Iliad on Death

Thus he who shakes Olympus with his nod; Then gave to Pæon’s care the bleeding god.[160] With gentle hand the balm he pour’d around, And heal’d the immortal flesh, and closed the wound. As when the fig’s press’d juice, infused in cream, To curds coagulates the liquid stream, Sudden the fluids fix the parts combined; Such, and so soon, the ethereal texture join’d. Cleansed from the dust and gore, fair Hebe dress’d His mighty limbs in an immortal vest. Glorious he sat, in majesty restored, Fast by the throne of heaven’s superior lord. Juno and Pallas mount the bless’d abodes, Their task perform’d, and mix among the gods.

He spoke; the goddess with the charming eyes Glows with celestial red, and thus replies: “Is this a scene for love? On Ida’s height, Exposed to mortal and immortal sight! Our joys profaned by each familiar eye; The sport of heaven, and fable of the sky: How shall I e’er review the blest abodes, Or mix among the senate of the gods? Shall I not think, that, with disorder’d charms, All heaven beholds me recent from thy arms? With skill divine has Vulcan form’d thy bower, Sacred to love and to the genial hour; If such thy will, to that recess retire, In secret there indulge thy soft desire.”

“I come, Pelides! from the queen of Jove, The immortal empress of the realms above; Unknown to him who sits remote on high, Unknown to all the synod of the sky.” “Thou comest in vain (he cries, with fury warm’d); Arms I have none, and can I fight unarm’d? Unwilling as I am, of force I stay, Till Thetis bring me at the dawn of day Vulcanian arms: what other can I wield, Except the mighty Telamonian shield? That, in my friend’s defence, has Ajax spread, While his strong lance around him heaps the dead: The gallant chief defends Menoetius’ son, And does what his Achilles should have done.”

Achilles fell before Troy, by the hand of Paris, by the shot of an arrow in his heel, as Hector had prophesied at his death, lib. xxii.

Ajax, after the death of Achilles, had a contest with Ulysses for the armour of Vulcan, but being defeated in his aim, he slew himself through indignation.

“Think’st thou with me? fair empress of the skies! (The immortal father with a smile replies;) Then soon the haughty sea-god shall obey, Nor dare to act but when we point the way. If truth inspires thy tongue, proclaim our will To yon bright synod on the Olympian hill; Our high decree let various Iris know, And call the god that bears the silver bow. Let her descend, and from the embattled plain Command the sea-god to his watery reign: While Phœbus hastes great Hector to prepare To rise afresh, and once more wake the war: His labouring bosom re-inspires with breath, And calls his senses from the verge of death. Greece chased by Troy, even to Achilles’ fleet, Shall fall by thousands at the hero’s feet. He, not untouch’d with pity, to the plain Shall send Patroclus, but shall send in vain. What youths he slaughters under Ilion’s walls! Even my loved son, divine Sarpedon, falls! Vanquish’d at last by Hector’s lance he lies. Then, nor till then, shall great Achilles rise: And lo! that instant, godlike Hector dies. From that great hour the war’s whole fortune turns, Pallas assists, and lofty Ilion burns. Not till that day shall Jove relax his rage, Nor one of all the heavenly host engage In aid of Greece. The promise of a god I gave, and seal’d it with the almighty nod, Achilles’ glory to the stars to raise; Such was our word, and fate the word obeys.”

Meantime, the Greeks the Trojan race pursue, And some bold chieftain every leader slew: First Odius falls, and bites the bloody sand, His death ennobled by Atrides’ hand:

“Hear, all ye hosts, and hear, unnumber’d bands Of neighbouring nations, or of distant lands! ’Twas not for state we summon’d you so far, To boast our numbers, and the pomp of war: Ye came to fight; a valiant foe to chase, To save our present, and our future race. For this, our wealth, our products, you enjoy, And glean the relics of exhausted Troy. Now then, to conquer or to die prepare; To die or conquer are the terms of war. Whatever hand shall win Patroclus slain, Whoe’er shall drag him to the Trojan train, With Hector’s self shall equal honours claim; With Hector part the spoil, and share the fame.”

He said, and sorrow touch’d each Argive breast: The soul of Ajax burn’d above the rest. As by his side the groaning warrior fell, At the fierce foe he launch’d his piercing steel; The foe, reclining, shunn’d the flying death; But fate, Archilochus, demands thy breath: Thy lofty birth no succour could impart, The wings of death o’ertook thee on the dart; Swift to perform heaven’s fatal will, it fled Full on the juncture of the neck and head, And took the joint, and cut the nerves in twain: The dropping head first tumbled on the plain. So just the stroke, that yet the body stood Erect, then roll’d along the sands in blood.

Far in the bay his shining palace stands, Eternal frame! not raised by mortal hands: This having reach’d, his brass-hoof’d steeds he reins, Fleet as the winds, and deck’d with golden manes. Refulgent arms his mighty limbs infold, Immortal arms of adamant and gold. He mounts the car, the golden scourge applies, He sits superior, and the chariot flies: His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep; The enormous monsters rolling o’er the deep Gambol around him on the watery way, And heavy whales in awkward measures play; The sea subsiding spreads a level plain, Exults, and owns the monarch of the main; The parting waves before his coursers fly; The wondering waters leave his axle dry.

Nor knew the furious father of his fall; High-throned amidst the great Olympian hall, On golden clouds th’ immortal synod sate; Detain’d from bloody war by Jove and Fate.

“Accursed fate! the conquest I forego; A mortal I, a goddess was my foe; She urged her favourite on the rapid way, And Pallas, not Ulysses, won the day.”

“Lie there, Lycaon! let the fish surround Thy bloated corpse, and suck thy gory wound: There no sad mother shall thy funerals weep, But swift Scamander roll thee to the deep, Whose every wave some watery monster brings, To feast unpunish’d on the fat of kings. So perish Troy, and all the Trojan line! Such ruin theirs, and such compassion mine. What boots ye now Scamander’s worshipp’d stream, His earthly honours, and immortal name? In vain your immolated bulls are slain, Your living coursers glut his gulfs in vain! Thus he rewards you, with this bitter fate; Thus, till the Grecian vengeance is complete: Thus is atoned Patroclus’ honour’d shade, And the short absence of Achilles paid.”

Her words allay the impetuous warrior’s heat, The god of arms and martial maid retreat; Removed from fight, on Xanthus’ flowery bounds They sat, and listen’d to the dying sounds.

To these the youth of Phylacè succeed, Itona, famous for her fleecy breed, And grassy Pteleon deck’d with cheerful greens, The bowers of Ceres, and the sylvan scenes. Sweet Pyrrhasus, with blooming flowerets crown’d, And Antron’s watery dens, and cavern’d ground. These own’d, as chief, Protesilas the brave, Who now lay silent in the gloomy grave: The first who boldly touch’d the Trojan shore, And dyed a Phrygian lance with Grecian gore; There lies, far distant from his native plain; Unfinish’d his proud palaces remain, And his sad consort beats her breast in vain. His troops in forty ships Podarces led, Iphiclus’ son, and brother to the dead; Nor he unworthy to command the host; Yet still they mourn’d their ancient leader lost.

Next artful Phereclus untimely fell; Bold Merion sent him to the realms of hell. Thy father’s skill, O Phereclus! was thine, The graceful fabric and the fair design; For loved by Pallas, Pallas did impart To him the shipwright’s and the builder’s art. Beneath his hand the fleet of Paris rose, The fatal cause of all his country’s woes; But he, the mystic will of heaven unknown, Nor saw his country’s peril, nor his own. The hapless artist, while confused he fled, The spear of Merion mingled with the dead. Through his right hip, with forceful fury cast, Between the bladder and the bone it pass’d; Prone on his knees he falls with fruitless cries, And death in lasting slumber seals his eyes.

Then brave Laogonus resign’d his breath, Despatch’d by Merion to the shades of death: On Ida’s holy hill he made abode, The priest of Jove, and honour’d like his god. Between the jaw and ear the javelin went; The soul, exhaling, issued at the vent. His spear Æneas at the victor threw, Who stooping forward from the death withdrew; The lance hiss’d harmless o’er his covering shield, And trembling struck, and rooted in the field; There yet scarce spent, it quivers on the plain, Sent by the great Æneas’ arm in vain. “Swift as thou art (the raging hero cries) And skill’d in dancing to dispute the prize, My spear, the destined passage had it found, Had fix’d thy active vigour to the ground.”

High o’er the scene of death Achilles stood, All grim with dust, all horrible in blood: Yet still insatiate, still with rage on flame; Such is the lust of never-dying fame!

“Talk not of oaths (the dreadful chief replies, While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes), Detested as thou art, and ought to be, Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee: Such pacts as lambs and rabid wolves combine, Such leagues as men and furious lions join, To such I call the gods! one constant state Of lasting rancour and eternal hate: No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife, Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life. Rouse then thy forces this important hour, Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power. No further subterfuge, no further chance; ’Tis Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my lance. Each Grecian ghost, by thee deprived of breath, Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death.”

By Paris, Deiochus inglorious dies, Pierced through the shoulder as he basely flies. Polites’ arm laid Echius on the plain; Stretch’d on one heap, the victors spoil the slain. The Greeks dismay’d, confused, disperse or fall, Some seek the trench, some skulk behind the wall. While these fly trembling, others pant for breath, And o’er the slaughter stalks gigantic death. On rush’d bold Hector, gloomy as the night; Forbids to plunder, animates the fight, Points to the fleet: “For, by the gods! who flies,[240] Who dares but linger, by this hand he dies; No weeping sister his cold eye shall close, No friendly hand his funeral pyre compose. Who stops to plunder at this signal hour, The birds shall tear him, and the dogs devour.” Furious he said; the smarting scourge resounds; The coursers fly; the smoking chariot bounds; The hosts rush on; loud clamours shake the shore; The horses thunder, earth and ocean roar! Apollo, planted at the trench’s bound, Push’d at the bank: down sank the enormous mound: Roll’d in the ditch the heapy ruin lay; A sudden road! a long and ample way. O’er the dread fosse (a late impervious space) Now steeds, and men, and cars tumultuous pass. The wondering crowds the downward level trod; Before them flamed the shield, and march’d the god. Then with his hand he shook the mighty wall; And lo! the turrets nod, the bulwarks fall: Easy as when ashore an infant stands, And draws imagined houses in the sands; The sportive wanton, pleased with some new play, Sweeps the slight works and fashion’d domes away: Thus vanish’d at thy touch, the towers and walls; The toil of thousands in a moment falls.

To sacred Troy, where all her princes lay To wait the event, the herald bent his way. He came, and standing in the midst, explain’d The peace rejected, but the truce obtain’d. Straight to their several cares the Trojans move, Some search the plains, some fell the sounding grove: Nor less the Greeks, descending on the shore, Hew’d the green forests, and the bodies bore. And now from forth the chambers of the main, To shed his sacred light on earth again, Arose the golden chariot of the day, And tipp’d the mountains with a purple ray. In mingled throngs the Greek and Trojan train Through heaps of carnage search’d the mournful plain. Scarce could the friend his slaughter’d friend explore, With dust dishonour’d, and deformed with gore. The wounds they wash’d, their pious tears they shed, And, laid along their cars, deplored the dead. Sage Priam check’d their grief: with silent haste The bodies decent on the piles were placed: With melting hearts the cold remains they burn’d, And, sadly slow, to sacred Troy return’d. Nor less the Greeks their pious sorrows shed, And decent on the pile dispose the dead; The cold remains consume with equal care; And slowly, sadly, to their fleet repair. Now, ere the morn had streak’d with reddening light The doubtful confines of the day and night, About the dying flames the Greeks appear’d, And round the pile a general tomb they rear’d. Then, to secure the camp and naval powers, They raised embattled walls with lofty towers:[186] From space to space were ample gates around, For passing chariots, and a trench profound Of large extent; and deep in earth below, Strong piles infix’d stood adverse to the foe.

Thus stalk’d he, dreadful; death was in his look: Whole nations fear’d; but not an Argive shook. The towering Ajax, with an ample stride, Advanced the first, and thus the chief defied:

The king, alarm’d: “Say what, and whence thou art Who search the sorrows of a parent’s heart, And know so well how godlike Hector died?” Thus Priam spoke, and Hermes thus replied:

“O favour’d of the skies! (thus answered then The power that mediates between god and men) Nor dogs nor vultures have thy Hector rent, But whole he lies, neglected in the tent: This the twelfth evening since he rested there, Untouch’d by worms, untainted by the air. Still as Aurora’s ruddy beam is spread, Round his friend’s tomb Achilles drags the dead: Yet undisfigured, or in limb or face, All fresh he lies, with every living grace, Majestical in death! No stains are found O’er all the corse, and closed is every wound, Though many a wound they gave. Some heavenly care, Some hand divine, preserves him ever fair: Or all the host of heaven, to whom he led A life so grateful, still regard him dead.”

Impatient Teucer, hastening to his aid, Before the chief his ample bow display’d; The well-stored quiver on his shoulders hung: Then hiss’d his arrow, and the bowstring sung. Clytus, Pisenor’s son, renown’d in fame, (To thee, Polydamas! an honour’d name) Drove through the thickest of the embattled plains The startling steeds, and shook his eager reins. As all on glory ran his ardent mind, The pointed death arrests him from behind: Through his fair neck the thrilling arrow flies; In youth’s first bloom reluctantly he dies. Hurl’d from the lofty seat, at distance far, The headlong coursers spurn his empty car; Till sad Polydamas the steeds restrain’d, And gave, Astynous, to thy careful hand; Then, fired to vengeance, rush’d amidst the foe: Rage edged his sword, and strengthen’d every blow.

“How long, ye warriors of the Argive race, (To generous Argos what a dire disgrace!) How long on these cursed confines will ye lie, Yet undetermined, or to live or die? What hopes remain, what methods to retire, If once your vessels catch the Trojan fire? Mark how the flames approach, how near they fall, How Hector calls, and Troy obeys his call! Not to the dance that dreadful voice invites, It calls to death, and all the rage of fights. ’Tis now no time for wisdom or debates; To your own hands are trusted all your fates; And better far in one decisive strife, One day should end our labour or our life, Than keep this hard-got inch of barren sands, Still press’d, and press’d by such inglorious hands.”

“Hear me, and judge, ye sisters of the main! How just a cause has Thetis to complain! How wretched, were I mortal, were my fate! How more than wretched in the immortal state! Sprung from my bed a godlike hero came, The bravest far that ever bore the name; Like some fair olive, by my careful hand He grew, he flourish’d and adorn’d the land! To Troy I sent him: but the fates ordain He never, never must return again. So short a space the light of heaven to view, So short, alas! and fill’d with anguish too! Hear how his sorrows echo through the shore! I cannot ease them, but I must deplore; I go at least to bear a tender part, And mourn my loved-one with a mother’s heart.”

“Fear not, O father! no ill news I bear; From Jove I come, Jove makes thee still his care; For Hector’s sake these walls he bids thee leave, And bear what stern Achilles may receive; Alone, for so he wills; no Trojan near, Except, to place the dead with decent care, Some aged herald, who with gentle hand May the slow mules and funeral car command. Nor shalt thou death, nor shalt thou danger dread: Safe through the foe by his protection led: Thee Hermes to Pelides shall convey, Guard of thy life, and partner of thy way. Fierce as he is, Achilles’ self shall spare Thy age, nor touch one venerable hair; Some thought there must be in a soul so brave, Some sense of duty, some desire to save.”

“Lest thirst of glory your brave souls divide, What chief shall combat, let the gods decide. Whom heaven shall choose, be his the chance to raise His country’s fame, his own immortal praise.”

Perhaps great Hector then had found his fate, But Jove and destiny prolong’d his date. Safe from the darts, the care of heaven he stood, Amidst alarms, and death, and dust, and blood.

“From whence this boding speech, the stern decree Of death denounced, or why denounced to me? Why not as well Achilles’ fate be given To Hector’s lance? Who knows the will of heaven?”

Helen, after the death of Paris, married Deiphobus his brother, and at the taking of Troy betrayed him, in order to reconcile herself to Menelaus her first husband, who received her again into favour.

While thus they communed, from the Olympian bowers Jove orders Iris to the Trojan towers: “Haste, winged goddess! to the sacred town, And urge her monarch to redeem his son. Alone the Ilian ramparts let him leave, And bear what stern Achilles may receive: Alone, for so we will; no Trojan near Except, to place the dead with decent care, Some aged herald, who with gentle hand May the slow mules and funeral car command. Nor let him death, nor let him danger dread, Safe through the foe by our protection led: Him Hermes to Achilles shall convey, Guard of his life, and partner of his way. Fierce as he is, Achilles’ self shall spare His age, nor touch one venerable hair: Some thought there must be in a soul so brave, Some sense of duty, some desire to save.”

Saturn’s great sons in fierce contention vied, And crowds of heroes in their anger died. The sire of earth and heaven, by Thetis won To crown with glory Peleus’ godlike son, Will’d not destruction to the Grecian powers, But spared awhile the destined Trojan towers; While Neptune, rising from his azure main, Warr’d on the king of heaven with stern disdain, And breathed revenge, and fired the Grecian train. Gods of one source, of one ethereal race, Alike divine, and heaven their native place; But Jove the greater; first-born of the skies, And more than men, or gods, supremely wise. For this, of Jove’s superior might afraid, Neptune in human form conceal’d his aid. These powers enfold the Greek and Trojan train In war and discord’s adamantine chain, Indissolubly strong: the fatal tie Is stretch’d on both, and close compell’d they die.

Now had the Grecians snatch’d a short repast, And buckled on their shining arms with haste. Troy roused as soon; for on this dreadful day The fate of fathers, wives, and infants lay. The gates unfolding pour forth all their train; Squadrons on squadrons cloud the dusky plain: Men, steeds, and chariots shake the trembling ground, The tumult thickens, and the skies resound; And now with shouts the shocking armies closed, To lances lances, shields to shields opposed, Host against host with shadowy legends drew, The sounding darts in iron tempests flew; Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries, Triumphant shouts and dying groans arise; With streaming blood the slippery fields are dyed, And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide. Long as the morning beams, increasing bright, O’er heaven’s clear azure spread the sacred light, Commutual death the fate of war confounds, Each adverse battle gored with equal wounds. But when the sun the height of heaven ascends, The sire of gods his golden scales suspends,[192] With equal hand: in these explored the fate Of Greece and Troy, and poised the mighty weight: Press’d with its load, the Grecian balance lies Low sunk on earth, the Trojan strikes the skies. Then Jove from Ida’s top his horrors spreads; The clouds burst dreadful o’er the Grecian heads; Thick lightnings flash; the muttering thunder rolls; Their strength he withers, and unmans their souls. Before his wrath the trembling hosts retire; The gods in terrors, and the skies on fire. Nor great Idomeneus that sight could bear, Nor each stern Ajax, thunderbolts of war: Nor he, the king of war, the alarm sustain’d Nestor alone, amidst the storm remain’d. Unwilling he remain’d, for Paris’ dart Had pierced his courser in a mortal part; Fix’d in the forehead, where the springing mane Curl’d o’er the brow, it stung him to the brain; Mad with his anguish, he begins to rear, Paw with his hoofs aloft, and lash the air.

Once more bold Teucer, in his country’s cause, At Hector’s breast a chosen arrow draws: And had the weapon found the destined way, Thy fall, great Trojan! had renown’d that day. But Hector was not doom’d to perish then: The all-wise disposer of the fates of men (Imperial Jove) his present death withstands; Nor was such glory due to Teucer’s hands. At its full stretch as the tough string he drew, Struck by an arm unseen, it burst in two; Down dropp’d the bow: the shaft with brazen head Fell innocent, and on the dust lay dead. The astonish’d archer to great Ajax cries; “Some god prevents our destined enterprise: Some god, propitious to the Trojan foe, Has, from my arm unfailing, struck the bow, And broke the nerve my hands had twined with art, Strong to impel the flight of many a dart.”

I need not mention that Troy was taken soon after the death of Hector by the stratagem of the wooden horse, the particulars of which are described by Virgil in the second book of the Æneid.

“Oh, generous brother! (if the guilty dame That caused these woes deserve a sister’s name!) Would heaven, ere all these dreadful deeds were done, The day that show’d me to the golden sun Had seen my death! why did not whirlwinds bear The fatal infant to the fowls of air? Why sunk I not beneath the whelming tide, And midst the roarings of the waters died? Heaven fill’d up all my ills, and I accursed Bore all, and Paris of those ills the worst. Helen at least a braver spouse might claim, Warm’d with some virtue, some regard of fame! Now tired with toils, thy fainting limbs recline, With toils, sustain’d for Paris’ sake and mine The gods have link’d our miserable doom, Our present woe, and infamy to come: Wide shall it spread, and last through ages long, Example sad! and theme of future song.”

She spoke; Minerva burns to meet the war: And now heaven’s empress calls her blazing car. At her command rush forth the steeds divine; Rich with immortal gold their trappings shine. Bright Hebe waits; by Hebe, ever young, The whirling wheels are to the chariot hung. On the bright axle turns the bidden wheel Of sounding brass; the polished axle steel. Eight brazen spokes in radiant order flame; The circles gold, of uncorrupted frame, Such as the heavens produce: and round the gold Two brazen rings of work divine were roll’d. The bossy naves of sold silver shone; Braces of gold suspend the moving throne: The car, behind, an arching figure bore; The bending concave form’d an arch before. Silver the beam, the extended yoke was gold, And golden reins the immortal coursers hold. Herself, impatient, to the ready car, The coursers joins, and breathes revenge and war.

To this, Idomeneus: “The fields of fight Have proved thy valour, and unconquer’d might: And were some ambush for the foes design’d, Even there thy courage would not lag behind: In that sharp service, singled from the rest, The fear of each, or valour, stands confess’d. No force, no firmness, the pale coward shows; He shifts his place: his colour comes and goes: A dropping sweat creeps cold on every part; Against his bosom beats his quivering heart; Terror and death in his wild eye-balls stare; With chattering teeth he stands, and stiffening hair, And looks a bloodless image of despair! Not so the brave—still dauntless, still the same, Unchanged his colour, and unmoved his frame: Composed his thought, determined is his eye, And fix’d his soul, to conquer or to die: If aught disturb the tenour of his breast, ’Tis but the wish to strike before the rest.

As when the hand of Jove a tempest forms, And rolls the cloud to blacken heaven with storms, Dark o’er the fields the ascending vapour flies, And shades the sun, and blots the golden skies: So from the ships, along the dusky plain, Dire Flight and Terror drove the Trojan train. Even Hector fled; through heads of disarray The fiery coursers forced their lord away: While far behind his Trojans fall confused; Wedged in the trench, in one vast carnage bruised: Chariots on chariots roll: the clashing spokes Shock; while the madding steeds break short their yokes. In vain they labour up the steepy mound; Their charioteers lie foaming on the ground. Fierce on the rear, with shouts Patroclus flies; Tumultuous clamour fills the fields and skies; Thick drifts of dust involve their rapid flight; Clouds rise on clouds, and heaven is snatch’d from sight. The affrighted steeds their dying lords cast down, Scour o’er the fields, and stretch to reach the town. Loud o’er the rout was heard the victor’s cry, Where the war bleeds, and where the thickest die, Where horse and arms, and chariots lie o’erthrown, And bleeding heroes under axles groan. No stop, no check, the steeds of Peleus knew: From bank to bank the immortal coursers flew. High-bounding o’er the fosse, the whirling car Smokes through the ranks, o’ertakes the flying war, And thunders after Hector; Hector flies, Patroclus shakes his lance; but fate denies. Not with less noise, with less impetuous force, The tide of Trojans urge their desperate course, Than when in autumn Jove his fury pours, And earth is loaden with incessant showers; (When guilty mortals break the eternal laws, Or judges, bribed, betray the righteous cause;) From their deep beds he bids the rivers rise, And opens all the flood-gates of the skies: The impetuous torrents from their hills obey, Whole fields are drown’d, and mountains swept away; Loud roars the deluge till it meets the main; And trembling man sees all his labours vain!

This said, he seized (while yet the carcase heaved) The bloody armour, which his train received: Then sudden mix’d among the warring crew, And the bold son of Pylæmenes slew. Harpalion had through Asia travell’d far, Following his martial father to the war: Through filial love he left his native shore, Never, ah, never to behold it more! His unsuccessful spear he chanced to fling Against the target of the Spartan king; Thus of his lance disarm’d, from death he flies, And turns around his apprehensive eyes. Him, through the hip transpiercing as he fled, The shaft of Merion mingled with the dead. Beneath the bone the glancing point descends, And, driving down, the swelling bladder rends: Sunk in his sad companions’ arms he lay, And in short pantings sobb’d his soul away; (Like some vile worm extended on the ground;) While life’s red torrent gush’d from out the wound.

He from whose lips divine persuasion flows, Grave Nestor, then, in graceful act arose; Thus to the kings he spoke: “What grief, what shame Attend on Greece, and all the Grecian name! How shall, alas! her hoary heroes mourn Their sons degenerate, and their race a scorn! What tears shall down thy silvery beard be roll’d, O Peleus, old in arms, in wisdom old! Once with what joy the generous prince would hear Of every chief who fought this glorious war, Participate their fame, and pleased inquire Each name, each action, and each hero’s sire! Gods! should he see our warriors trembling stand, And trembling all before one hostile hand; How would he lift his aged arms on high, Lament inglorious Greece, and beg to die! Oh! would to all the immortal powers above, Minerva, Phœbus, and almighty Jove! Years might again roll back, my youth renew, And give this arm the spring which once it knew When fierce in war, where Jardan’s waters fall, I led my troops to Phea’s trembling wall, And with the Arcadian spears my prowess tried, Where Celadon rolls down his rapid tide.[179] There Ereuthalion braved us in the field, Proud Areithous’ dreadful arms to wield; Great Areithous, known from shore to shore By the huge, knotted, iron mace he bore; No lance he shook, nor bent the twanging bow, But broke, with this, the battle of the foe. Him not by manly force Lycurgus slew, Whose guileful javelin from the thicket flew, Deep in a winding way his breast assailed, Nor aught the warrior’s thundering mace avail’d. Supine he fell: those arms which Mars before Had given the vanquish’d, now the victor bore: But when old age had dimm’d Lycurgus’ eyes, To Ereuthalion he consign’d the prize. Furious with this he crush’d our levell’d bands, And dared the trial of the strongest hands; Nor could the strongest hands his fury stay: All saw, and fear’d, his huge tempestuous sway Till I, the youngest of the host, appear’d, And, youngest, met whom all our army fear’d.

The power ignipotent her word obeys: Wide o’er the plain he pours the boundless blaze; At once consumes the dead, and dries the soil And the shrunk waters in their channel boil. As when autumnal Boreas sweeps the sky, And instant blows the water’d gardens dry: So look’d the field, so whiten’d was the ground, While Vulcan breathed the fiery blast around. Swift on the sedgy reeds the ruin preys; Along the margin winds the running blaze: The trees in flaming rows to ashes turn, The flowering lotos and the tamarisk burn, Broad elm, and cypress rising in a spire; The watery willows hiss before the fire. Now glow the waves, the fishes pant for breath, The eels lie twisting in the pangs of death: Now flounce aloft, now dive the scaly fry, Or, gasping, turn their bellies to the sky. At length the river rear’d his languid head, And thus, short-panting, to the god he said:

This Hector saw, and thus express’d his joy: “Ye troops of Lycia, Dardanus, and Troy! Be mindful of yourselves, your ancient fame, And spread your glory with the navy’s flame. Jove is with us; I saw his hand, but now, From the proud archer strike his vaunted bow: Indulgent Jove! how plain thy favours shine, When happy nations bear the marks divine! How easy then, to see the sinking state Of realms accursed, deserted, reprobate! Such is the fate of Greece, and such is ours: Behold, ye warriors, and exert your powers. Death is the worst; a fate which all must try; And for our country, ’tis a bliss to die. The gallant man, though slain in fight he be, Yet leaves his nation safe, his children free; Entails a debt on all the grateful state; His own brave friends shall glory in his fate; His wife live honour’d, all his race succeed, And late posterity enjoy the deed!”

Menelaus, upon the death of Patroclus, defends his body from the enemy: Euphorbus, who attempts it, is slain. Hector advancing, Menelaus retires; but soon returns with Ajax, and drives him off. This, Glaucus objects to Hector as a flight, who thereupon puts on the armour he had won from Patroclus, and renews the battle. The Greeks give way, till Ajax rallies them: Æneas sustains the Trojans. Æneas and Hector attempt the chariot of Achilles, which is borne off by Automedon. The horses of Achilles deplore the loss of Patroclus: Jupiter covers his body with a thick darkness: the noble prayer of Ajax on that occasion. Menelaus sends Antilochus to Achilles, with the news of Patroclus’ death: then returns to the fight, where, though attacked with the utmost fury, he and Meriones, assisted by the Ajaces, bear off the body to the ships. The time is the evening of the eight-and-twentieth day. The scene lies in the fields before Troy.

Divine Æneas brings the Dardan race, Anchises’ son, by Venus’ stolen embrace, Born in the shades of Ida’s secret grove; (A mortal mixing with the queen of love;) Archilochus and Acamas divide The warrior’s toils, and combat by his side.

Thus he: the stern Achilles thus replied: “My second father, and my reverend guide: Thy friend, believe me, no such gifts demands, And asks no honours from a mortal’s hands; Jove honours me, and favours my designs; His pleasure guides me, and his will confines; And here I stay (if such his high behest) While life’s warm spirit beats within my breast. Yet hear one word, and lodge it in thy heart: No more molest me on Atrides’ part: Is it for him these tears are taught to flow, For him these sorrows? for my mortal foe? A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows; One should our interests and our passions be; My friend must hate the man that injures me. Do this, my Phœnix, ’tis a generous part; And share my realms, my honours, and my heart. Let these return: our voyage, or our stay, Rest undetermined till the dawning day.”

First march’d Menestheus, of celestial birth, Derived from thee, whose waters wash the earth, Divine Sperchius! Jove-descended flood! A mortal mother mixing with a god. Such was Menestheus, but miscall’d by fame The son of Borus, that espoused the dame.

Yet not in vain, Tlepolemus, was thrown Thy angry lance; which piercing to the bone Sarpedon’s thigh, had robb’d the chief of breath; But Jove was present, and forbade the death. Borne from the conflict by his Lycian throng, The wounded hero dragg’d the lance along. (His friends, each busied in his several part, Through haste, or danger, had not drawn the dart.) The Greeks with slain Tlepolemus retired; Whose fall Ulysses view’d, with fury fired; Doubtful if Jove’s great son he should pursue, Or pour his vengeance on the Lycian crew. But heaven and fate the first design withstand, Nor this great death must grace Ulysses’ hand. Minerva drives him on the Lycian train; Alastor, Cronius, Halius, strew’d the plain, Alcander, Prytanis, Noëmon fell:[154] And numbers more his sword had sent to hell, But Hector saw; and, furious at the sight, Rush’d terrible amidst the ranks of fight. With joy Sarpedon view’d the wish’d relief, And, faint, lamenting, thus implored the chief:

Then thus to Simois! “Haste, my brother flood; And check this mortal that controls a god; Our bravest heroes else shall quit the fight, And Ilion tumble from her towery height. Call then thy subject streams, and bid them roar, From all thy fountains swell thy watery store, With broken rocks, and with a load of dead, Charge the black surge, and pour it on his head. Mark how resistless through the floods he goes, And boldly bids the warring gods be foes! But nor that force, nor form divine to sight, Shall aught avail him, if our rage unite: Whelm’d under our dark gulfs those arms shall lie, That blaze so dreadful in each Trojan eye; And deep beneath a sandy mountain hurl’d, Immersed remain this terror of the world. Such ponderous ruin shall confound the place, No Greeks shall e’er his perish’d relics grace, No hand his bones shall gather, or inhume; These his cold rites, and this his watery tomb.”

“O monarch! better far had been the fate Of thee, of me, of all the Grecian state, If (ere the day when by mad passion sway’d, Rash we contended for the black-eyed maid) Preventing Dian had despatch’d her dart, And shot the shining mischief to the heart! Then many a hero had not press’d the shore, Nor Troy’s glad fields been fatten’d with our gore. Long, long shall Greece the woes we caused bewail, And sad posterity repeat the tale. But this, no more the subject of debate, Is past, forgotten, and resign’d to fate. Why should, alas, a mortal man, as I, Burn with a fury that can never die? Here then my anger ends: let war succeed, And even as Greece has bled, let Ilion bleed. Now call the hosts, and try if in our sight Troy yet shall dare to camp a second night! I deem, their mightiest, when this arm he knows, Shall ’scape with transport, and with joy repose.”

Diomed, after the fall of Troy, was expelled his own country, and scarce escaped with his life from his adulterous wife Ægialé; but at last was received by Daunus in Apulia, and shared his kingdom; it is uncertain how he died.

His warm entreaty touch’d Saturnia’s ear: She bade the ignipotent his rage forbear, Recall the flame, nor in a mortal cause Infest a god: the obedient flame withdraws: Again the branching streams begin to spread, And soft remurmur in their wonted bed.

And now Olympus’ shining gates unfold; The gods, with Jove, assume their thrones of gold: Immortal Hebe, fresh with bloom divine, The golden goblet crowns with purple wine: While the full bowls flow round, the powers employ Their careful eyes on long-contended Troy.

Daughters of Jove! that on Olympus shine, Ye all-beholding, all-recording nine! O say, when Neptune made proud Ilion yield, What chief, what hero first embrued the field? Of all the Grecians what immortal name, And whose bless’d trophies, will ye raise to fame?

Stopp’d in the tumult Cleobulus lies, Beneath Oïleus’ arm, a living prize; A living prize not long the Trojan stood; The thirsty falchion drank his reeking blood: Plunged in his throat the smoking weapon lies; Black death, and fate unpitying, seal his eyes.

Phorcys, as slain Hippothous he defends, The Telamonian lance his belly rends; The hollow armour burst before the stroke, And through the wound the rushing entrails broke: In strong convulsions panting on the sands He lies, and grasps the dust with dying hands.

Now Troy had stoop’d beneath his matchless power, But flaming Phœbus kept the sacred tower. Thrice at the battlements Patroclus strook;[246] His blazing ægis thrice Apollo shook; He tried the fourth; when, bursting from the cloud, A more than mortal voice was heard aloud.

“What moved thy madness, thus to disunite Ethereal minds, and mix all heaven in fight? What wonder this, when in thy frantic mood Thou drovest a mortal to insult a god? Thy impious hand Tydides’ javelin bore, And madly bathed it in celestial gore.”