no engine-hurled missiles were like to move 
	his stout resistance, and the blows that proud battlements 
	dreaded had fallen baffled from the buckler they assailed. 
	But, mindful of the Elysian monarch,5 and recounting the crimes 
	of Tydeus, impious Tisiphone craftily draws nigh to the middle 
150	of the field: the armies felt her presence, and horses and men alike 
	were seized by a sudden sweat, although, laying aside her own aspect, 
	she counterfeited Halys the Inachian; absent was the unhallowed torch 
	and the scourge, while her locks at her command held their peace.6 
	As warrior, and with flattering looks and voice, 
155	she comes near to fierce Hippomedon, yet he feared her 
	countenance as she spoke, and marvelled at his fear. 
	Weeping she says: “In vain, O man of renown, 
	thou guardest thy dead comrades and the unburied bodies 
	of the Greeks – is that then our fear, do we yet care 
160	for a sepulchre? – Lo! Adrastus is being dragged along, the captive 
	of a Tyrian band, and to thee before all else, to thee he cries 
	and beckons. Alas! in what plight I saw him slip and fall in blood, 
	his diadem torn and the white locks streaming free! 
	Nor far from here, look! where all that cloud of dust is, 
165	all that mass of men.”
	
				Awhile the hero stood perplexed, 
	balancing his fears; the ruthless maid urges him: “Why dost thou hesitate? 
	Shall we go forward? Or does this dead body keep us back, and is he 
	more worthless who survives?” 7 To his comrades he entrusts the forlorn task 
	and the fight that should be his, and strides away, deserting his loyal friend, 
170	yet looking behind him, and ready, should they perchance recall him. 
	Then following the impetuous footsteps of the relentless goddess 
	he rushes here and there in aimless, pathless course, till the wicked Fury, 
	casting her shield behind her, vanishes darkly from his sight, 
	and snakes innumerable break forth from her helmet. 
175	The cloud disperses, and the unhappy man beholds the Inachidae 
	unperturbed, and Adrastus in his chariot, fearing nought.
	
	And now the Tyrians possess the body, and by loud cries 
	attest their joy; the triumphant shout steals upon 
	the ear and strikes the heart with secret dismay. 
180	He is dragged on hostile soil – alas! fate’s cruel power! – 
	that very Tydeus for whom of late a mighty space on either hand 
	was left as he pursued the ranks of Thebes, whether on foot 
	or shaking out his chariot-reins; never still are hands or weapons 
	or any savagery of man: they delight to wound with impunity 
185	those features rigid in death and that visage that they feared. 
	This is their passion, by this deed they strive, both brave and cowards, 
	to gain ennoblement, and they keep the blood-stained 
	weapons to display to their young children and their wives. 
	So when weary troops of shepherds have warred down a lion 
190	that has long devastated Moorish fields, and caused flocks 
	to be penned up and guardians to be watchful, 
	the countryside exults, the husbandmen come with loud cries of joy, 
	and pluck at the mane and open the mighty jaws and tell 
	of all their losses, whether he now keeps vigil nailed up 
195	beneath the roof, or hangs the glory of some ancient grove.
	
	But fierce Hippomedon, although he sees now his help is of 
	no avail and he is too late to fight for the stolen corpse, 
	nevertheless goes on and blindly whirls his relentless sword, 
	scarce knowing friend from foe, so that nought delay his advance; 
200	but the ground now slippery with recent slaughter, 
	and arms and dying men and shattered chariots impede 
	him, and his left thigh, which the spear-point of the Echionian 
	monarch pierced, but in his fury he had dissembled the wound 
	or known not of it. At length he sees Hopleus sorrowing: 
205	he, the trustly comrade of great Tydeus and lately, 
	but all in vain, his squire, was holding the wing-footed steed, who, 
	with bowed neck and ignorant of his master’s fate, was impatient only of his 
	idleness, and because his lord was more adventurous in the fray of infantry. 
	Him, though he scorns a new weight on his proud back – 
210	for since his taming he knew but one hand only – the hero seizes 
	and thus bespeaks: “Why refusest thou thy new destiny, 
	unhappy charger? Never more for thee is the burden of thy 
	haughty lord; nor more shalt thou sate thy hunger on the Aetolian meads, 
	or shake free thy exultant mane about the streams of Achelous. 
215	This remains for thee – go and at least avenge thy dear master’s death, 
	or come with me, lest thou too in captivity vex his vanished 
	shade, and after Tydeus bear some boastful rider.” 
	One would have said he heard and was enkindled: so violently8 
	does he whirl him away in wild career, resenting the less the similar reins. 
220	Even so the half-brute Centaur leaps down into the vale 
	from the airy height of Ossa: at himself9 the lofty forests quake in fear, 
	at the horse the plain shakes. Alarmed and breathless the sons of Labdacus 
	flock together, on them Hippomedon bears down, and shearing 
	with the sword their unwitting necks leaves behind their falling trunks.
	
225	They had reached the river: with channel fuller than of wont 
	Ismenos was running then in mighty spate, an omen of disaster. 
	There a short respite was given, thither the columns urged their weary 
	flight in terror from the field; the waves, their refuge from the fray, 
	are spellbound at the warriors, and are lit up by the bright sheen10 of armour. 
230	Into the water they leapt, and with a great crash the bank 
	gave way and the opposite shores lay hid in dust. 
	He too with mightier leap plunges through the hostile stream 
	against the astonished foe, just as he was – no time for 
	dismounting –, only his javelins, fixed in the green turf, 
235	he entrusts for a while to a poplar tree. 
	Then, indeed in deadly terror, of their own accord they fling their weapons 
	on the waves that carry them away; some doff their helms 
	and lie basely hid, so long as they can maintain their lives 
	beneath the waters; many tried to swim the river, 
240	but their fastenings grip them, the belts impede their 
	breathing, and the soaked11 corslets weigh down their bodies. 
	Even as beneath the swelling flood the dark blue fishes 
	are afraid, whenso’er they see a dolphin probing the secret 
	lairs of the deep; the whole swarm flees to the lowest pools 
245	and huddles frightened in the green seaweed: 
	nor come they forth till through the surface waves he darts his 
	curving body and prefers to race the ships that meet his sight: 
	even so he hero drives them pell-mell before him, and in mid-stream 
	both guides the rein and aims the shaft, upheld by his 
250	swimming horse, whose nimble hoof, accustomed to the plain, 
	now treads the wave and seeks the deep-sunk sands.
	
	Chromis lays Ion low, Antiphos Chromis, and Hypseus Antiphos, 
	Hypseus also Astyages, and Linus, who is about to leave the river 
	and flee away, were it not that the Fates forbid, and early in his life’s 
255	thread he is doomed to watery death.12 Hippomedon presses hard the ranks 
	of Thebes, Asopian Hypseus throws the Danaans into confusion; 
	on either side the river is affrighted, each stains the waters thick 
	with blood, from that stream each is fated never to return. 
	And now mangled limbs are rolled down on the flowing 
260	current, and heads and severed arms rejoin their bodies, 
	and now the wave bears lances and light targes and 
	slackened bows, and plumes suffer not their casques to sink. 
	Far and wide the surface of the stream is strewn with floating weapons, 
	and its depths with men; there bodies wrestle with death, 
265	and the confronting stream chokes back their forth-issuing breath.
	
	The lad Argipus had grasped a river-side elm-tree in the 
	rushing flood; savage Menoeceus with his sword shears through 
	those comely shoulders; he, as he falls, still striving, gazes, 
	a trunk, at his own arms on the high boughs. 
270	The spear of Hypseus sank Tages with a mighty wound: 
	he remains at the bottom, and in place of his body his blood returns. 
	To rescue his brother Agenor leapt down from the bank, and grasped him – 
	alas! poor wretch! – but the wounded man weighs him down in 
	his embrace, as he tries to lift him. Agenor could have freed himself 
275	and come forth from the water, but liked not to return without his brother. 
	Capetus rises to his right and threatens a blow, but is 
	sucked down by the entangling eddies of the rapid current; 
	now his face goes under, now his hair, now his right arm is gone, 
	last of all his sword sinks beneath the headlong waters. 
280	One death in a thousand shapes of dying torments the wretches. 
	A Mycalesian spear-point sheathes itself in Agyrtes’ back: 
	he looks round, but there was none who hurled it; urged by 
	the torrent’s flow the spear had sped and found his blood.
	
	The Aetolian charger13 too is pierced in his strong shoulders, 
285	and at the deadly shock rears up and prances, beating 
	the air: yet he chief is no white upset by the plunge,14 
	but pities the horse, and groaning pulls the dart from the deep wound 
	with his own hand, and of his own accord lets go the reins. 
	Then he rejoins the fray afoot, surer both in step and hand, 
290	and, one after the other, slays tardy Nomius 
	and valiant Mimas and Lichas of Thebes and Lycetus 
	of Anthedon and Thespiades, one of twin brothers; 
	to Panemus begging a like fate he cries: 
	“Live on, and to the walls of accursed Thebes depart 
295	alone, no more to deceive thy unhappy parents.15 
	Thanks be to Heaven that Bellona’s gory hand has driven the fight 
	in to the rapid stream; the wave sweeps away the cowards 
	on their native flood, and the naked ghost of unburied Tydeus 
	shall not moan and shriek around your pyres; 
300	ye shall go down to feed the cruel monsters of the deep, 
	but him the earth doth carry and shall resolve into her own elements.” 
	So harries he the foe, and with taunts adds bitterness to his blows; 
	and now he rages with the sword, now snatches up floating javelins 
	and flings them back; Theron he slays, the friend of chaste Diana, 
305	and Gyas, dweller in the country, and wave-wandering Erginus, 
	and unshorn Herses, and Cretheus, contemner of the 
	deep, who oft in a tiny craft had weathered Caphareus’ 
	stormy promontory and the Euboean squalls. 
	Behold the power of fate! a lance pierces his breast, 
310	and he is carried on the stream, alas on what waters shipwrecked! 
	Thee too Pharsalus, crossing the river in thy lofty car 
	to join thy companions, the Doric spear-point overturns thee, 
	slays thy horses: the violence of the angry flood 
	engulfs them, and the ill-starred union of the yoke.
	
315	Come now, ye learned Sisters, grant me to know what toil 
	laid low Hippomedon in the heaving billows, and why Ismenos 
	himself was roused to join the fray; for your task it is 
	to search out the past, and let not fame grow old. 
	Crenaeus, the youthful son of Faunus and the nymph 
320	Ismenis, rejoiced to fight in his mother’s waters – 
	Crenaeus, who first saw the light in the trusted stream 
	and was cradled in the green banks of his native river. 
	So thinking that there the Elysian Sisters had no power, 
	merrily, now from this bank now from that, he crosses his 
325	caressing grandsire: the wave supports his footsteps, whether he go 
	downstream or athwart the flood; nor when he goes counter does 
	the river one whit delay him, but flows backward likewise. 
	No more winningly does the sea cover the waist of the stranger 
	from Anthedon,16 nor Triton rise higher from the summer waves, 
330	nor yet Palaemon,17 when he hastes back to his darling 
	mother’s kisses, and smites his tardy dolphin. 
	Gay harness decks his shoulders, and his splendid buckler gleaming 
	with gold is engraved with the ancient tale of the Aonian race. 
	Here the Sidonian maid18 rides on the white back of the enticing steer; 
335	now fears she not the sea, now clings not to the horns with 
	tender hands; around the margin of her feet the waves play sportively; 
	one would think that he bull moved upon the shield, and cleft the billows. 
	The river-waves, of the same colour as the sea,19 assist belief. 
	Then bold alike with weapons and saucy speech he challenges 
340	Hippomedon: “This is no poisonous Lerna, no Herculean Hydras 
	drink these waters, ‘tis a sacred river that thou art defiling, 
	ay, sacred, - so shalt thou find it to thy cost, thou wretch! – 
	and gods have been nourished by its streams.” Nought said the other, 
	but advanced upon him; in a denser mass the flood resisted him, 
345	and checked his hand, but yet he drave home the wound for all his 
	hindering, and pierced utterly life’s secret chambers. 
	The river shuddered at the horrid deed, ye woods on either shore lamented, 
	and deeper groans resounded from the hollow banks. 
	From his dying lips came the last cry: “Mother!” 
350	As he uttered it, the waters choked the poor lad’s voice.
	
	But his mother, amid her company of silvery-gleaming sisters, 
	leapt up straightway from the sea-green valley at the shock of doom, 
	frenzied, with loosened hair, and in wild grief rent 
	with many a blow her face and bosom and green robe. 
355	Forth from the waves she burst, and with trembling voice 
	again and again cries out “Crenaeus”: nowhere was he to be seen, 
	but on the flood there floats his shield, a mark, alas! his unhappy parent 
	must recognize too well; he himself lies far off, where on the bounds 
	of mingling sea and river Ismenos suffers his last charge. 
360	Often thus does Alcyone deserted make lament for her 
	wave-wandering, spray-drenched home, when savage Auster 
	and envious Thetis have scattered her darlings and their shivering nests. 
	Once more the bereaved mother sinks, and hidden in the watery depths 
	she searches in vain for her dead son by many a track, 
365	where the path shines clear before her as she goes – 
	searches and yet bewails; oftimes the bristling river 
	checks her, and a bloody haze obscures her vision. 
	Yet in mad haste she flings herself on weapons and swords, 
	and thrusts her hand into helmets and turns over prostrate 
370	corpses; nor drawing nigh the deep did she enter the bitter brine 
	of Doris, until a band of Nereids pitying her wafted his body, 
	now in the keeping of the ocean-billows, to his mother’s 
373	breast. Embracing him on the sloping bank and with soft 
375	tresses dries his wet face and cries amid loud lament:
	
	“Is this the gift thy half-divine parents and thy immortal grandsire 
	have given thee? Is it thus thou reignest in our flood? 
	Unhappy boy! gentler was the discordant alien earth, 
	gentler the ocean wave, which brought back thy body 
380	to the river and seemed to await thy hapless mother’s coming. 
	Are these my lineaments? Are these the eyes of thy fierce sire? 
	Are these thy billowy grandsire’s tresses? Once wert thou 
	the pride and glory of wave and woodland, and while thou livedst 
	I was held a greater goddess and the queen of Nymphs. 
385	Where alas! is that late crowd of courtiers round thy mother’s halls, 
	where are the Maidens of the Glen (Napaeae) that prayed to serve thee? 
	Why do I now bring thee home, Crenaeus, in my sad embrace, 
	not for myself but for thy burial, who hadst better remained there 
	in the cruel deep? Hard-hearted father, hast thou not pity nor shame 
390	for such a death? What lake profound and inescapable hath 
	engulfed thee in the river’s depths, so that nor thy grandson’s 
	cruel fate nor my own weeping can reach thee there? 
	Lo! Hippomedon rages and boasts himself the master 
	in thy flood, and banks and waves tremble before him; 
395	his was the stroke that made the water drink our blood; 
	but thou art sluggish, and the fierce Pelasgians’ acquiescent slave! 
	Come at least, cruel sire, to the ashes and last obsequies of thy own, 
	for ‘tis not thy grandson only whose pyre thou shalt kindle here.” 
	With her words she mingles wailing, and stains with blood her 
400	innocent bosom, while the caerulean sisters re-echo her lament; 
	so, men say, did Leucothea,20 not yet a Nereid, wail 
	in Isthmus’ haven, when her cold babe with gasping 
	breast spewed out upon his mother the angry sea.
	
	But father Ismenos, reclining in that secret cavern 
405	whence winds and clouds do drink and the rain-bringing bow 
	is nourished, and whence comes a fuller harvest to the Tyrian fields, 
	when from afar, spite of his own waters’ roar, he caught the sound 
	of lamentations and his daughter’s earliest groans, uplifted his moss-grown 
	neck and his ice-weighted hair; the tall pine fell from 
410	his loosened grasp, and the urn dropped and rolled away. 
	Along the banks the woods and lesser rivers 
	marvel at him as he thrusts forth his face encrusted 
	with age-long mire; so majestically he rises from the flood, 
	lifting his foamy head and his breast astream with 
415	echoing fall of rivulets from his dark-blue beard. 
	One of the Nymphs meets her father and tells him of his daughter’s 
	tears and his grandson’s fate, and shows him the blood-stained author 
	of the deed and seizes his right hand; high he stands in the deep 
	river, and smiting his face and horns entwined with green sedge, 
420	thus begins sore troubled with deep-mouthed utterance: 
	“Is this thy reward, O ruler of the gods above, for that so oft 
	I played the accomplice-friend to thy adventures, and saw – I 
	fear not to recall it – the shameless horns on thy false visage, 
	then Phoebe forbidden to unyoke her care, 
425	or the dowry-gift of a funeral-pyre and the lightning’s trickery?21 
	And that I have nurtured the foremost of thy sons? Do they too feel 
	so mean a gratitude? Of a truth the Tirynthian crawled an infant by this river; 
	with these waters I quenched thy Bromios as he burned. 
	See the carnage the corpses a I carry on my stream, choked utterly 
430	with weapons as it is and hidden beneath unwonted heaps. 
	Continuous warfare besets my channel, every wave breathes 
	horror, and souls new-slain wander above me 
	and beneath, and join bank to bank in darkness. 
	Yet I, that river invoked with holy cries, I, whose praise 
435	it is to lave in my pure fount the soft wands and horns 
	of Bacchus, am blocked with dead, and seek 
	a difficult passage to the sea; so great a stream of gore fills not 
	the impious meres of Strymon, and foaming Hebrus reddens not so deeply 
	when Gradivus is at war. Does not thy fostering wave rebuke thee 
440	and thy violence, O Liber, who hast long forgotten thy 
	parents? Is Eastern Hydaspes more easily subdued?22 
	But thou who boastfully exultest in the spoils and slaughter 
	of an innocent lad, thou shalt not return in triumph 
	from this stream to mighty Inachus of fierce Mycenae, 
445	unless it be that I am mortal and thou of heavenly race.”
	
	So spake he, gnashing his teeth, and gave the sign to his 
	already raging waters: cold Cithaeron sends succour from 
	the hills, and bids his ancient snows and stores of frost 
	be moving; to the flood his brother Asopos unites his 
450	secret stores, and supplies streams from wide-open 
	veins.23 He himself explores the hollow earth’s recesses, 
	and tries torpid lakes and pools and lazy fens, 
	and lifting skyward his greedy countenance sucks down 
	the moisture of the clouds and drains dry the air. 
455	Already he flowed with a tide that rose above either lofty 
	bank, already Hippomedon, who of late stood higher than 
	mid-channel’s depth, with unmoistened arms and shoulders, 
	is marvelling that the stream has grown above his stature. 
	All round him the billows swell and the angry tempest 
460	rises high, like the sea when it drains the Pleiads 
	or flings darkened Orion against trembling mariners.24 
	Not otherwise does the Teumesian river batter Hippomedon 
	with its seething flood and ever is hurled back by the shield 
	on his left arm, and anon the dark tide in its foaming onslaught 
465	surges over his buckler, pours back with shattered wave 
	and returns in greater volume; moreover, not content with the 
	watery mass, its plucks at the trees that support the crumbling 
	banks and whirls along aged boughs and stones torn 
	from its bed. River and hero are locked in unequal combat, 
470	and furious grows the god; for the other retreats not, nor is 
	weakened by any threats, but advancing attacks the oncoming 
	billows, and holding out his shield divides the stream. 
	His feet stand firm though the ground recedes, and with straining 
	sinews he holds fast to slippery rocks, and by struggling and clinging 
475	with his knees he maintains the foothold that the treacherous mud undermines, 
	and thus he taunts besides: “Whence, Ismenos, this sudden wrath? 
	Or from what deeps hast thou drawn these forces, 
	slave of an unwarlike god, who knowest nought of blood 
	save in women’s revels, when the Bacchic pipe is bleating, 
480	and frenzied matrons defile the three-yearly festival?” 
	He spoke, and on the instant the god assailed him, 
	his visage a welter of rain and clouded by floating sand; 
	nor was he fierce in speech, but with an oak-trunk thrice and four 
	times smote his adversary’s breast with all the might of a god’s wrath, 
485	rising to the blow; he at last turned his steps, 
	the buckler stricken from his arm, and beat a slow 
	retreat. The waters press after him, and the river follows in triumph 
	as he gives ground; the Tyrians too vex him from above with 
	stones and iron hail, and drive him back from either 
490	bank. What can he do, beset by flood and battle? 
	No flight is there now for the unhappy man, no room for a glorious death.
	
	Rising from the grassy brim there stood an ash-tree, on the 
	doubtful verge of land and waters but more friendly to the waters, 
	and held the stream in the dominion of its mighty shadow. 
495	The succour of this tree – for where could he attempt the land? – 
	he grasped with clutching fingers, nor did it endure the strain, 
	but, overcome by a weight too great for its hold, gave way, 
	and, torn from the roots whereby it entered the river and gripped 
	the thirsty ground, dropped from on high and hurled itself 
500	and the bank together on the dismayed hero, nor brooking 
	him further, bridged and damned the stream with sudden downfall.25 
	Hither all the waves comes surging, and an inescapable 
	whirlpool of mud and hollow eddies rises and falls. 
	And now the tortuous flood surrounds the shoulders, now the neck 
505	of the warrior; compelled at last to confess despair he 
	exclaims: “For shame! great Mars! wilt thou drown this life of mine 
	in a river? Must I then sink beneath sluggish lakes and meres 
	like a shepherd caught in the cruel waters of a 
	sudden torrent? Have I verily not deserved to fall 
510	by the sword?” Moved by his prayers Juno at length 
	accosts the Thunderer: “How long, glorious sire of gods, how long 
	wilt thou press the hapless sons of Inachus? Already Pallas holds 
	Tydeus in detestation, already Delphi is silent, its prophet slain; 
	lo! my Hippomedon, whose home is Argos and Mycenae 
515	the cradle of his race, who worships Juno before all other gods – 
	is it thus I am faithful to my own? – shall my Hippomedon go to feed 
	the cruel monsters of the deep? Surely thou didst once allow the conquered 
	to have the last rites of the tomb? Where are the flames that followed 
	the Cecropian fray?26 Where is Theseus’ fire?” He spurns not his 
520	consort’s righteous plea, but lightly glanced towards Cadmus’ 
	walls: the waters beheld his nod and sank to rest. 
	The shoulders and breast of the hero are revealed, those drained of blood, 
	that pierced with wounds: as when a stormy sea, made mountainous 
	by the winds, abates, the rocks and the land the sailors sought for 
525	rise into view, and the waters subside from the threatening crags.
	
	What avails it to have gained the bank? The Phoenican host 
	presses him on every side with a storm of darts, his limbs are without 
	covering, all exposed is he to death; then his wounds stream, 
	and the blood that was staunched beneath the waters flows 
530	in the open air and breaks the tender apertures of the veins, 
	and the cold of the river makes him reel and stagger in his gait. 
	He falls, even as on Getic Haemus, whether from Boreas’ rage 
	or its own strength’s decay, an oak that blended its foliage 
	with the sky falls forward and leaves a void in the wide air; 
535	as it totters, the forest and the very mountain tremble, 
	for fear where it may fall, what stretch of woodland it may shatter. 
	Yet none dares touch his sword or helmet; 
	scarce believe they their eyes, but shudder at the 
	monstrous corpse, and approach it with drawn swords.
	
540	At length Hypseus went near and wrenched the sword-hilt 
	from his deathly grip, and freed the grim visage of its casque: 
	then he goes through the Aonian ranks, displaying the helmet 
	balanced aloft on his glittering blade, and crying exultantly: 
	“Behold the fierce Hippomedon, behold the dread avenger 
545	of impious Tydeus, and the subduer of the gory flood!” 
	Great-hearted Capaneus27 knew him from afar, and mastered 
	his rage, and poising a huge javelin with his arm 
	thus prays: “Help me now, right arm of mine, 
	my only present aid in battle and deity irresistible! 
550	On thee I call, thee only I adore, despising the gods above.” 
	So he speaks, and himself fulfils his own prayer. 
	The quivering fir-shaft flies through shield and corslet’s 
	brazen mail, and finds out at last he life deep in the mighty 
	breast; he falls with the thunderous crash of a lofty 
555	tower when pierced and shaken with innumerable blows it 
	sinks in ruin, and opens the breached city to the conquerors. 
	Then standing over him: “We deny thee not,” says he, “thy 
	death’s renown; look hither, ‘twas I that dealt the wound. 
	Depart in joy, and boast thee far beyond the other shades!” 
560	Then he seizes the sword and casque of Hypseus, and tears 
	away the shield; and holding them over the dead Hippomedon: 
	“Receive, O mighty chief,” he cries, “thy own and thy enemy’s 
	spoils together; thy ashes shall have their glory and thy shade its 
	rightful rank. Meanwhile, till we pay thee the flame that is thy due, 
565	Capaneus thy avenger hides thy limbs in this sepulchre.” 
	Thus impartial Mars in the cruel vicissitudes of war gave 
	interchange of mutual slaughter to Greeks and Sidonians alike: 
	here they mourn fierce Hippomedon, there Hypseus, 
	no slower to the fray, and each gain solace from their foes’ distress.
	
570	Meanwhile the stern-eyed mother of the Tegean 
	archer-lad,28 troubled in her sleep by gloomy dreams, 
	with flying hair and feet duly unsandalled was going 
	before day-break to Ladon’s chilly stream, that she might 
	cleanse her tainted slumbers in its living waters. 
575	For throughout many a distracted, care-worn night 
	she would often see spoils that she herself had dedicated 
	fallen from the shrines, and herself, a fugitive from the woodlands 
	and chased away by Dryad folk, wandering by unknown tombs, 
	and often new-won triumphs of her son brought home 
580	from the war, his armour, his well-known steed, his comrades, 
	but himself never; or again she would see her quiver fallen from 
	her shoulders, and her own images and familiar likenesses aflame. 
	But that night seemed to the unhappy woman to portend 
	surpassing terrors, and disturbed all her mother’s heart. 
585	Well-known throughout the forests of Arcadia was 
	an oak of fertile growth, which she herself had chosen from 
	a multitude of groves and made sacred to Diana, and by her worship 
	endued with power divine; here she would lay by her bow and 
	weary shafts, and fasten the curved weapons of boars and the 
590	flayed skins of lions, and antlers huge as woodland boughs. 
	Scarce have the branches room, so closely set is it with spoils 
	of the country-side, and the sheen of steal mingles29 with the green shade. 
	This oak-tree, when once she was returning from the uplands tired 
	with long chase, and carrying in proud triumph the head late-severed 
595	of an Erymanthian bear, she beheld all hacked and torn with many 
	a wound, its foliage fallen, and its branches dripping blood and dying 
	on the ground; in answer to her question a Nymph told 
	of the violence of cruel Maenads and her foe Lyaeus.30 
	While she moaned and beat her breast with imaginary blows, 
600	her eyes cast off their darkness; from her sorrowing couch 
	she leaps, and searches o’er her cheeks for the phantom tears.
	
	So when by dipping thrice her hair in the river she had atoned 
	the sacrilege, and added words that comfort a mother’s troubled 
	heart, she hastened to armed Diana’s shrine while the morning 
605	dew was falling, and rejoiced to see the familiar woodland and the 
	oak-tree all unharmed. Then standing at the threshold 
	of the goddess she prays thus, to no avail: 
	“Maiden Queen of the forests, whose ungentle standards 
	and ruthless warfare I follow, scorning my sex, 
610	in no Grecian manner – nor are the barbarous-fashioned 
	Colchians or troops of Amazons more truly thy votaries – 
	if I have never joined revelling bands or the wanton nightly 
	sport,31 if, although stained by a hated union, 
	I have nevertheless handled not the smooth wands nor the soft 
615	skeins, but even after wedlock remained in the rough 
	wilds, a huntress still and in my heart a virgin; 
	if I took no thought to hide my fault in some secret cave, 
	but showed my child and confessed and laid him 
	trembling at thy feet – no puny weakling was he, 
620	but straightway crawled to my bow, and as a babe 
	he cried for arrows in his first tearful accents: 
	for him I pray – ah! what mean these nights of terror, these 
	threatening dreams? – for him, who now in confident hope, 
	trusting overmuch, alas, in thee, is gone to battle; grant me to see him 
625	victorious in the war, or if I ask too much, grant me but to see him! 
	Here let him labour and bear thy arms. Make the dire signs 
	of ill to cease; what power, O Diana of the woods, 
628	have Maenads and Theban deities in our glades? 
630	Woe is me! – why in my own heart do I find a dreadful omen in the oak? 
	But if sleep sends true presagings to my unhappy mind, 
	I beseech thee, merciful Dictynna, by thy mother’s travail 
	and thy brother’s splendour, pierce with all thine arrows this 
	unblest womb! Let him first hear of his wretched 
635	mother’s death!” She spoke, and beheld even 
	cold Diana’s marble moist with falling tears.
	
	The stern goddess leaves her still stretched upon the 
	sacred doorway and brushing the cold altar with her 
	tresses, and with a bound crosses the leafy summit 
640	of Maenalos in mid-air and directs her steps to Cadmus’ 
	walls, where the inner path of heaven32 shines for 
	gods alone, and high uplifted views all the earth together. 
	And now, near half-way on her road, she was passing 
	the forest-clad ridges of Parnassus, when in a glittering cloud 
645	she saw her brother not as she was wont to see him: for he was 
	returning sadly from the Echionian fray, mourning the death of 
	the engulfed augur. The region of the sky glowed red as their 
	rays mingled; at the divine conjunction the beams of each 
	shone out, their bows met, and quiver rang to quiver.33 
650	He first began: “I know, my sister, ‘tis the Labdacian ranks 
	thou seekest, and the Arcadian who dares to fight too valiant for him. 
	His faithful mother begs thee: would that the Fates might grant 
	her prayer! Lo! I myself have availed not – ah! for shame! – but seen 
	my votary’s arms and consecrated laurels go down to the void 
655	of Tartarus, and his face turned toward me as he went, 
	nor did I check his car or close the chasm of the earth, 
	heartless that I am and unworthy to be worshipped. Thou seest how my caverns 
	mourn, O sister, and the silence of my shrine; this is my sole recompense 
	to my loyal friend. Nor do thou continue to summon aid that can 
660	but fail, nor pursue thy sad task in vain; 
	the youth is near his end, ‘tis fate immutable, 
	nor do thy brother’s oracles deceive thee on a doubtful matter.” 
	“But I may surely obtain glory for him at the last,” the maiden 
	in dismay replies, “and find a solace for his death, if indeed it so 
665	must be, nor shall that man escape unpunished, whoever shall 
	impiously stain his guilty hand with the blood of an 
	innocent boy, and may my shafts wreak dire revenge!” 
	With these words she moved upon her way, and suffering 
	her brother but a scant embrace sought Thebes in hostile mood.
	
670	But on either side after the slaying of the chiefs the fight 
	waxed fiercer, and the lust of vengeance aroused mutual rage. 
	Here the squadrons of Hypseus shout and the troop that has lost 
	its leader, there with deeper roar the bereft cohort of the dead 
	Hippomedon; fiercely struggling they expose their bodies 
675	to the sword, and with equal ardour drain the foe’s blood 
	and shed their own, nor do they budge a step: 
	the lines stand locked, column against column, and they yield 
	their lives, but will not turn their backs, to the cruel foe – when gliding 
	through the air the swift Latonian takes her stand on the Dircaean 
680	height; the hills know her, and the forest trembles at the 
	well-known goddess, where once bare-breasted with cruel arrows 
	she had slain Niobe and all her brood, out-wearying her bow.
	
	But the lad, exultant now that the slaughter has begun, 
	was darting between the lines on a hunter steed, untrained to war 
685	and suffering then his earliest bridle; about him was cast a striped 
	tiger-skin, and the gilded talons beat upon his shoulders: 
	his knotted mane in controlled luxuriance lies close against 
	his neck, and upon his breast tosses a crescent chain 
	of snow-white tusks, tokens of the woodland. 
690	The boy wore a cloak twice steeped in Oebalian dye,34 
	and a glittering gold-embroidered tunic – only this had 
	his mother woven – gathered about his waist by a slender girdle, 
	and, burdened by a huge sword, he had let drop his shield on the left 
	shoulder of his horse; the golden buckle of the belt that hangs 
695	by his armed side delights him with its polished clasp, 
	and he joys to hear the rattle of the scabbard 
	and the chains that fall behind him from his crest; 
	sometimes he gaily tosses his flowing plume and his 
	glancing jewel-studded casque. But when his panting helm 
700	grows hot in the fight, he frees him of the covering and appears 
	bare-headed; then sweetly shine his locks and his countenance, 
	all a-quiver in the sunbeams, and the cheeks whose tardiness 
	he himself laments, not yet changed by rosy down. 
	Nor does he find pleasure in the praise of his own fairness, but puts on 
705	a harsh severity of look; yet anger becomes him and preserves 
	the beauty of his brow. Freely do the Theban warriors yield him place, 
	remembering their own sons, and relax their straining bows, 
	but he pursues and plies them with ruthless javelins, for all their pity. 
	Even the Sidonian Nymphs along Teumesian ridges 
710	praise him as he fights; his very dust and sweat are 
	in favour, and sighing they breathe unspoken prayers.
	
	Tender sorrow steals to the depth of Diana’s heart as she beholds 
	this sight, and staining her cheeks with tears she cries: 
	“What escape from approaching death can thy faithful goddess 
715	find thee now? Was it to battles such as these thou hastenedst, 
	fierce, ill-fated lad? Alas! thy rash and untried spirit drove thee, 
	and the love of fame that prompts to a glorious death. 
	Too scant already, forsooth, was the Maenalian forest for thy 
	impetuous years, and the paths that lay through lairs of beasts, 
720	scarce safe for thee, child, without thy mother, to whose bow 
	and woodland spears, impudent boy, thy strength was yet unequal. 
	And she now is making loud and bitter complaint about my altars, 
	and wearies the unhearing doors and thresholds; 
	in the well-loved clarions and the battle’s outcry thou art rejoicing, 
725	happy thou, and thou shalt die making but thy mother wretched.” 35 
	Yet lest as he dies she fail to bring him her last honour, 
	she advances into the midst of the array, hemmed about 
	with dusky mist, and first stealing the light shafts from 
	the back of the bold lad, she fill his quiver with celestial 
730	arrows, whereof none falls unstained with blood; 
	then she sprinkles his limbs with ambrosial liquor, 
	and his steed also, lest their bodies be profaned by any wound 
	before his death, and murmurs many a sacred charm and conscious 
	spell, which she herself teaches the Colchian maids at night 
735	in secret caves, and as they search shows them cruel herbs.
	
	Then indeed uncovering his bow he darts in fiery course about the field, 
	nor is controlled by caution, forgetful of his native land, his mother 
	and himself, and uses overmuch his heavenly weapons: 
	just as a lion, whose Gaetulian dam brings him herself 
740	in his infancy gory food, as soon as he feels his neck swell 
	with muscles and grimly looks at his new talons, 
	scorns to be fed, and at last breaks forth to freedom 
	and loves the open plains, and can no more return to his cave. 
	Whom now slayest thou, ruthless boy, with thy Parrhasian horn? 
745	Coroebus of Tanagra, did thy first shaft lay low, 
	sped on a narrow path between the lowest margin of the helm 
	and the uppermost of the shield; the blood wells up into 
	his throat, and his face glows red with the sacred fiery venom. 
	More cruelly Eurytion falls, in the orb of whose left eye 
750	the cunning point buries itself with triple barb. 
	Pulling out the arrow that brings the melting eyeball with it, 
	he dashes at his assailant; but what cannot the brave weapons 
	of the gods perform? A second wound in the other orb makes 
	his darkness complete; yet he yields not but pursues the foe 
755	by memory’s aid, until he trips and falls o’er prostrate Idas: 
	there wretchedly he lies gasping amid the victims of the 
	cruel fight, and entreats friend and foe to slay him. 
	To these he adds the sons of Abas, Argus of the noble locks, 
	and Cydon, guiltily loved by his unhappy sister. 
760	Him did he pierce through both his temples 
	with transverse-flying shaft: from one temple 
	the point protrudes, at the other the feathers’ flight was stayed, 
	from both the blood came flowing. None do his angry darts 
	excuse from death, Lamus is not shielded by his beauty, nor Lygdus 
765	by his fillet, nor Aeolus by his budding manhood. 
	Lamus is pierced in the face, Lygdus bewails a wounded groin, 
	thou, Aeolus, dost bemoan the dart that transfixed thy snow-white brow. 
	Thee rocky Euboea bore, thee Thisbe shining white had 
	sent, this warrior, green Erythrae, thou wilt not receive again. 
770	No blow but tells, no missile flies unfavoured of heaven, 
	his right hand rests not, and the next arrow’s twang follows 
	hard upon the last. Who could believe that one bow, 
	one arm was dealing death? Now aims he forward, 
	now shifts from side to side in bewildering change of attack, 
775	now flees when they assail and turns nought but his bow to face them.
	
	And now in wonder and indignation the sons of Labdacus 
	were rallying, and first Amphion, of Jove’s famous seed, 
	ignorant still what deaths the lad was dealing on the battle-field: 
	“How long shalt thou still make profit of death’s delaying, 
780	thou boy that shalt be a sore loss to thy goodly parents? 
	Nay, even yet thy spirit swells high and thy rashness grows, 
	while none deigns to meet thy onset and thy too feeble 
	might, and thou art left as beneath their wrath. 
	Go, return to thy Arcadia and mingling with thy equals there, 
785	while fierce Mars exhausts his fury here in the real dust of war, 
	play thy soldier games at home! But if the melancholy glory 
	of the tomb doth more thee, we will grant thee to die a hero’s death.” 
	Long had the truculent son of Atalanta raged with yet bitterer taunts 
	against him, and ere yet the other had ended thus begins: 
790	“Nay, I am even late in making war on Thebes, if this is 
	all your host! What boy so tender as to refuse to fight with such 
	as these? No Theban offspring seest thou here, but the warlike stock 
	of the Arcadian race; no Thyiad mother, slave to 
	Echionian Lyaeus, bore me in the silence of night, 
795	never have we put unsightly turbans on our 
	heads, nor brandished dishonourable spears. 
	From childhood I learnt to crawl on frozen streams, 
	and to enter the dread lairs of monsters, and – 
	but why should I say more? My mother has ever the sword 
800	and bow, your fathers beat hollow drums!” 
	Amphion brooked this not, but hurled a mighty spear at his face 
	while he spoke; but his charger, affrighted by the terrible 
	gleam of the steel, swung round with his master to one side, 
	and swerving sent the greedy javelin flying wide of the mark. 
805	Amphion was attacking the youth with drawn sword 
	the more fiercely, when the Latonian36 leapt down into 
	mid-plain, and stood clear to see before the eyes of all.
	
	Dorceus of Maenalus, bound by the ties of chaste affection, 
	was keeping close to the lad’s side: to him the queen had entrusted 
810	her son’s rash youth and her own fears and all the chances of war. 
	Disguised in his features the goddess then addressed the boy: 
	“Enough, Parthenopaeus, to have routed the Ogygian bands 
	so far; enough, now spare thy unhappy mother, 
	spare the gods who favour thee.” But he unterrified: 
815	“Suffer me, faithless Dorceus – no more will I ask – 
	to slay this man who bears weapons that rival mine, 
	and boasts like apparel and resounding reins. 
	These reins I will handle, the apparel shall hang on Trivia’s lofty 
	door, and his captured quiver shall be a present to my mother.” 
820	The Latonian heard him, and smiled amid her tears.
	
	Long time from a distant quarter of the sky had Venus, 
	in the embrace of Mars, beheld her, and while she anxiously 
	commended Thebes and Cadmus and her dear Harmonia’s progeny 
	to her lord, she stirred with timely utterance the grief that lay hidden 
825	in his silent breast: “Seest thou not, O Gradivus, yonder 
	wanton maid who goes to and fro among the troops of warriors? 
	And with what boldness she is ordering the lines and the 
	Martial standards? Lo! she even presents and offers to the slaughter 
	all these men of our own race! Hath she then valour? Hath she the rage 
830	of battle? Nought then remains for thee but to hunt the woodland deer!” 
	Moved by these just complaints the lord of war sprang down 
	into the fight: as he sped through the paths of air Anger alone 
	was his companion: the other Madnesses were busy in the sweat of war. 
	Without delay he stands by Lato’s sorrowing daughter and chides her 
835	with harsh reproof: “Not such battles as these does the Father of the gods 
	allow thee: leave forthwith the field of arms, thou shameless one, 
	or thou shalt learn that not even Pallas is a match for this right hand.” 
	What can she do against him? On one side the spear of Mavors threatens her, 
	on the other, child, is thy distaff, full already, yonder the stern 
840	countenance of Jove: then she departs, yielding to reverence alone.
	
	But father Mavors looks round upon the Ogygian ranks, 
	and rouses up the terrible Dryas, who had turbulent Orion 
	as the author of his blood, and an inherited37 hatred of Diana’s followers – 
	hence came his fury. Sword in hand he leaps upon the disheartened 
845	Arcadians, and robs their leader of his arms: in long lines fall the folk 
	that dwell in Cyllene and shady Tegea, and the 
	Aepytian chieftains and the Telphusian cohorts. 
	Their prince himself he is confident to slay, though his arm be tired, 
	nor does he husband his strength; for the other, already weary, was wheeling 
850	his squadrons here and there: a thousand presentiments of doom 
	crowd on him, and the black clouds of death float before his eyes. 
	And now the wretched lad could see but few companions and the true 
	Dorceus,38 now he felt his force ebb little by little, 
	and his shoulder lighten as the shafts diminished; 
855	already less and less can he support his armour, and even to himself 
	he seems now but a boy, when Dryas blazed terribly before him with 
	fiercely-flashing shield; a sudden tremor shook the countenance and the frame 
	of the Arcadian, and, just as when a white swan sees above him 
	the bearer of the angry thunderbolt he wishes that Strymon’s bank 
860	would gape and gathers his trembling wings about his breast, 
	so the youth, perceiving the great bulk of savage Dryas, 
	felt wrath no longer, but a thrill that heralded death. 
	Yet he plies his weapons, pale-faced and praying vainly to Trivia 
	and the gods, and makes ready the bow that will not answer. 
865	Already he is on the point to shoot, and with both elbows held aslant 
	he is touching the bow with the arrow-head and his breast with the string – 
	when, mightily whirled, the Aonian chieftain’s spear flies straight 
	upon him, and cuts the slanted fastenings of the echoing 
	bowstring: the shot is lost, his hands relax, and the arrow 
870	falls fruitless from the backward falling39 bow. 
	Then in confusion and distress he drops both reins and weapons, 
	reckless of the wound that had pierced the harness and the soft skin 
	of his right shoulder; another javelin follows and checks 
	the charger’s flight, cutting the tendons of his leg. 
875	Then Dryas himself falls – strange! – nor ever knows who wounds 
	him; one day the author of the deed and its cause will be revealed.
	
	But the lad is carried from the field in his comrades’ 
	arms – alas, for his tender years! – and dying bewails his 
	fallen steed; relieved of the helm his head sinks back, 
880	and a sickly charm plays about his quivering eyes; 
	thrice and four times, grasping his hair, they shake the neck40 
	that refuses to stay upright, and – a horror whereat Thebes itself 
	might weep – the purple blood came welling from the snow-white breast. 
	At last he speaks, with sobs that break his utterance: 
885	“I am dying, Dorceus: go, solace my poor mother. 
	Already, if care doth bring true presage, she 
	hath seen this calamity in dream or omen. Yet do thou 
	with loyal craft keep her fears in suspense, and long deceive her; 
	nor come upon her of a sudden, nor when she holds a weapon 
890	in her hand; and when at last thou art forced to admit the truth, 
	say this to her: Mother, I confess my fault; exact thy unwilling punishment; 
	I rushed to arms, though a mere boy, nor, though thou didst hold me back, 
	would I be still, nor, despite thy trouble, war once begun did I spare thee at the last. 
	Live then thou and be angry rather at my impetuous spirit 
895	and now be done with fears. In vain dost thou look forth 
	anxiously from Lycaeus’ hill, if perchance sound or dust of my 
	cavalcade rise to thee through the air afar; 
	cold on the bare earth I lie, and thou art nowhere near me, 
	to hold my face and catch my parting breath. 
900	Yet take this tress, O mother bereaved,” and with his hand 
	he offered it to be cut, ”take this tress in place of my whole body; 
	once thou wert wont to trim it in spite of my vain scorn.41 
	To it give burial, and amid the rites remember to let none 
	blunt my weapons with inexperienced hands, or lead 
905	my beloved hounds to the hunting-grounds any more. 
	But burn these ill-fated arms of my first warfare, 
	or hand them up as a reproach to ungrateful Diana.”