And lo, a steep-browed rock, a fragment rent From Sipylus -- yet Niobe is there, Dreeing her weird, the debt of wrath divine, A broken heart in guise of shattered stone.
All through the tangle of that desperate fray Stalked slaughter and doom. The incarnate Onset-shout Raved through the rolling battle; at her side Paced Death the ruthless, and the Fearful Faces, The Fates, beside them strode, and in red hands Bare murder and the groans of dying men.
That day the beating of full many a heart, Trojan and Argive, was for ever stilled, While roared the battle round them, while the fury Of Penthesileia fainted not nor failed;
But as amid long ridges of lone hills A lioness, stealing down a deep ravine, Springs on the kine with lightning leap, athirst For blood wherein her fierce heart revelleth;
So on the Danaans leapt that warrior-maid.
And they, their souls were cowed: backward they shrank, And fast she followed, as a towering surge Chases across the thunder-booming sea A flying bark, whose white sails strain beneath The wind's wild buffering, and all the air Maddens with roaring, as the rollers crash On a black foreland looming on the lee Where long reefs fringe the surf-tormented shores.
So chased she, and so dashed the ranks asunder Triumphant-souled, and hurled fierce threats before:
"Ye dogs, this day for evil outrage done To Priam shall ye pay! No man of you Shall from mine hands deliver his own life, And win back home, to gladden parents eyes, Or comfort wife or children. Ye shall lie Dead, ravined on by vultures and by wolves, And none shall heap the earth-mound o'er your clay.
Where skulketh now the strength of Tydeus' son, And where the might of Aeacus' scion?
Where is Aias' bulk? Ye vaunt them mightiest men Of all your rabble. Ha! they will not dare With me to close in battle, lest I drag Forth from their fainting frames their craven souls!"
Then heart-uplifted leapt she on the foe, Resistless as a tigress, crashing through Ranks upon ranks of Argives, smiting now With that huge halberd massy-headed, now Hurling the keen dart, while her battle-horse Flashed through the fight, and on his shoulder bare Quiver and bow death-speeding, close to her hand, If mid that revel of blood she willed to speed The bitter-biting shaft. Behind her swept The charging lines of men fleet-footed, friends And brethren of the man who never flinched From close death-grapple, Hector, panting all The hot breath of the War-god from their breasts, All slaying Danaans with the ashen spear, Who fell as frost-touched leaves in autumn fall One after other, or as drops of rain.
And aye went up a moaning from earth's breast All blood-bedrenched, and heaped with corse on corse.
Horses pierced through with arrows, or impaled On spears, were snorting forth their last of strength With screaming neighings. Men, with gnashing teeth Biting the dust, lay gasping, while the steeds Of Trojan charioteers stormed in pursuit, Trampling the dying mingled with the dead As oxen trample corn in threshing-floors.
Then one exulting boasted mid the host Of Troy, beholding Penthesileia rush On through the foes' array, like the black storm That maddens o'er the sea, what time the sun Allies his might with winter's Goat-horned Star;
And thus, puffed up with vain hope, shouted he:
"O friends, in manifest presence down from heaven One of the deathless Gods this day hath come To fight the Argives, all of love for us, Yea, and with sanction of almighty Zeus, He whose compassion now remembereth Haply strong-hearted Priam, who may boast For his a lineage of immortal blood.
For this, I trow, no mortal woman seems, Who is so aweless-daring, who is clad In splendour-flashing arms: nay, surely she Shall be Athene, or the mighty-souled Enyo -- haply Eris, or the Child Of Leto world-renowned. O yea, I look To see her hurl amid yon Argive men Mad-shrieking slaughter, see her set aflame Yon ships wherein they came long years agone Bringing us many sorrows, yea, they came Bringing us woes of war intolerable.
Ha! to the home-land Hellas ne'er shall these With joy return, since Gods on our side fight."
In overweening exultation so Vaunted a Trojan. Fool! -- he had no vision Of ruin onward rushing upon himself And Troy, and Penthesileia's self withal.
For not as yet had any tidings come Of that wild fray to Aias stormy-souled, Nor to Achilles, waster of tower and town.
But on the grave-mound of Menoetius' son They twain were lying, with sad memories Of a dear comrade crushed, and echoing Each one the other's groaning. One it was Of the Blest Gods who still was holding back These from the battle-tumult far away, Till many Greeks should fill the measure up Of woeful havoc, slain by Trojan foes And glorious Penthesileia, who pursued With murderous intent their rifled ranks, While ever waxed her valour more and more, And waxed her might within her: never in vain She aimed the unswerving spear-thrust: aye she pierced The backs of them that fled, the breasts of such As charged to meet her. All the long shaft dripped With steaming blood. Swift were her feet as wind As down she swooped. Her aweless spirit failed For weariness nor fainted, but her might Was adamantine. The impending Doom, Which roused unto the terrible strife not yet Achilles, clothed her still with glory; still Aloof the dread Power stood, and still would shed Splendour of triumph o'er the death-ordained But for a little space, ere it should quell That Maiden 'neath the hands of Aeaeus' son.
In darkness ambushed, with invisible hand Ever it thrust her on, and drew her feet Destruction-ward, and lit her path to death With glory, while she slew foe after foe.
