“And Cyllarus, your handsome form did not
save you in that ferocious fray—if one
may be allowed to call a centaur handsome.
His golden beard had just begun to grow;
his hair was golden, even as it flowed
over his shoulders to his equine chest.
His face had features strong and eloquent;
his neck, his hands, his manly chest could match
the finest statues—just as did the rest
of all his human parts. But, too, below,
Latin [377–99]
the grace the centaur’s equine features showed
was flawless. And if one were to bestow
a horse’s neck and head on Cyllarus—
the muscles on his chest were so robust,
his back was just so suitable as seat—
he could have served as Castor’s worthy steed.
He was all black, more black than pitch, and yet
his tail was snow-white, just as were his legs.
Though many female centaurs sought him out,
no other female of the forest tribe
of those half-animals could ever vie
with fair Hylonome. And none but she
possesses Cyllarus: she honeys him;
she loves him and again, again, admits
her love, and takes fine care of her fine limbs—
within the limits that such limbs permit:
now she would smooth her long locks with a comb
now deck her hair with wreaths of rosemary,
or violets or roses; and at times
she wears white lilies; twice each day she bathes
her face within the brook that rushes down
the wooded mountainside of Pagasa;
and twice she dips her body in that stream.
She only drapes her shoulder and left side
with seemly dress, the finest wild beasts’ hides.
And each requites the other’s love in full:
they roam the slopes as one; as one they rest
in tranquil grottoes. And it was as one
that they had come to join the Lapith feast,
and side by side they fought. O Cyllarus,
we do not know who threw the shaft that struck
your left side, piercing you a bit below
the spot that joined your neck and chest. Your heart
was barely grazed; and yet, when they plucked out
the lance, your heart and all your body froze.
Hylonome rushed up; she helped support
his dying limbs; her hand caressed
his wound; she tried to hold back his last breath
Latin [399–425]
by pressing lips on lips. And when his death
was clear to see, she murmured words too faint
for me to hear in that uproar—and then
she cast herself upon the very shaft
that had pierced him; and as she died, she clasped
her husband in a close embrace.