How the Son of Achilles was brought to the War from the Isle of Scyros.
When heaven hid his stars, and Dawn awoke Outspraying splendour, and night's darkness fled, Then undismayed the Argives' warrior-sons Marched forth without the ships to meet in fight Eurypylus, save those that tarried still To render to Machaon midst the ships Death-dues, with Nireus -- Nireus, who in grace And goodlihead was like the Deathless Ones, Yet was not strong in bodily might: the Gods Grant not perfection in all things to men;
But evil still is blended with the good By some strange fate: to Nireus' winsome grace Was linked a weakling's prowess. Yet the Greeks Slighted him not, but gave him all death-dues, And mourned above his grave with no less grief Than for Machaon, whom they honoured aye, For his deep wisdom, as the immortal Gods.
One mound they swiftly heaped above these twain.
Then in the plain once more did murderous war Madden: the multitudinous clash and cry Rose, as the shields were shattered with huge stones, Were pierced with lances. So they toiled in fight;
But all this while lay Podaleirius Fasting in dust and groaning, leaving not His brother's tomb; and oft his heart was moved With his own hands to slay himself. And now He clutched his sword, and now amidst his herbs Sought for a deadly drug; and still his friends Essayed to stay his hand and comfort him With many pleadings. But he would not cease From grieving: yea, his hands had spilt his life There on his noble brother's new-made tomb, But Nestor heard thereof, and sorrowed sore In his affliction, and he came on him As now he flung him on that woeful grave, And now was casting dust upon his head, Beating his breast, and on his brother's name Crying, while thralls and comrades round their lord Groaned, and affliction held them one and all.
Then gently spake he to that stricken one:
"Refrain from bitter moan and deadly grief, My son. It is not for a wise man's honour To wail, as doth a woman, o'er the fallen.
Thou shalt not bring him up to light again Whose soul hath fleeted vanishing into air, Whose body fire hath ravined up, whose bones Earth has received. His end was worthy his life.
Endure thy sore grief, even as I endured, Who lost a son, slain by the hands of foes, A son not worse than thy Machaon, good With spears in battle, good in counsel. None Of all the youths so loved his sire as he Loved me. He died for me yea, died to save His father. Yet, when he was slain, did I Endure to taste food, and to see the light, Well knowing that all men must tread one path Hades-ward, and before all lies one goal, Death's mournful goal. A mortal man must bear All joys, all griefs, that God vouchsafes to send."
Made answer that heart-stricken one, while still Wet were his cheeks with ever-flowing tears:
"Father, mine heart is bowed 'neath crushing grief For a brother passing wise, who fostered me Even as a son. When to the heavens had passed Our father, in his arms he cradled me:
Gladly he taught me all his healing lore;
We shared one table; in one bed we lay:
We had all things in common these, and love.
My grief cannot forget, nor I desire, Now he is dead, to see the light of life."
Then spake the old man to that stricken one:
"To all men Fate assigns one same sad lot, Bereavement: earth shall cover all alike, Albeit we tread not the same path of life, And none the path he chooseth; for on high Good things and bad lie on the knees of Gods Unnumbered, indistinguishably blent.
These no Immortal seeth; they are veiled In mystic cloud-folds. Only Fate puts forth Her hands thereto, nor looks at what she takes, But casts them from Olympus down to earth.
This way and that they are wafted, as it were By gusts of wind. The good man oft is whelmed In suffering: wealth undeserved is heaped On the vile person. Blind is each man's life;
Therefore he never walketh surely; oft He stumbleth: ever devious is his path, Now sloping down to sorrow, mounting now To bliss. All-happy is no living man From the beginning to the end, but still The good and evil clash. Our life is short;
Beseems not then in grief to live. Hope on, Still hope for better days: chain not to woe Thine heart. There is a saying among men That to the heavens unperishing mount the souls Of good men, and to nether darkness sink Souls of the wicked. Both to God and man Dear was thy brother, good to brother-men, And son of an Immortal. Sure am I That to the company of Gods shall he Ascend, by intercession of thy sire."
Then raised he that reluctant mourner up With comfortable words. From that dark grave He drew him, backward gazing oft with groans.
To the ships they came, where Greeks and Trojan men Had bitter travail of rekindled war.
Eurypylus there, in dauntless spirit like The War-god, with mad-raging spear and hands Resistless, smote down hosts of foes: the earth Was clogged with dead men slain on either side.
On strode he midst the corpses, awelessly He fought, with blood-bespattered hands and feet;
Never a moment from grim strife he ceased.
Peneleos the mighty-hearted came Against him in the pitiless fray: he fell Before Eurypylus' spear: yea, many more Fell round him. Ceased not those destroying hands, But wrathful on the Argives still he pressed, As when of old on Pholoe's long-ridged heights Upon the Centaurs terrible Hercules rushed Storming in might, and slew them, passing-swift And strong and battle-cunning though they were;
So rushed he on, so smote he down the array, One after other, of the Danaan spears.
Heaps upon heaps, here, there, in throngs they fell Strewn in the dust. As when a river in flood Comes thundering down, banks crumble on either side To drifting sand: on seaward rolls the surge Tossing wild crests, while cliffs on every hand Ring crashing echoes, as their brows break down Beneath long-leaping roaring waterfalls, And dikes are swept away; so fell in dust The war-famed Argives by Eurypylus slain, Such as he overtook in that red rout.
