Iliad on Anger

Then thus Minerva:—“Brave Tydides, hear! Not Mars himself, nor aught immortal, fear. Full on the god impel thy foaming horse: Pallas commands, and Pallas lends thee force. Rash, furious, blind, from these to those he flies, And every side of wavering combat tries; Large promise makes, and breaks the promise made: Now gives the Grecians, now the Trojans aid.”[159]

“Ye generous chiefs! on whom the immortals lay The cares and glories of this doubtful day; On whom your aids, your country’s hopes depend; Wise to consult, and active to defend! Here, at our gates, your brave efforts unite, Turn back the routed, and forbid the flight, Ere yet their wives’ soft arms the cowards gain, The sport and insult of the hostile train. When your commands have hearten’d every band, Ourselves, here fix’d, will make the dangerous stand; Press’d as we are, and sore of former fight, These straits demand our last remains of might. Meanwhile thou, Hector, to the town retire, And teach our mother what the gods require: Direct the queen to lead the assembled train Of Troy’s chief matrons to Minerva’s fane;[166] Unbar the sacred gates, and seek the power, With offer’d vows, in Ilion’s topmost tower. The largest mantle her rich wardrobes hold, Most prized for art, and labour’d o’er with gold, Before the goddess’ honour’d knees be spread, And twelve young heifers to her altars led: If so the power, atoned by fervent prayer, Our wives, our infants, and our city spare, And far avert Tydides’ wasteful ire, That mows whole troops, and makes all Troy retire; Not thus Achilles taught our hosts to dread, Sprung though he was from more than mortal bed; Not thus resistless ruled the stream of fight, In rage unbounded, and unmatch’d in might.”

Even Ajax and Achilles heard the sound, Whose ships, remote, the guarded navy bound, Thence the black fury through the Grecian throng With horror sounds the loud Orthian song: The navy shakes, and at the dire alarms Each bosom boils, each warrior starts to arms. No more they sigh, inglorious to return, But breathe revenge, and for the combat burn.

So press’d with hunger, from the mountain’s brow Descends a lion on the flocks below; So stalks the lordly savage o’er the plain, In sullen majesty, and stern disdain: In vain loud mastiffs bay him from afar, And shepherds gall him with an iron war; Regardless, furious, he pursues his way; He foams, he roars, he rends the panting prey.

Pensive he said; then pressing as he lay His breathless bosom, tore the lance away; And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer. But swift Automedon with loosen’d reins Rapt in the chariot o’er the distant plains, Far from his rage the immortal coursers drove; The immortal coursers were the gift of Jove.

Thus they above: while, swiftly gliding down, Apollo enters Ilion’s sacred town; The guardian-god now trembled for her wall, And fear’d the Greeks, though fate forbade her fall. Back to Olympus, from the war’s alarms, Return the shining bands of gods in arms; Some proud in triumph, some with rage on fire; And take their thrones around the ethereal sire.

While thus the hero’s pious cares attend The cure and safety of his wounded friend, Trojans and Greeks with clashing shields engage, And mutual deaths are dealt with mutual rage. Nor long the trench or lofty walls oppose; With gods averse the ill-fated works arose; Their powers neglected, and no victim slain, The walls were raised, the trenches sunk in vain.

He spake: and, speaking, leaps from off the car: Patroclus lights, and sternly waits the war. As when two vultures on the mountain’s height Stoop with resounding pinions to the fight; They cuff, they tear, they raise a screaming cry; The desert echoes, and the rocks reply: The warriors thus opposed in arms, engage With equal clamours, and with equal rage.

Then ceased for ever, by the Furies tied, His fateful voice. The intrepid chief replied With unabated rage—“So let it be! Portents and prodigies are lost on me. I know my fate: to die, to see no more My much-loved parents, and my native shore— Enough—when heaven ordains, I sink in night: Now perish Troy!” He said, and rush’d to fight.

“Though great in all, thou seem’st averse to lend Impartial audience to a faithful friend; To gods and men thy matchless worth is known, And every art of glorious war thy own; But in cool thought and counsel to excel, How widely differs this from warring well! Content with what the bounteous gods have given, Seek not alone to engross the gifts of Heaven. To some the powers of bloody war belong, To some sweet music and the charm of song; To few, and wondrous few, has Jove assign’d A wise, extensive, all-considering mind; Their guardians these, the nations round confess, And towns and empires for their safety bless. If Heaven have lodged this virtue in my breast, Attend, O Hector! what I judge the best, See, as thou mov’st, on dangers dangers spread, And war’s whole fury burns around thy head. Behold! distress’d within yon hostile wall, How many Trojans yield, disperse, or fall! What troops, out-number’d, scarce the war maintain! And what brave heroes at the ships lie slain! Here cease thy fury: and, the chiefs and kings Convoked to council, weigh the sum of things. Whether (the gods succeeding our desires) To yon tall ships to bear the Trojan fires; Or quit the fleet, and pass unhurt away, Contented with the conquest of the day. I fear, I fear, lest Greece, not yet undone, Pay the large debt of last revolving sun; Achilles, great Achilles, yet remains On yonder decks, and yet o’erlooks the plains!”

“What words are these? (the imperial dame replies, While anger flash’d from her majestic eyes) Succour like this a mortal arm might lend, And such success mere human wit attend: And shall not I, the second power above, Heaven’s queen, and consort of the thundering Jove, Say, shall not I one nation’s fate command, Not wreak my vengeance on one guilty land?”

He said; and drove with fury on the foe. Then to the godhead of the silver bow The yellow flood began: “O son of Jove! Was not the mandate of the sire above Full and express, that Phœbus should employ His sacred arrows in defence of Troy, And make her conquer, till Hyperion’s fall In awful darkness hide the face of all?”

Young Xanthus next, and Thoon felt his rage; The joy and hope of Phaenops’ feeble age: Vast was his wealth, and these the only heirs Of all his labours and a life of cares. Cold death o’ertakes them in their blooming years, And leaves the father unavailing tears: To strangers now descends his heapy store, The race forgotten, and the name no more.

To whom the progeny of Jove replies: “I left, for this, the council of the skies: But who shall bid conflicting hosts forbear, What art shall calm the furious sons of war?” To her the god: “Great Hector’s soul incite To dare the boldest Greek to single fight, Till Greece, provoked, from all her numbers show A warrior worthy to be Hector’s foe.”

Then thus Achilles: “Hear, ye Greeks! and know Whate’er we feel, ’tis Jove inflicts the woe; Not else Atrides could our rage inflame, Nor from my arms, unwilling, force the dame. ’Twas Jove’s high will alone, o’erruling all, That doom’d our strife, and doom’d the Greeks to fall. Go then, ye chiefs! indulge the genial rite; Achilles waits ye, and expects the fight.”

Then thus incensed, the Paphian queen replies: “Obey the power from whom thy glories rise: Should Venus leave thee, every charm must fly, Fade from thy cheek, and languish in thy eye. Cease to provoke me, lest I make thee more The world’s aversion, than their love before; Now the bright prize for which mankind engage, Than, the sad victim, of the public rage.”

To him Tydides thus: “My friend, forbear; Suppress thy passion, and the king revere: His high concern may well excuse this rage, Whose cause we follow, and whose war we wage: His the first praise, were Ilion’s towers o’erthrown, And, if we fail, the chief disgrace his own. Let him the Greeks to hardy toils excite, ’Tis ours to labour in the glorious fight.”

“O first and greatest! God, by gods adored We own thy might, our father and our lord! But, ah! permit to pity human state: If not to help, at least lament their fate. From fields forbidden we submiss refrain, With arms unaiding mourn our Argives slain; Yet grant my counsels still their breasts may move, Or all must perish in the wrath of Jove.”

He said; and all approved. The heralds bring The cleansing water from the living spring. The youth with wine the sacred goblets crown’d, And large libations drench’d the sands around. The rite perform’d, the chiefs their thirst allay, Then from the royal tent they take their way; Wise Nestor turns on each his careful eye, Forbids to offend, instructs them to apply; Much he advised them all, Ulysses most, To deprecate the chief, and save the host. Through the still night they march, and hear the roar Of murmuring billows on the sounding shore. To Neptune, ruler of the seas profound, Whose liquid arms the mighty globe surround, They pour forth vows, their embassy to bless, And calm the rage of stern Æacides. And now, arrived, where on the sandy bay The Myrmidonian tents and vessels lay; Amused at ease, the godlike man they found, Pleased with the solemn harp’s harmonious sound. (The well wrought harp from conquered Thebae came; Of polish’d silver was its costly frame.) With this he soothes his angry soul, and sings The immortal deeds of heroes and of kings. Patroclus only of the royal train, Placed in his tent, attends the lofty strain: Full opposite he sat, and listen’d long, In silence waiting till he ceased the song. Unseen the Grecian embassy proceeds To his high tent; the great Ulysses leads. Achilles starting, as the chiefs he spied, Leap’d from his seat, and laid the harp aside. With like surprise arose Menoetius’ son: Pelides grasp’d their hands, and thus begun:

“Teucer, behold! extended on the shore Our friend, our loved companion! now no more! Dear as a parent, with a parent’s care To fight our wars he left his native air. This death deplored, to Hector’s rage we owe; Revenge, revenge it on the cruel foe. Where are those darts on which the fates attend? And where the bow which Phœbus taught to bend?”

Two sons of Priam in one chariot ride, Glittering in arms, and combat side by side. As when the lordly lion seeks his food Where grazing heifers range the lonely wood, He leaps amidst them with a furious bound, Bends their strong necks, and tears them to the ground: So from their seats the brother chiefs are torn, Their steeds and chariot to the navy borne.

“O first of mortals! (for the gods are thine) In valour matchless, and in force divine! If Jove have given thee every Trojan head, ’Tis not on me thy rage should heap the dead. See! my choked streams no more their course can keep, Nor roll their wonted tribute to the deep. Turn then, impetuous! from our injured flood; Content, thy slaughters could amaze a god.”

He said, and twang’d the string. The weapon flies At Hector’s breast, and sings along the skies: He miss’d the mark; but pierced Gorgythio’s heart, And drench’d in royal blood the thirsty dart. (Fair Castianira, nymph of form divine, This offspring added to king Priam’s line.) As full-blown poppies, overcharged with rain,[196] Decline the head, and drooping kiss the plain; So sinks the youth: his beauteous head, depress’d Beneath his helmet, drops upon his breast. Another shaft the raging archer drew, That other shaft with erring fury flew, (From Hector, Phœbus turn’d the flying wound,) Yet fell not dry or guiltless to the ground: Thy breast, brave Archeptolemus! it tore, And dipp’d its feathers in no vulgar gore. Headlong he falls: his sudden fall alarms The steeds, that startle at his sounding arms. Hector with grief his charioteer beheld All pale and breathless on the sanguine field: Then bids Cebriones direct the rein, Quits his bright car, and issues on the plain. Dreadful he shouts: from earth a stone he took, And rush’d on Teucer with the lifted rock. The youth already strain’d the forceful yew; The shaft already to his shoulder drew; The feather in his hand, just wing’d for flight, Touch’d where the neck and hollow chest unite; There, where the juncture knits the channel bone, The furious chief discharged the craggy stone: The bow-string burst beneath the ponderous blow, And his numb’d hand dismiss’d his useless bow. He fell: but Ajax his broad shield display’d, And screen’d his brother with the mighty shade; Till great Alaster, and Mecistheus, bore The batter’d archer groaning to the shore.

To guard the gates, two mighty chiefs attend, Who from the Lapiths’ warlike race descend; This Polypœtes, great Perithous’ heir, And that Leonteus, like the god of war. As two tall oaks, before the wall they rise; Their roots in earth, their heads amidst the skies: Whose spreading arms with leafy honours crown’d, Forbid the tempest, and protect the ground; High on the hills appears their stately form, And their deep roots for ever brave the storm. So graceful these, and so the shock they stand Of raging Asius, and his furious band. Orestes, Acamas, in front appear, And Œnomaus and Thoon close the rear: In vain their clamours shake the ambient fields, In vain around them beat their hollow shields; The fearless brothers on the Grecians call, To guard their navies, and defend the wall. Even when they saw Troy’s sable troops impend, And Greece tumultuous from her towers descend, Forth from the portals rush’d the intrepid pair, Opposed their breasts, and stood themselves the war. So two wild boars spring furious from their den, Roused with the cries of dogs and voice of men; On every side the crackling trees they tear, And root the shrubs, and lay the forest bare; They gnash their tusks, with fire their eye-balls roll, Till some wide wound lets out their mighty soul. Around their heads the whistling javelins sung, With sounding strokes their brazen targets rung; Fierce was the fight, while yet the Grecian powers Maintain’d the walls, and mann’d the lofty towers: To save their fleet their last efforts they try, And stones and darts in mingled tempests fly.

Ulysses heard: the hero’s warmth o’erspread His cheek with blushes: and severe, he said: “Take back the unjust reproach! Behold we stand Sheathed in bright arms, and but expect command. If glorious deeds afford thy soul delight, Behold me plunging in the thickest fight. Then give thy warrior-chief a warrior’s due, Who dares to act whate’er thou dar’st to view.” Struck with his generous wrath, the king replies:

“Health to Achilles! happy are thy guests! Not those more honour’d whom Atrides feasts: Though generous plenty crown thy loaded boards, That, Agamemnon’s regal tent affords; But greater cares sit heavy on our souls, Nor eased by banquets or by flowing bowls. What scenes of slaughter in yon fields appear! The dead we mourn, and for the living fear; Greece on the brink of fate all doubtful stands, And owns no help but from thy saving hands: Troy and her aids for ready vengeance call; Their threatening tents already shade our wall: Hear how with shouts their conquest they proclaim, And point at every ship their vengeful flame! For them the father of the gods declares, Theirs are his omens, and his thunder theirs. See, full of Jove, avenging Hector rise! See! heaven and earth the raging chief defies; What fury in his breast, what lightning in his eyes! He waits but for the morn, to sink in flame The ships, the Greeks, and all the Grecian name. Heavens! how my country’s woes distract my mind, Lest Fate accomplish all his rage design’d! And must we, gods! our heads inglorious lay In Trojan dust, and this the fatal day? Return, Achilles: oh return, though late, To save thy Greeks, and stop the course of Fate; If in that heart or grief or courage lies, Rise to redeem; ah, yet to conquer, rise! The day may come, when, all our warriors slain, That heart shall melt, that courage rise in vain: Regard in time, O prince divinely brave! Those wholesome counsels which thy father gave. When Peleus in his aged arms embraced His parting son, these accents were his last:

Who first, brave hero! by that arm was slain, Who last beneath thy vengeance press’d the plain; When heaven itself thy fatal fury led, And call’d to fill the number of the dead? Adrestus first; Autonous then succeeds; Echeclus follows; next young Megas bleeds, Epistor, Melanippus, bite the ground; The slaughter, Elasus and Mulius crown’d: Then sunk Pylartes to eternal night; The rest, dispersing, trust their fates to flight.

Encouraged thus, the blameless man replies: “Nor vows unpaid, nor slighted sacrifice, But he, our chief, provoked the raging pest, Apollo’s vengeance for his injured priest. Nor will the god’s awaken’d fury cease, But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase, Till the great king, without a ransom paid, To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid.[54] Perhaps, with added sacrifice and prayer, The priest may pardon, and the god may spare.”

“Ah why, Saturnia; must thy son engage Me, only me, with all his wasteful rage? On other gods his dreadful arm employ, For mightier gods assert the cause of Troy. Submissive I desist, if thou command; But ah! withdraw this all-destroying hand. Hear then my solemn oath, to yield to fate Unaided Ilion, and her destined state, Till Greece shall gird her with destructive flame, And in one ruin sink the Trojan name.”

“Oh lasting infamy, oh dire disgrace To chiefs of vigorous youth, and manly race! I trusted in the gods, and you, to see Brave Greece victorious, and her navy free: Ah, no—the glorious combat you disclaim, And one black day clouds all her former fame. Heavens! what a prodigy these eyes survey, Unseen, unthought, till this amazing day! Fly we at length from Troy’s oft-conquer’d bands? And falls our fleet by such inglorious hands? A rout undisciplined, a straggling train, Not born to glories of the dusty plain; Like frighted fawns from hill to hill pursued, A prey to every savage of the wood: Shall these, so late who trembled at your name, Invade your camps, involve your ships in flame? A change so shameful, say, what cause has wrought? The soldiers’ baseness, or the general’s fault? Fools! will ye perish for your leader’s vice; The purchase infamy, and life the price? ’Tis not your cause, Achilles’ injured fame: Another’s is the crime, but yours the shame. Grant that our chief offend through rage or lust, Must you be cowards, if your king’s unjust? Prevent this evil, and your country save: Small thought retrieves the spirits of the brave. Think, and subdue! on dastards dead to fame I waste no anger, for they feel no shame: But you, the pride, the flower of all our host, My heart weeps blood to see your glory lost! Nor deem this day, this battle, all you lose; A day more black, a fate more vile, ensues. Let each reflect, who prizes fame or breath, On endless infamy, on instant death: For, lo! the fated time, the appointed shore: Hark! the gates burst, the brazen barriers roar! Impetuous Hector thunders at the wall; The hour, the spot, to conquer, or to fall.”

Troy’s great defender stands alone unawed, Arms his proud host, and dares oppose a god: And lo! the god, and wondrous man, appear: The sea’s stern ruler there, and Hector here. The roaring main, at her great master’s call, Rose in huge ranks, and form’d a watery wall Around the ships: seas hanging o’er the shores, Both armies join: earth thunders, ocean roars. Not half so loud the bellowing deeps resound, When stormy winds disclose the dark profound; Less loud the winds that from the Æolian hall Roar through the woods, and make whole forests fall; Less loud the woods, when flames in torrents pour, Catch the dry mountain, and its shades devour; With such a rage the meeting hosts are driven, And such a clamour shakes the sounding heaven. The first bold javelin, urged by Hector’s force, Direct at Ajax’ bosom winged its course; But there no pass the crossing belts afford, (One braced his shield, and one sustain’d his sword.) Then back the disappointed Trojan drew, And cursed the lance that unavailing flew: But ’scaped not Ajax; his tempestuous hand A ponderous stone upheaving from the sand, (Where heaps laid loose beneath the warrior’s feet, Or served to ballast, or to prop the fleet,) Toss’d round and round, the missive marble flings; On the razed shield the fallen ruin rings, Full on his breast and throat with force descends; Nor deaden’d there its giddy fury spends, But whirling on, with many a fiery round, Smokes in the dust, and ploughs into the ground. As when the bolt, red-hissing from above, Darts on the consecrated plant of Jove, The mountain-oak in flaming ruin lies, Black from the blow, and smokes of sulphur rise; Stiff with amaze the pale beholders stand, And own the terrors of the almighty hand!

“What needs, O monarch! this invidious praise, Ourselves to lessen, while our sire you raise? Dare to be just, Atrides! and confess Our value equal, though our fury less. With fewer troops we storm’d the Theban wall, And happier saw the sevenfold city fall,[137] In impious acts the guilty father died; The sons subdued, for Heaven was on their side. Far more than heirs of all our parents’ fame, Our glories darken their diminish’d name.”

Thus they in heaven: while on the plain below The fierce Tydides charged his Dardan foe, Flush’d with celestial blood pursued his way, And fearless dared the threatening god of day; Already in his hopes he saw him kill’d, Though screen’d behind Apollo’s mighty shield. Thrice rushing furious, at the chief he strook; His blazing buckler thrice Apollo shook: He tried the fourth: when, breaking from the cloud, A more than mortal voice was heard aloud.

Soon as the Greeks the chief’s retreat beheld, With double fury each invades the field. Oilean Ajax first his javelin sped, Pierced by whose point the son of Enops bled; (Satnius the brave, whom beauteous Neis bore Amidst her flocks on Satnio’s silver shore;) Struck through the belly’s rim, the warrior lies Supine, and shades eternal veil his eyes. An arduous battle rose around the dead; By turns the Greeks, by turns the Trojans bled.

Meanwhile Patroclus pours along the plains, With foaming coursers, and with loosen’d reins. Fierce on the Trojan and the Lycian crew, Ah blind to fate! thy headlong fury flew: Against what fate and powerful Jove ordain, Vain was thy friend’s command, thy courage vain. For he, the god, whose counsels uncontroll’d Dismay the mighty, and confound the bold; The god who gives, resumes, and orders all, He urged thee on, and urged thee on to fall.

Then through the field he sends his voice aloud, And calls the Ajaces from the warring crowd, With great Atrides. “Hither turn, (he said,) Turn where distress demands immediate aid; The dead, encircled by his friends, forego, And save the living from a fiercer foe. Unhelp’d we stand, unequal to engage The force of Hector, and Æneas’ rage: Yet mighty as they are, my force to prove Is only mine: the event belongs to Jove.”

While these by Juno’s will the strife resign, The warring gods in fierce contention join: Rekindling rage each heavenly breast alarms: With horrid clangour shock the ethereal arms: Heaven in loud thunder bids the trumpet sound; And wide beneath them groans the rending ground. Jove, as his sport, the dreadful scene descries, And views contending gods with careless eyes. The power of battles lifts his brazen spear, And first assaults the radiant queen of war:

Patroclus now the unwilling beauty brought; She, in soft sorrows, and in pensive thought, Pass’d silent, as the heralds held her hand, And oft look’d back, slow-moving o’er the strand. Not so his loss the fierce Achilles bore; But sad, retiring to the sounding shore, O’er the wild margin of the deep he hung, That kindred deep from whence his mother sprung:[61] There bathed in tears of anger and disdain, Thus loud lamented to the stormy main:

So raged Tydides, boundless in his ire, Drove armies back, and made all Troy retire. With grief the leader of the Lycian band Saw the wide waste of his destructive hand: His bended bow against the chief he drew; Swift to the mark the thirsty arrow flew, Whose forky point the hollow breastplate tore, Deep in his shoulder pierced, and drank the gore: The rushing stream his brazen armour dyed, While the proud archer thus exulting cried:

Sternly he spoke, and as the wretch prepared With humble blandishment to stroke his beard, Like lightning swift the wrathful falchion flew, Divides the neck, and cuts the nerves in two; One instant snatch’d his trembling soul to hell, The head, yet speaking, mutter’d as it fell. The furry helmet from his brow they tear, The wolf’s grey hide, the unbended bow and spear; These great Ulysses lifting to the skies, To favouring Pallas dedicates the prize:

Now round the lists the admiring armies stand, With javelins fix’d, the Greek and Trojan band. Amidst the dreadful vale, the chiefs advance, All pale with rage, and shake the threatening lance. The Trojan first his shining javelin threw; Full on Atrides’ ringing shield it flew, Nor pierced the brazen orb, but with a bound[122] Leap’d from the buckler, blunted, on the ground. Atrides then his massy lance prepares, In act to throw, but first prefers his prayers:

Stung to the heart the generous Hector hears, But just reproof with decent silence bears. From his proud car the prince impetuous springs, On earth he leaps, his brazen armour rings. Two shining spears are brandish’d in his hands; Thus arm’d, he animates his drooping bands, Revives their ardour, turns their steps from flight, And wakes anew the dying flames of fight. They turn, they stand; the Greeks their fury dare, Condense their powers, and wait the growing war.

“What cause, O daughter of Almighty Jove! Thus wings thy progress from the realms above? Once more impetuous dost thou bend thy way, To give to Greece the long divided day? Too much has Troy already felt thy hate, Now breathe thy rage, and hush the stern debate; This day, the business of the field suspend; War soon shall kindle, and great Ilion bend; Since vengeful goddesses confederate join To raze her walls, though built by hands divine.”

This said, each parted to his several cares: The king to Nestor’s sable ship repairs; The sage protector of the Greeks he found Stretch’d in his bed with all his arms around; The various-colour’d scarf, the shield he rears, The shining helmet, and the pointed spears; The dreadful weapons of the warrior’s rage, That, old in arms, disdain’d the peace of age. Then, leaning on his hand his watchful head, The hoary monarch raised his eyes and said:

“Oh prince! (he cried) Oh foremost once in fame! What Grecian now shall tremble at thy name? Dost thou at length to Menelaus yield, A chief once thought no terror of the field? Yet singly, now, the long-disputed prize He bears victorious, while our army flies: By the same arm illustrious Podes bled; The friend of Hector, unrevenged, is dead!” This heard, o’er Hector spreads a cloud of woe, Rage lifts his lance, and drives him on the foe.

Then drops the radiant burden on the ground; Clang the strong arms, and ring the shores around; Back shrink the Myrmidons with dread surprise, And from the broad effulgence turn their eyes. Unmoved the hero kindles at the show, And feels with rage divine his bosom glow; From his fierce eyeballs living flames expire, And flash incessant like a stream of fire: He turns the radiant gift: and feeds his mind On all the immortal artist had design’d.

“At last is Hector stretch’d upon the plain, Who fear’d no vengeance for Patroclus slain: Then, prince! you should have fear’d, what now you feel; Achilles absent was Achilles still: Yet a short space the great avenger stayed, Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid. Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn’d, For ever honour’d, and for ever mourn’d: While cast to all the rage of hostile power, Thee birds shall mangle, and the gods devour.”

To whom the king: “O favour’d of the skies! Here let me grow to earth! since Hector lies On the bare beach deprived of obsequies. O give me Hector! to my eyes restore His corse, and take the gifts: I ask no more. Thou, as thou may’st, these boundless stores enjoy; Safe may’st thou sail, and turn thy wrath from Troy; So shall thy pity and forbearance give A weak old man to see the light and live!”

Great Hector saw, and, raging at the view, Pours on the Greeks: the Trojan troops pursue: He fires his host with animating cries, And brings along the furies of the skies, Mars, stern destroyer! and Bellona dread, Flame in the front, and thunder at their head: This swells the tumult and the rage of fight; That shakes a spear that casts a dreadful light. Where Hector march’d, the god of battles shined, Now storm’d before him, and now raged behind.

Demoleon next, Antenor’s offspring, laid Breathless in dust, the price of rashness paid. The impatient steel with full-descending sway Forced through his brazen helm its furious way, Resistless drove the batter’d skull before, And dash’d and mingled all the brains with gore. This sees Hippodamas, and seized with fright, Deserts his chariot for a swifter flight: The lance arrests him: an ignoble wound The panting Trojan rivets to the ground. He groans away his soul: not louder roars, At Neptune’s shrine on Helicè’s high shores, The victim bull; the rocks re-bellow round, And ocean listens to the grateful sound. Then fell on Polydore his vengeful rage,[268] The youngest hope of Priam’s stooping age: (Whose feet for swiftness in the race surpass’d:) Of all his sons, the dearest, and the last. To the forbidden field he takes his flight, In the first folly of a youthful knight, To vaunt his swiftness wheels around the plain, But vaunts not long, with all his swiftness slain: Struck where the crossing belts unite behind, And golden rings the double back-plate join’d Forth through the navel burst the thrilling steel; And on his knees with piercing shrieks he fell; The rushing entrails pour’d upon the ground His hands collect; and darkness wraps him round. When Hector view’d, all ghastly in his gore, Thus sadly slain the unhappy Polydore, A cloud of sorrow overcast his sight, His soul no longer brook’d the distant fight: Full in Achilles’ dreadful front he came, And shook his javelin like a waving flame. The son of Peleus sees, with joy possess’d, His heart high-bounding in his rising breast. “And, lo! the man on whom black fates attend; The man, that slew Achilles, is his friend! No more shall Hector’s and Pelides’ spear Turn from each other in the walks of war.”— Then with revengeful eyes he scann’d him o’er: “Come, and receive thy fate!” He spake no more.

These words he seconds with his flying lance, To meet whose point was strong Deicoon’s chance: Æneas’ friend, and in his native place Honour’d and loved like Priam’s royal race: Long had he fought the foremost in the field, But now the monarch’s lance transpierced his shield: His shield too weak the furious dart to stay, Through his broad belt the weapon forced its way: The grisly wound dismiss’d his soul to hell, His arms around him rattled as he fell.

When Paris thus: “My brother and my friend, Thy warm impatience makes thy tongue offend, In other battles I deserved thy blame, Though then not deedless, nor unknown to fame: But since yon rampart by thy arms lay low, I scatter’d slaughter from my fatal bow. The chiefs you seek on yonder shore lie slain; Of all those heroes, two alone remain; Deiphobus, and Helenus the seer, Each now disabled by a hostile spear. Go then, successful, where thy soul inspires: This heart and hand shall second all thy fires: What with this arm I can, prepare to know, Till death for death be paid, and blow for blow. But ’tis not ours, with forces not our own To combat: strength is of the gods alone.” These words the hero’s angry mind assuage: Then fierce they mingle where the thickest rage. Around Polydamas, distain’d with blood, Cebrion, Phalces, stern Orthaeus stood, Palmus, with Polypœtes the divine, And two bold brothers of Hippotion’s line (Who reach’d fair Ilion, from Ascania far, The former day; the next engaged in war). As when from gloomy clouds a whirlwind springs, That bears Jove’s thunder on its dreadful wings, Wide o’er the blasted fields the tempest sweeps; Then, gather’d, settles on the hoary deeps; The afflicted deeps tumultuous mix and roar; The waves behind impel the waves before, Wide rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore: Thus rank on rank, the thick battalions throng, Chief urged on chief, and man drove man along. Far o’er the plains, in dreadful order bright, The brazen arms reflect a beamy light: Full in the blazing van great Hector shined, Like Mars commission’d to confound mankind. Before him flaming his enormous shield, Like the broad sun, illumined all the field; His nodding helm emits a streamy ray; His piercing eyes through all the battle stray, And, while beneath his targe he flash’d along, Shot terrors round, that wither’d e’en the strong.

Thus (breathing rage through all) the hero said; A wood of lances rises round his head, Clamours on clamours tempest all the air, They join, they throng, they thicken to the war. But Phœbus warns him from high heaven to shun The single fight with Thetis’ godlike son; More safe to combat in the mingled band, Nor tempt too near the terrors of his hand. He hears, obedient to the god of light, And, plunged within the ranks, awaits the fight.

We have now passed through the Iliad, and seen the anger of Achilles, and the terrible effects of it, at an end: as that only was the subject of the poem, and the nature of epic poetry would not permit our author to proceed to the event of the war, it perhaps may be acceptable to the common reader to give a short account of what happened to Troy and the chief actors in this poem after the conclusion of it.

“Is this the chief, who, lost to sense of shame, Late fled the field, and yet survives his fame? O hadst thou died beneath the righteous sword Of that brave man whom once I call’d my lord! The boaster Paris oft desired the day With Sparta’s king to meet in single fray: Go now, once more thy rival’s rage excite, Provoke Atrides, and renew the fight: Yet Helen bids thee stay, lest thou unskill’d Shouldst fall an easy conquest on the field.”

Hector obedient heard: and, with a bound, Leap’d from his trembling chariot to the ground; Through all his host inspiring force he flies, And bids the thunder of the battle rise. With rage recruited the bold Trojans glow, And turn the tide of conflict on the foe: Fierce in the front he shakes two dazzling spears; All Greece recedes, and ’midst her triumphs fears; Some god, they thought, who ruled the fate of wars, Shot down avenging from the vault of stars.

“Cursed by Althaea, to his wrath he yields, And in his wife’s embrace forgets the fields. (She from Marpessa sprung, divinely fair, And matchless Idas, more than man in war: The god of day adored the mother’s charms; Against the god the father bent his arms: The afflicted pair, their sorrows to proclaim, From Cleopatra changed their daughter’s name, And call’d Alcyone; a name to show The father’s grief, the mourning mother’s woe.) To her the chief retired from stern debate, But found no peace from fierce Althaea’s hate: Althaea’s hate the unhappy warrior drew, Whose luckless hand his royal uncle slew; She beat the ground, and call’d the powers beneath On her own son to wreak her brother’s death; Hell heard her curses from the realms profound, And the red fiends that walk the nightly round. In vain Ætolia her deliverer waits, War shakes her walls, and thunders at her gates. She sent ambassadors, a chosen band, Priests of the gods, and elders of the land; Besought the chief to save the sinking state: Their prayers were urgent, and their proffers great: (Full fifty acres of the richest ground, Half pasture green, and half with vineyards crown’d:) His suppliant father, aged Œneus, came; His sisters follow’d; even the vengeful dame, Althaea, sues; his friends before him fall: He stands relentless, and rejects them all. Meanwhile the victor’s shouts ascend the skies; The walls are scaled; the rolling flames arise; At length his wife (a form divine) appears, With piercing cries, and supplicating tears; She paints the horrors of a conquer’d town, The heroes slain, the palaces o’erthrown, The matrons ravish’d, the whole race enslaved: The warrior heard, he vanquish’d, and he saved. The Ætolians, long disdain’d, now took their turn, And left the chief their broken faith to mourn. Learn hence, betimes to curb pernicious ire, Nor stay till yonder fleets ascend in fire; Accept the presents; draw thy conquering sword; And be amongst our guardian gods adored.”

“’Tis now no season for these kind delays; The great Achilles with impatience stays. To great Achilles this respect I owe; Who asks, what hero, wounded by the foe, Was borne from combat by thy foaming steeds? With grief I see the great Machaon bleeds. This to report, my hasty course I bend; Thou know’st the fiery temper of my friend.” “Can then the sons of Greece (the sage rejoin’d) Excite compassion in Achilles’ mind? Seeks he the sorrows of our host to know? This is not half the story of our woe. Tell him, not great Machaon bleeds alone, Our bravest heroes in the navy groan, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Diomed, And stern Eurypylus, already bleed. But, ah! what flattering hopes I entertain! Achilles heeds not, but derides our pain: Even till the flames consume our fleet he stays, And waits the rising of the fatal blaze. Chief after chief the raging foe destroys; Calm he looks on, and every death enjoys. Now the slow course of all-impairing time Unstrings my nerves, and ends my manly prime; Oh! had I still that strength my youth possess’d, When this bold arm the Epeian powers oppress’d, The bulls of Elis in glad triumph led, And stretch’d the great Itymonaeus dead! Then from my fury fled the trembling swains, And ours was all the plunder of the plains: Fifty white flocks, full fifty herds of swine, As many goats, as many lowing kine: And thrice the number of unrivall’d steeds, All teeming females, and of generous breeds. These, as my first essay of arms, I won; Old Neleus gloried in his conquering son. Thus Elis forced, her long arrears restored, And shares were parted to each Pylian lord. The state of Pyle was sunk to last despair, When the proud Elians first commenced the war: For Neleus’ sons Alcides’ rage had slain; Of twelve bold brothers, I alone remain! Oppress’d, we arm’d; and now this conquest gain’d, My sire three hundred chosen sheep obtain’d.

“O grace and glory of the Achaian name; What drives thee, Nestor, from the field of fame? Shall then proud Hector see his boast fulfill’d, Our fleets in ashes, and our heroes kill’d? Such was his threat, ah! now too soon made good, On many a Grecian bosom writ in blood. Is every heart inflamed with equal rage Against your king, nor will one chief engage? And have I lived to see with mournful eyes In every Greek a new Achilles rise?”

The warrior raised his voice, and wide around The field re-echoed the distressful sound. “O chiefs! O princes, to whose hand is given The rule of men; whose glory is from heaven! Whom with due honours both Atrides grace: Ye guides and guardians of our Argive race! All, whom this well-known voice shall reach from far, All, whom I see not through this cloud of war; Come all! let generous rage your arms employ, And save Patroclus from the dogs of Troy.”