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“In all this uproar, Aphidas lay flat,
in endless slumber from the wine he drank,
incessant, and his nerveless hand still held
the cup of mixed wine, as he lay full stretched,
upon a shaggy bear-skin from Mount Ossa.
When Phorbas saw him, harmless in that sleep,
he laid his fingers in his javelin's thong,
and shouted loudly, ‘Mix your wine, down there,
with waters of the Styx!’ And stopping talk,
let fly his javelin at the sleeping youth—
the ashen shaft, iron-tipped, was driven through
his neck, exposed, as he by chance lay there—
his head thrown back. He did not even feel
a touch of death—and from his deep-pierced throat
his crimson blood flowed out upon the couch,
and in the wine-bowl still grasped in his hand.

“I saw Petraeus when he strove to tear
up from the earth, an acorn-bearing oak.
And, while he struggled with it, back and forth,
and was just ready to wrench up the trunk,
Pirithous hurled a well aimed spear at him,
transfixed his ribs, and pinned his body tight,
writhing, to that hard oak: and Lycus fell
and Chromis fell, before Pirithous.

“They gave less glory to the conqueror
than Helops or than Dictys. Helops was
killed by a javelin, which pierced his temples
from the right side, clear through to his left ear.
And Dictys, running in a desperate haste,
hoping in vain, to escape Ixion's son,
slipped on the steep edge of a precipice;
and, as he fell down headlong crashed into
the top of a huge ash-tree, which impaled
his dying body on its broken spikes.

“Aphareus, eager to avenge him tried
to lift a rock from that steep mountain side;
but as he heaved, the son of Aegeus struck
him squarely with an oaken club; and smashed,
and broke the huge bones of that centaur's arm.
He has no time, and does not want to give
that useless foe to death. He leaps upon
the back of tall Bienor, never trained
to carry riders, and he fixed his knees
firm in the centaur's ribs, and holding tight
to the long hair, seized by his left hand, struck
and shattered the hard features and fierce face
and bony temples with his club of gnarled
strong oak. And with it, he struck to the ground
Nedymnus and Lycopes, dart expert,
and Hippasus, whose beard hid all his breast.
And Rhipheus taller than the highest trees
and Thereus, who would carry home alive
the raging bears, caught in Thessalian hills.

Demoleon could no longer stand and look
on Theseus and his unrestrained success.
He struggled with vast effort to tear up
an old pine, trunk and all, with its long roots,
and, failing shortly in that first attempt,
he broke it off and hurled it at his foe.
But Theseus saw the pine tree in its flight
and, warned by Pallas, got beyond its range—
his boast was, Pallas had directed him!
And yet, the missle was not launched in vain.
It sheared the left shoulder and the breast
from tall Crantor. He, Achilles, was
your father's armor bearer and was given
by King Amyntor, when he sued for peace.

“When Peleus at a distance saw him torn
and mangled, he exclaimed, ‘At least receive
this sacrifice, O Crantor! most beloved!
Dearest of young men!’ And with sturdy arm
and all his strength of soul as well, he hurled
his ashen lance against Demoleon,
which piercing through his shivered ribs, hung there
and quivered in the bones. The centaur wrenched
the wooden shaft out, with his frenzied hands,
but could not move the pointed head, which stuck
within his lungs. His very anguish gave
him such a desperation, that he rose
against his foe and trampled and beat down
the hero with his hoofs, Peleus allowed
the blows to fall on helm and ringing shield.
Protected so, he watched his time and thrust
up through the centaur's shoulder. By one stroke
he pierced two breasts, where horse and man-form met.

Before this, Peleus with the spear had killed
both Myles and Phlegraeus and with the sword
Iphinous and Clanis. Now he killed
Dorylas, who was clad in a wolfskin cap
and fought with curving bull's horns dripping blood.

“To him I said, for courage gave me strength,
‘Your horns! how much inferior to my steel!’—
and threw my spear. Since he could not avoid
the gleaming point, he held up his right hand
to shield his forehead from the threatened wound.
His hand was pierced and pinned against his forehead.
He shouted madly. Peleus, near him while
he stood there pinned and helpless with his wound,
struck him with sharp sword in the belly deep.
He leaped forth fiercely, as he trailed his bowels
upon the ground, with his entangled legs
treading upon them, bursting them, he fell
with empty belly, lifeless to the earth.

“Cyllarus, beauty did not save your life—
if beauty is in any of your tribe—
your golden beard was in its early growth,
your golden hair came flowing to your shoulders.
in your bright face there was a pleasing glance.
The neck and shoulders and the hands and breast,:
and every aspect of his human form
resembled those admired statues which
our gifted artists carve. Even the shape
of the fine horse beneath the human form
was perfect too. Give him the head and neck
of a full-blooded horse, and he would seem
a steed for Castor, for his back was shaped
so comfortable to be sat upon
and muscle swelled upon his arching chest.
His lustrous body was as black as pitch,
and yet his legs and flowing tail
were white as snow.

Many a female of his kind
loved him, but only Hylonome gained
his love. There was no other centaur maid
so beautiful as she within the woods.
By coaxing ways she had won Cyllarus,
by loving and confessing love. By daintiness,
so far as that was possible in one
of such a form, she held his love; for now
she smoothed her long locks with a comb; and now
she decked herself with rosemary and now
with violets or with roses in her hair;
and sometimes she wore lilies, white as snow;
and twice each day she bathed her lovely face,
in the sweet stream that falls down from the height
of wooded Pagasa; and daily, twice
she dipped her body in the stream. She wore
upon her shoulders and left side a skin,
greatly becoming, of selected worth.

“Their love was equal, and together they
would wander over mountain-sides, and rest
together in cool caves; and so it was,
they went together to that palace-cave,
known to the Lapithae. Together they
fought fiercely in this battle, side by side.
Thrown by an unknown hand, a javelin pierced
Cyllarus, just below the fatal spot
where the chest rises to the neck—his heart,
though only slightly wounded, grew quite cold,
and his whole body felt cold, afterwards,
as quickly as the weapon was drawn out.
Then Hylonome held in her embrace
the dying body; fondled the dread wound
and, fixing her lips closely to his lips
endeavored to hold back his dying breath.
But soon she saw that he indeed was dead.
With mourning words, which clamor of the fight
prevented me from hearing, she threw herself
on the spear that pierced her Cyllarus and fell
upon his breast, embracing him in death.

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