Page:Statius (Mozley 1928) v1.djvu/479

stock. And now, losing heart, they seek each other and count their numbers, nor feel the same zest for blood, but grieve that so large a band is growing few.

Lo! Chromis, of Tyrian Cadmus’ seed—him once Phoenician Dryope was carrying in her weighted womb, when revelling bands swept her along forgetful of her burden, and while she was dragging bull unto thee, O Euhan,^[1] grasping its horns, the babe fell forth by stress of undue striving—Chromis at that time, in bold confidence of spears and hide of captured lion, brandished a stout club of knotted pinewood, and taunting cried: “Is one man, ye warriors, one man to go to Argos, boasting of so many slain? Scarce will he gain credence on his return! Come, friends, are there none strong in arm or weapon any more? was this our promise to the king, O Cydon? was it this, O Lampus?” While yet he shouts, the Teumesian^[2] cornel-shaft enters his open mouth, nor does his throat stay it; his voice is choked, and the sundered tongue floats in the rush of blood. Awhile he stood, till death poured through his limbs, and he fell, and falling was silent, while his teeth bit upon the spear.

You too, O Thespians, why should I deny you and withhold from honourable renown? Periphas—none of brighter parts than he, or truer devotion—was raising from the ground his brother’s dying frame, his left hand supporting the languid neck, and his right arm about his side; his breast beneath the cuirass is drained by choking sobs of grief, nor can the fastenings restrain the welling tears that flow from his helm, when amid his deep groans a heavy spear shatters his curved ribs from behind him.