“Vulcan, my son, arise! We deemed that thou And eddying Xanthus were of equal might In battle. Come with instant aid, and bring Thy vast array of flames, while from the deep I call a tempest of the winds—the West And the swift South—and they shall sweep along A fiery torrent to consume the foe, Warriors and weapons. Thou meantime lay waste The groves along the Xanthus; hurl at him Thy fires, nor let him with soft words or threats Avert thy fury. Pause not from the work Of ruin till I shout and give the sign, And then shalt thou restrain thy restless fires.”
She spake, and Vulcan at her word sent forth His fierce, devouring flames. Upon the plain They first were kindled, and consumed the dead That strewed it, where Achilles struck them down. The ground was dried; the glimmering flood was stayed. As when the autumnal north-wind, breathing A newly watered garden, quickly dries The clammy mould, and makes the tiller glad, So did the spacious plain grow dry on which The dead were turned to ashes. Then the god Seized on the river with