High, insistent, clear, and it shouted an unknown war-cry

Threatening doom to the peoples. A woman had come in to aid you,

Regal and insolent, fair as the morning and fell as the northwind,

Freed from the distaff who grasps at the sword and she spurns at subjection

Breaking the rule of the gods. She is turbulent, swift in the battle.

Clanging her voice of the swan as a summons to death and disaster,

Fleet-footed, happy and pitiless, laughing she runs to the slaughter;

Strong with the gait that allures she leaps from her car to the slaying,

Dabbles in blood smooth hands like lilies. Europe astonished

Reels from her shock to the Ocean. She is the panic and mellay,

War is her paean, the chariots thunder of Penthesilea.

Doom was her coming, it seems, to the men of the West and their legions;

Ajax sleeps for ever, Meriones lies on the beaches.

One by one they are falling before you, the great in Achaia.

Ever the wounded are borne like the stream of the ants when they forage

Past my ships, and they hush their moans as they near and in silence

Gaze at the legions inactive accusing the fame of Achilles.

Still have I borne with you, waited a little, looked for a summons,

Longing for bridal torches, not flame on the Ilian housetops,

Blood in the chambers of sweetness, the golden amorous city

Swallowed by doom. Not broken I turned from the wrestle Titanic,

Hopeless, weary of toil in the ebb of my glorious spirit,

But from my stress of compassion for doom of the kindred nations,

But for her sake whom my soul desires, for the daughter of Priam.

And for Polyxena's sake I will speak to you yet as your lover

Once ere the Fury, abrupt from Erebus, deaf to your crying,

Mad with the joy of the massacre, seizes on wealth and on women

Calling to Fire as it strides and Ilion sinks into ashes.

Yield; for your doom is impatient. No longer your helpers hasten,

Legions swift to your call; the yoke of your pride and your splendour

Lies not now on the nations of earth as when Fortune desired you,

Strength was your slave and Troya the lioness hungrily roaring

Threatened the western world from her ramparts built by Apollo.

Gladly released from the thraldom they hated, the insolent shackles

Curbing their manhood the peoples arise and they pray for your ruin;

Piled are their altars with gifts; their blessings help the Achaians.

Memnon came, but he sleeps, and the faces swart of his nation

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Darken no more like a cloud over thunder and surge of the onset.

Wearily Lycia fights; far fled are the Carian levies.

Thrace retreats to her plains preferring the whistle of stormwinds

Or on the banks of the Strymon to wheel in her Orphean measure,

Not in the revel of swords and fronting the spears of the Hellenes.

Princes of Pergama, open your gates to our Peace who would enter,

Life in her gracious clasp and forgetfulness, grave of earth's passions,

Healer of wounds and the past. In a comity equal, Hellenic,

Asia join with Greece, one world from the frozen rivers

Trod by the hooves of the Scythian to farthest undulant Ganges.

Tyndarid Helen resign, the desirable cause of your danger,

Back to Greece that is empty long of her smile and her movements.

Broider with riches her coming, pomp of her slaves and the waggons

Endlessly groaning with gold that arrive with the ransom of nations.

So shall the Fury be pacified, she who exultant from Sparta

Breathed in the sails of the Trojan ravisher helping his oarsmen.

So shall the gods be appeased and the thoughts of their wrath shall be cancelled,

Justice contented trace back her steps and for brands of the burning

Torches delightful shall break into Troy with the swords of the bridal.

I like a bridegroom will seize on your city and clasp and defend her

Safe from the envy of Argos, from Lacedaemonian hatred,

Safe from the hunger of Crete and the Locrian's violent rapine.

But if you turn from my voice and you hearken only to Ares

Crying for battle within you deluded by Hera and Pallas,

Swiftly the fierce death's surges shall close over Troy and her ramparts

Built by the gods shall be stubble and earth to the tread of the Hellene.

For to my tents I return not, I swear it by Zeus and Apollo,

Master of Truth who sits within Delphi fathomless brooding

Sole in the caverns of Nature and hearkens her underground murmur,

Giving my oath to his keeping mute and stern who forgets not,

Not from the panting of Ares' toil to repose, from the wrestle

Locked of hope and death in the ruthless clasp of the mellay

Leaving again the Trojan ramparts unmounted, leaving

Greece unavenged, the Aegean a lake and Europe a province.

Choosing from Hellas exile, from Peleus and Deidamia,

Choosing the field for my chamber of sleep and the battle for hearthside

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I shall go warring on till Asia enslaved to my footsteps

Feels the tread of the God in my sandal pressed on her bosom.

Rest shall I then when the borders of Greece are fringed with the Ganges;

Thus shall the past pay its Titan ransom and, Fate her balance

Changing, a continent ravished suffer the fortune of Helen.

This I have sworn allying my will to Zeus and Ananke."'"

So was it spoken, the Phthian challenge. Silent the heroes

Looked back amazed on their past and into the night of their future.

Silent their hearts felt a grasp from gods and had hints of the heavens.

Hush was awhile in the room, as if Fate were trying her balance

Poised on the thoughts of her mortals. At length with a musical laughter

Sweet as the jangling of bells upon anklets leaping in measure

Answered aloud to the gods the virgin Penthesilea.

"Long I had heard in my distant realms of the fame of Achilles,

Ignorant still while I played with the ball and ran in the dances

Thinking not ever to war; but I dreamed of the shock of the hero.

So might a poet inland who imagines the rumour of Ocean,

Yearn with his lust for the giant upheaval, the dance as of hill-tops,

Toss of the yellow mane and the tawny march and the voices

Lionlike claiming earth as a prey for the clamorous waters.

So have I longed as I came for the cry and the speed of Achilles.

But he has lurked in his ships, he has sulked like a boy that is angry.

Glad am I now of his soul that arises hungry for battle,

Glad, whether victor I live or defeated travel the shadows.

Once shall my spear have rung on the shield of the Phthian Achilles.

Peace I desire not. I came to a haughty and resolute nation,

Honour and fame they cherish, not life by the gift of a foeman.

Sons of the ancient house on whom Ilion looks as on Titans,

Chiefs whom the world admires, do you fear then the shock of the Phthian?

Gods, it is said, have decided your doom. Are you less in your greatness?

Are you not gods to reverse their decrees or unshaken to suffer?

Memnon is dead and the Carians leave you? Lycia lingers?

But from the streams of my East I have come to you, Penthesilea."

"Virgin of Asia," answered Talthybius, "doom of a nation

Brought thee to Troy and her haters Olympian shielded thy coming,

Vainly who feedest men's hearts with a hope that the gods have rejected.

Doom in thy sweet voice utters her counsels robed like a woman."

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Answered the virgin disdainfully, wroth at the words of the Argive:

"Hast thou not ended the errand they gave thee, envoy of Hellas?

Not, do I think, as our counsellor cam'st thou elected from Argos,

Nor as a lover to Troy hast thou hastened with amorous footing

Hurting thy heart with her forwardness. Hatred and rapine sent thee,

Greed of the Ilian gold and lust of the Phrygian women,

Voice of Achaian aggression! Doom am I truly; let Gnossus

Witness it, Salamis speak of my fatal arrival and Argos

Silent remember her wounds." But the Argive answered the virgin:

"Hearken then to the words of the Hellene, Penthesilea.

Virgin to whom earth's strongest are corn in the sweep of thy sickle,

Lioness vain of thy bruit who besiegest the paths of the battle!

Art thou not satiate yet? hast thou drunk then so little of slaughter?

Death has ascended thy car; he has chosen thy hand for his harvest.

But I have heard of thy pride and disdain, how thou scornest the Argives

And of thy fate thou complainest that ever averse to thy wishes

Cloisters the Phthian and matches with weaklings Penthesilea.

"Not of the Ithacan boar nor the wild-cat littered in Locris

Nor of the sleek-coat Argive wild-bulls sates me the hunting;"

So hast thou said, "I would bury my spear in the lion of Hellas."

Blind and infatuate, art thou not beautiful, bright as the lightning?

Were not thy limbs made cunningly linking sweetness to sweetness?

Is not thy laughter an arrow surprising hearts imprudent?

Charm is the seal of the gods upon woman. Distaff and girdle,

Work of the jar at the well and the hush of our innermost chambers,

These were appointed thee, but thou hast scorned them, O Titaness, grasping

Rather the shield and the spear. Thou, obeying thy turbulent nature,

Tramplest o'er laws that are old to the pleasure thy heart has demanded.

Rather bow to the ancient Gods who are seated and constant.

But for thyself thou passest and what hast thou gained for the aeons

Mingled with men in their works and depriving the age of thy beauty?

Fair art thou, woman, but fair with a bitter and opposite sweetness

Clanging in war when thou matchest thy voice with the shout of assemblies.

Not to this end was thy sweetness made and the joy of thy members,

Not to this rhythm Heaven tuned its pipe in thy throat of enchantment,

Armoured like men to go warring forth and with hardness and fierceness

Mix in the strife and the hate while the varied meaning of Nature

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Perishes hurt in its heart and life is emptied of music.

Long have I marked in your world a madness. Monarchs descending

Court the imperious mob of their slaves and their suppliant gesture

Shameless and venal offends the majestic tradition of ages:

Princes plead in the agora; spurred by the tongue of a coward,

Heroes march to an impious war at a priestly bidding.

Gold is sought by the great with the chaffering heart of the trader.

Asia fails and the Gods are abandoning Ida for Hellas.

Why must thou come here to perish, O noble and exquisite virgin,

Here in a cause not thine, in a quarrel remote from thy beauty,

Leaving a land that is lovely and far to be slain among strangers?

Girl, to thy rivers go back and thy hills where the grapes are aspirant.

Trust not a fate that indulges; for all things, Penthesilea,

Break with excess and he is the wisest who walks by a measure.

Yet, if thou wilt, thou shalt meet me today in the shock of the battle:

There will I give thee the fame thou desirest; captive in Hellas,

Men shall point to thee always, smiling and whispering, saying,

"This is the woman who fought with the Greeks, overthrowing their heroes;

This is the slayer of Ajax, this is the slave of Achilles."'"

Then with her musical laughter the fearless Penthesilea:

"Well do I hope that Achilles enslaved shall taste of that glory

Or on the Phrygian fields lie slain by the spear of a woman."

But to the herald Achaian the Priamid, leader of Troya:

"Rest in the halls of thy foes and ease thy fatigue and thy winters.

Herald, abide till the people have heard and reply to Achilles.

Not as the kings of the West are Ilion's princes and archons,

Monarchs of men who drive their nations dumb to the battle.

Not in the palace of Priam and not in the halls of the mighty

Whispered councils prevail and the few dispose of the millions;

But with their nation consulting, feeling the hearts of the commons

Ilion's princes march to the war or give peace to their foemen.

Lightning departs from her kings and the thunder returns from her people

Met in the ancient assembly where Ilus founded his columns

And since her famous centuries, names that the ages remember

Leading her, Troya proclaims her decrees to obedient nations."

Ceasing he cried to the thralls of his house and they tended the Argive.

Brought to a chamber of rest in the luminous peace of the mansion,

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Grey he sat and endured the food and the wine of his foemen,

Chiding his spirit that murmured within him and gazed undelighted,

Vexed with the endless pomps of Laomedon. Far from those glories

Memory winged it back to a sward half-forgotten, a village

Nestling in leaves and low hills watching it crowned with the sunset.

So for his hour he abode in earth's palace of lordliest beauty,

But in its caverns his heart was weary and, hurt by the splendours,

Longed for Greece and the smoke-darkened roof of a cottage in Argos,

Eyes of a woman faded and children crowding the hearthside.

Joyless he rose and eastward expected the sunrise on Ida.

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