He spake, and wrathfully he rose against Achilles⁠—rose with turbid waves, and noise, And foam, and blood and bodies of the dead. One purple billow of the Jove-born stream Swelled high and whelmed Achilles. Juno saw, And trembled lest the hero should be whirled Downward by the great river, and in haste She called to Vulcan, her beloved son:⁠—

“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.”