POETRY.
IDYLLS OF THE ILIAD —II.
TILE DEATH OF ACHILLES.*
THE grey dawn glimmered, and the ebbing tide Slipped from the naked sands about the ships, And drained Scamander of its full-fed life.
But in the Grecian Camp was life and stir, Neighing of full-fed steeds, and clank of arms, And trumpet-calls and marshalling of men ; For that this day the Master of the War, Policies' self, should take the field, and sweep The Trojan battle from the plains of Troy.
So men, unknowing, spake ; and from his tents, With godlike step and godlike in his face, Achilles came. And all about his limbs The wondrous armour which the Fire-God wrought, Helmet and cuirass, cuisses, and the shield Sevenfold, and shapely greaves, that shot their light Down on the naked marble of his feet.
His look was as of one who knew not care, Nor memory of the past, nor things to come ; Not the dead comrade, nor the fell revenge, Nor shame of slaughtered warriors at the pyre, Nor lust of ravished maid, nor sullen strife, Nor the short span, and swiftly-severed thread,— But only present triumph. To the front He strode ; and shading with an upraised hand His level glance, gazed at the Trojan lines, Which, thrice as far as bowmen shoot the bow, Were clustering, thick as ants in harvest-time Cluster around their harried nest, and brave With weak defence the ruin that impends.
But one was in their van, who seemed in shape, In grace, and nimbleness, and fatal gift Of beauty, like the shepherd-prince who lured The love of Spartan Helen from her lord.
No man was near him, none seemed 'ware of him ; Alone he stood, nnhelmed, and round his head The rising sun, smiting the rising mist, Broke in a sudden glory ; and behind, High up, the towers of angry Pallas frowned.
No armour had he, save that in his hand A golden bow was bended to the full ; And as Achilles turned, with curving lip, Contemptuous, to his men, an arrow sang, And cleft the middle air, and dipped, and plunged Full on the naked marble of his foot.
Through high-arched instep, ankle, and the strings That bind the straining heel, it sped, and nailed The wolf-skin sandal to the crimson sand.
Slow on one knee he sank, his strong, right hand Staying his fall, and watched with steady eye The full life draining from the wound, and spake,— " Mother, thy word was true. The end is come."
Nor ever spake again. They bore him back, And all the host fell back ; and in the tents, In place of wine and mirth and revelry, Was 'woe of women, and dismay of men. 0. OGLE.
* The legends of Achilles' death differ in attributing the fatal wound, some to Paris, and some to Apollo.
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