Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/379

167—215 Who, or from whence? Unhappy is the sire

Whose son encounters our resistless ire."

"O son of Peleus I what avails to trace,"

Replied the warrior," our illustrious race?

From rich Pæonia's valleys I command,

Armed with protended spears, my native band;

Now shines the tenth bright morning since I came

In aid of Ilion to the fields of fame:

Axius, who swells with all the neighbouring rills,

And wide around the floated region fills,

Begot my sire, whose spear such glory won:

Now lift thy arm, and try that hero's son!"

Threatening he said: the hostile chiefs advance;

At once Asteropeus discharged each lance;

For both his dexterous hands the lance could wield:

One struck, but pierced not the Vulcanian shield;

One razed Achilles' hand; the spouting blood

Spun forth, in earth the fastened weapon stood.

Like lightning next the Pelian javelin flies;

Its erring fury hissed along the skies:

Deep in the swelling bank was driven the spear,

E'en to the middle earth; and quivered there.

Then from his side the sword Pelides drew,

And on his foe with double fury flew;

The foe thrice tugged, and shook the rooted wood,

Repulsive of his might the weapon stood:

The fourth, he tries to break the spear, in vain;

Bent as he stands he tumbles to the plain;

His belly opened with a ghastly wound,

The reeking entrails pour upon the ground.

Beneath the hero's feet he panting lies,

And his eye darkens, and his spirit flies:

While his proud victor thus triumphing said,

His radiant armour tearing from the dead:

"So ends thy glory! such the fate they prove

Who strive presumptuous with the sons of Jove.

Sprung from a river didst thou boast thy line?

But great Saturnius is the source of mine.

How durst thou vaunt thy watery progeny?

Of Peleus, Æacus, and Jove, am I;

The race of these superior far to those,

And he that thunders to the stream that flows.

What rivers can, Scamander might have shewn:

But Jove he dreads, nor wars against his son.

E'en Acheloiis might contend in vain,

And all the roaring billows of the main.

The eternal ocean, from whose fountains flow

The seas, the rivers, and the springs below,

The thundering voice of Jove abhors to hear,