Iliad on The Divine

Neptune and Pallas haste to his relief, And thus in human form address’d the chief: The power of ocean first: “Forbear thy fear, O son of Peleus! Lo, thy gods appear! Behold! from Jove descending to thy aid, Propitious Neptune, and the blue-eyed maid. Stay, and the furious flood shall cease to rave ’Tis not thy fate to glut his angry wave. But thou, the counsel heaven suggests, attend! Nor breathe from combat, nor thy sword suspend, Till Troy receive her flying sons, till all Her routed squadrons pant behind their wall: Hector alone shall stand his fatal chance, And Hector’s blood shall smoke upon thy lance. Thine is the glory doom’d.” Thus spake the gods: Then swift ascended to the bright abodes.

“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.”

The mournful mother next sustains her part: “O thou, the best, the dearest to my heart! Of all my race thou most by heaven approved, And by the immortals even in death beloved! While all my other sons in barbarous bands Achilles bound, and sold to foreign lands, This felt no chains, but went a glorious ghost, Free, and a hero, to the Stygian coast. Sentenced, ’tis true, by his inhuman doom, Thy noble corse was dragg’d around the tomb; (The tomb of him thy warlike arm had slain;) Ungenerous insult, impotent and vain! Yet glow’st thou fresh with every living grace; No mark of pain, or violence of face: Rosy and fair! as Phœbus’ silver bow Dismiss’d thee gently to the shades below.”

“Lo! on the brink of fate Æneas stands, An instant victim to Achilles’ hands; By Phœbus urged; but Phœbus has bestow’d His aid in vain: the man o’erpowers the god. And can ye see this righteous chief atone With guiltless blood for vices not his own? To all the gods his constant vows were paid; Sure, though he wars for Troy, he claims our aid. Fate wills not this; nor thus can Jove resign The future father of the Dardan line:[266] The first great ancestor obtain’d his grace, And still his love descends on all the race: For Priam now, and Priam’s faithless kind, At length are odious to the all-seeing mind; On great Æneas shall devolve the reign, And sons succeeding sons the lasting line sustain.”

“So ends thy glory! Such the fate they prove, Who strive presumptuous with the sons of Jove! Sprung from a river, didst thou boast thy line? But great Saturnius is the source of mine. How durst thou vaunt thy watery progeny? Of Peleus, Æacus, and Jove, am I. The race of these superior far to those, As he that thunders to the stream that flows. What rivers can, Scamander might have shown; But Jove he dreads, nor wars against his son. Even Achelous might contend in vain, And all the roaring billows of the main. The eternal ocean, from whose fountains flow The seas, the rivers, and the springs below, The thundering voice of Jove abhors to hear, And in his deep abysses shakes with fear.”

Next these a buckler, spear, and helm, he brings; Cast on the plain, the brazen burden rings: Arms which of late divine Sarpedon wore, And great Patroclus in short triumph bore. “Stand forth the bravest of our host! (he cries) Whoever dares deserve so rich a prize, Now grace the lists before our army’s sight, And sheathed in steel, provoke his foe to fight. Who first the jointed armour shall explore, And stain his rival’s mail with issuing gore, The sword Asteropaeus possess’d of old, (A Thracian blade, distinct with studs of gold,) Shall pay the stroke, and grace the striker’s side: These arms in common let the chiefs divide: For each brave champion, when the combat ends, A sumptuous banquet at our tents attends.”

With grief he heard, and bade the chiefs prepare To join his milk-white coursers to the car; He mounts the seat, Antenor at his side; The gentle steeds through Scæa’s gates they guide:[120] Next from the car descending on the plain, Amid the Grecian host and Trojan train, Slow they proceed: the sage Ulysses then Arose, and with him rose the king of men. On either side a sacred herald stands, The wine they mix, and on each monarch’s hands Pour the full urn; then draws the Grecian lord His cutlass sheathed beside his ponderous sword; From the sign’d victims crops the curling hair;[121] The heralds part it, and the princes share; Then loudly thus before the attentive bands He calls the gods, and spreads his lifted hands:

Apollo thus from Ilion’s lofty towers, Array’d in terrors, roused the Trojan powers: While war’s fierce goddess fires the Grecian foe, And shouts and thunders in the fields below. Then great Diores fell, by doom divine, In vain his valour and illustrious line. A broken rock the force of Pyrus threw, (Who from cold Ænus led the Thracian crew,)[142] Full on his ankle dropp’d the ponderous stone, Burst the strong nerves, and crash’d the solid bone. Supine he tumbles on the crimson sands, Before his helpless friends, and native bands, And spreads for aid his unavailing hands. The foe rush’d furious as he pants for breath, And through his navel drove the pointed death: His gushing entrails smoked upon the ground, And the warm life came issuing from the wound.

Him thus upbraiding, with a wrathful look The lord of thunders view’d, and stern bespoke: “To me, perfidious! this lamenting strain? Of lawless force shall lawless Mars complain? Of all the gods who tread the spangled skies, Thou most unjust, most odious in our eyes! Inhuman discord is thy dire delight, The waste of slaughter, and the rage of fight. No bounds, no law, thy fiery temper quells, And all thy mother in thy soul rebels. In vain our threats, in vain our power we use; She gives the example, and her son pursues. Yet long the inflicted pangs thou shall not mourn, Sprung since thou art from Jove, and heavenly-born. Else, singed with lightning, hadst thou hence been thrown, Where chain’d on burning rocks the Titans groan.”

But he who found not whom his soul desired, Whose virtue charm’d him as her beauty fired, Stood in the gates, and ask’d “what way she bent Her parting step? If to the fane she went, Where late the mourning matrons made resort; Or sought her sisters in the Trojan court?” “Not to the court, (replied the attendant train,) Nor mix’d with matrons to Minerva’s fane: To Ilion’s steepy tower she bent her way, To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day. Troy fled, she heard, before the Grecian sword; She heard, and trembled for her absent lord: Distracted with surprise, she seem’d to fly, Fear on her cheek, and sorrow in her eye. The nurse attended with her infant boy, The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy.”

But now, no longer deaf to honour’s call, Forth issues Paris from the palace wall. In brazen arms that cast a gleamy ray, Swift through the town the warrior bends his way. The wanton courser thus with reins unbound[176] Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground; Pamper’d and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, And laves, in height of blood his shining sides; His head now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevell’d o’er his shoulders flies; He snuffs the females in the distant plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again. With equal triumph, sprightly, bold, and gay, In arms refulgent as the god of day, The son of Priam, glorying in his might, Rush’d forth with Hector to the fields of fight.

And now, the warriors passing on the way, The graceful Paris first excused his stay. To whom the noble Hector thus replied: “O chief! in blood, and now in arms, allied! Thy power in war with justice none contest; Known is thy courage, and thy strength confess’d. What pity sloth should seize a soul so brave, Or godlike Paris live a woman’s slave! My heart weeps blood at what the Trojans say, And hopes thy deeds shall wipe the stain away. Haste then, in all their glorious labours share, For much they suffer, for thy sake, in war. These ills shall cease, whene’er by Jove’s decree We crown the bowl to heaven and liberty: While the proud foe his frustrate triumphs mourns, And Greece indignant through her seas returns.”

Meantime the monarch of the watery main Observed the Thunderer, nor observed in vain. In Samothracia, on a mountain’s brow, Whose waving woods o’erhung the deeps below, He sat; and round him cast his azure eyes Where Ida’s misty tops confusedly rise; Below, fair Ilion’s glittering spires were seen; The crowded ships and sable seas between. There, from the crystal chambers of the main Emerged, he sat, and mourn’d his Argives slain. At Jove incensed, with grief and fury stung, Prone down the rocky steep he rush’d along; Fierce as he pass’d, the lofty mountains nod, The forest shakes; earth trembled as he trod, And felt the footsteps of the immortal god. From realm to realm three ample strides he took, And, at the fourth, the distant Ægae shook.

Now in swift flight they pass the trench profound, And many a chief lay gasping on the ground: Then stopp’d and panted, where the chariots lie Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye. Meanwhile, awaken’d from his dream of love, On Ida’s summit sat imperial Jove: Round the wide fields he cast a careful view, There saw the Trojans fly, the Greeks pursue; These proud in arms, those scatter’d o’er the plain And, ’midst the war, the monarch of the main. Not far, great Hector on the dust he spies, (His sad associates round with weeping eyes,) Ejecting blood, and panting yet for breath, His senses wandering to the verge of death. The god beheld him with a pitying look, And thus, incensed, to fraudful Juno spoke:

Then thus the hero of Anchises’ strain: “To meet Pelides you persuade in vain: Already have I met, nor void of fear Observed the fury of his flying spear; From Ida’s woods he chased us to the field, Our force he scattered, and our herds he kill’d; Lyrnessus, Pedasus in ashes lay; But (Jove assisting) I survived the day: Else had I sunk oppress’d in fatal fight By fierce Achilles and Minerva’s might. Where’er he moved, the goddess shone before, And bathed his brazen lance in hostile gore. What mortal man Achilles can sustain? The immortals guard him through the dreadful plain, And suffer not his dart to fall in vain. Were God my aid, this arm should check his power, Though strong in battle as a brazen tower.”

“The praise of wisdom, in thy youth obtain’d, An act so rash, Antilochus! has stain’d. Robb’d of my glory and my just reward, To you, O Grecians! be my wrong declared: So not a leader shall our conduct blame, Or judge me envious of a rival’s fame. But shall not we, ourselves, the truth maintain? What needs appealing in a fact so plain? What Greek shall blame me, if I bid thee rise, And vindicate by oath th’ ill-gotten prize? Rise if thou darest, before thy chariot stand, The driving scourge high-lifted in thy hand; And touch thy steeds, and swear thy whole intent Was but to conquer, not to circumvent. Swear by that god whose liquid arms surround The globe, and whose dread earthquakes heave the ground!”

“Hector! come on; thy empty threats forbear; ’Tis not thy arm, ’tis thundering Jove we fear: The skill of war to us not idly given, Lo! Greece is humbled, not by Troy, but Heaven. Vain are the hopes that haughty mind imparts, To force our fleet: the Greeks have hands and hearts. Long ere in flames our lofty navy fall, Your boasted city, and your god-built wall, Shall sink beneath us, smoking on the ground; And spread a long unmeasured ruin round. The time shall come, when, chased along the plain, Even thou shalt call on Jove, and call in vain; Even thou shalt wish, to aid thy desperate course, The wings of falcons for thy flying horse; Shalt run, forgetful of a warrior’s fame, While clouds of friendly dust conceal thy shame.”

The goddess said, and sullen took her place; Black horror sadden’d each celestial face. To see the gathering grudge in every breast, Smiles on her lips a spleenful joy express’d; While on her wrinkled front, and eyebrow bent, Sat stedfast care, and lowering discontent. Thus she proceeds—“Attend, ye powers above! But know, ’tis madness to contest with Jove: Supreme he sits; and sees, in pride of sway. Your vassal godheads grudgingly obey: Fierce in the majesty of power controls; Shakes all the thrones of heaven, and bends the poles. Submiss, immortals! all he wills, obey: And thou, great Mars, begin and show the way. Behold Ascalaphus! behold him die, But dare not murmur, dare not vent a sigh; Thy own loved boasted offspring lies o’erthrown, If that loved boasted offspring be thy own.”

“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.”

And now succeed the gifts ordain’d to grace The youths contending in the rapid race: A silver urn that full six measures held, By none in weight or workmanship excell’d: Sidonian artists taught the frame to shine, Elaborate, with artifice divine; Whence Tyrian sailors did the prize transport, And gave to Thoas at the Lemnian port: From him descended, good Eunaeus heir’d The glorious gift; and, for Lycaon spared, To brave Patroclus gave the rich reward: Now, the same hero’s funeral rites to grace, It stands the prize of swiftness in the race. A well-fed ox was for the second placed; And half a talent must content the last. Achilles rising then bespoke the train: “Who hope the palm of swiftness to obtain, Stand forth, and bear these prizes from the plain.”

These thou mayst raze, nor I forbid their fall: ’Tis not in me the vengeance to remove; The crime’s sufficient that they share my love. Of power superior why should I complain? Resent I may, but must resent in vain. Yet some distinction Juno might require, Sprung with thyself from one celestial sire, A goddess born, to share the realms above, And styled the consort of the thundering Jove; Nor thou a wife and sister’s right deny;[128] Let both consent, and both by terms comply; So shall the gods our joint decrees obey, And heaven shall act as we direct the way. See ready Pallas waits thy high commands To raise in arms the Greek and Phrygian bands; Their sudden friendship by her arts may cease, And the proud Trojans first infringe the peace.”

Great Agamemnon views with joyful eye The ranks grow thinner as his arrows fly: “O youth forever dear! (the monarch cried) Thus, always thus, thy early worth be tried; Thy brave example shall retrieve our host, Thy country’s saviour, and thy father’s boast! Sprung from an alien’s bed thy sire to grace, The vigorous offspring of a stolen embrace: Proud of his boy, he own’d the generous flame, And the brave son repays his cares with fame. Now hear a monarch’s vow: If heaven’s high powers Give me to raze Troy’s long-defended towers; Whatever treasures Greece for me design, The next rich honorary gift be thine: Some golden tripod, or distinguished car, With coursers dreadful in the ranks of war: Or some fair captive, whom thy eyes approve, Shall recompense the warrior’s toils with love.”

While to the ramparts daring Glaucus drew, From Teucer’s hand a winged arrow flew; The bearded shaft the destined passage found, And on his naked arm inflicts a wound. The chief, who fear’d some foe’s insulting boast Might stop the progress of his warlike host, Conceal’d the wound, and, leaping from his height Retired reluctant from the unfinish’d fight. Divine Sarpedon with regret beheld Disabled Glaucus slowly quit the field; His beating breast with generous ardour glows, He springs to fight, and flies upon the foes. Alcmaon first was doom’d his force to feel; Deep in his breast he plunged the pointed steel; Then from the yawning wound with fury tore The spear, pursued by gushing streams of gore: Down sinks the warrior with a thundering sound, His brazen armour rings against the ground.

“Ah, youth for ever dear, for ever kind, Once tender friend of my distracted mind! I left thee fresh in life, in beauty gay; Now find thee cold, inanimated clay! What woes my wretched race of life attend! Sorrows on sorrows, never doom’d to end! The first loved consort of my virgin bed Before these eyes in fatal battle bled: My three brave brothers in one mournful day All trod the dark, irremeable way: Thy friendly hand uprear’d me from the plain, And dried my sorrows for a husband slain; Achilles’ care you promised I should prove, The first, the dearest partner of his love; That rites divine should ratify the band, And make me empress in his native land. Accept these grateful tears! for thee they flow, For thee, that ever felt another’s woe!”

The Greeks consent with loud-applauding cries, And then Eumelus had received the prize, But youthful Nestor, jealous of his fame, The award opposes, and asserts his claim. “Think not (he cries) I tamely will resign, O Peleus’ son! the mare so justly mine. What if the gods, the skilful to confound, Have thrown the horse and horseman to the ground? Perhaps he sought not heaven by sacrifice, And vows omitted forfeited the prize. If yet (distinction to thy friend to show, And please a soul desirous to bestow) Some gift must grace Eumelus, view thy store Of beauteous handmaids, steeds, and shining ore; An ample present let him thence receive, And Greece shall praise thy generous thirst to give. But this my prize I never shall forego; This, who but touches, warriors! is my foe.”

Waked with the word the trembling sire arose, And raised his friend: the god before him goes: He joins the mules, directs them with his hand, And moves in silence through the hostile land. When now to Xanthus’ yellow stream they drove, (Xanthus, immortal progeny of Jove,) The winged deity forsook their view, And in a moment to Olympus flew. Now shed Aurora round her saffron ray, Sprang through the gates of light, and gave the day: Charged with the mournful load, to Ilion go The sage and king, majestically slow. Cassandra first beholds, from Ilion’s spire, The sad procession of her hoary sire; Then, as the pensive pomp advanced more near, (Her breathless brother stretched upon the bier,) A shower of tears o’erflows her beauteous eyes, Alarming thus all Ilion with her cries:

Thus prayed the chief: his unavailing prayer Great Jove refused, and toss’d in empty air: The God averse, while yet the fumes arose, Prepared new toils, and doubled woes on woes. Their prayers perform’d the chiefs the rite pursue, The barley sprinkled, and the victim slew. The limbs they sever from the inclosing hide, The thighs, selected to the gods, divide. On these, in double cauls involved with art, The choicest morsels lie from every part, From the cleft wood the crackling flames aspire While the fat victims feed the sacred fire. The thighs thus sacrificed, and entrails dress’d The assistants part, transfix, and roast the rest; Then spread the tables, the repast prepare, Each takes his seat, and each receives his share. Soon as the rage of hunger was suppress’d, The generous Nestor thus the prince address’d.

“O first and greatest power! whom all obey, Who high on Ida’s holy mountain sway, Eternal Jove! and you bright orb that roll From east to west, and view from pole to pole! Thou mother Earth! and all ye living floods! Infernal furies, and Tartarean gods, Who rule the dead, and horrid woes prepare For perjured kings, and all who falsely swear! Hear, and be witness. If, by Paris slain, Great Menelaus press the fatal plain; The dame and treasures let the Trojan keep, And Greece returning plough the watery deep. If by my brother’s lance the Trojan bleed, Be his the wealth and beauteous dame decreed: The appointed fine let Ilion justly pay, And every age record the signal day. This if the Phrygians shall refuse to yield, Arms must revenge, and Mars decide the field.”

To him the monarch: “That our army bends, That Troy triumphant our high fleet ascends, And that the rampart, late our surest trust And best defence, lies smoking in the dust; All this from Jove’s afflictive hand we bear, Who, far from Argos, wills our ruin here. Past are the days when happier Greece was blest, And all his favour, all his aid confess’d; Now heaven averse, our hands from battle ties, And lifts the Trojan glory to the skies. Cease we at length to waste our blood in vain, And launch what ships lie nearest to the main; Leave these at anchor, till the coming night: Then, if impetuous Troy forbear the fight, Bring all to sea, and hoist each sail for flight. Better from evils, well foreseen, to run, Than perish in the danger we may shun.”

While thus the thunder of the battle raged, And labouring armies round the works engaged, Still in the tent Patroclus sat to tend The good Eurypylus, his wounded friend. He sprinkles healing balms, to anguish kind, And adds discourse, the medicine of the mind. But when he saw, ascending up the fleet, Victorious Troy; then, starting from his seat, With bitter groans his sorrows he express’d, He wrings his hands, he beats his manly breast. “Though yet thy state require redress (he cries) Depart I must: what horrors strike my eyes! Charged with Achilles’ high command I go, A mournful witness of this scene of woe; I haste to urge him by his country’s care To rise in arms, and shine again in war. Perhaps some favouring god his soul may bend; The voice is powerful of a faithful friend.”

Then gave his hand at parting, to prevent The old man’s fears, and turn’d within the tent; Where fair Briseïs, bright in blooming charms, Expects her hero with desiring arms. But in the porch the king and herald rest; Sad dreams of care yet wandering in their breast. Now gods and men the gifts of sleep partake; Industrious Hermes only was awake, The king’s return revolving in his mind, To pass the ramparts, and the watch to blind. The power descending hover’d o’er his head: “And sleep’st thou, father! (thus the vision said:) Now dost thou sleep, when Hector is restored? Nor fear the Grecian foes, or Grecian lord? Thy presence here should stern Atrides see, Thy still surviving sons may sue for thee; May offer all thy treasures yet contain, To spare thy age; and offer all in vain.”

Achilles heard, with grief and rage oppress’d, His heart swell’d high, and labour’d in his breast; Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled; Now fired by wrath, and now by reason cool’d: That prompts his hand to draw the deadly sword, Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord; This whispers soft his vengeance to control, And calm the rising tempest of his soul. Just as in anguish of suspense he stay’d, While half unsheathed appear’d the glittering blade,[57] Minerva swift descended from above, Sent by the sister and the wife of Jove (For both the princes claim’d her equal care); Behind she stood, and by the golden hair Achilles seized; to him alone confess’d; A sable cloud conceal’d her from the rest. He sees, and sudden to the goddess cries, Known by the flames that sparkle from her eyes:

“Great king of nations! (Ithacus replied) Fix’d is his wrath, unconquer’d is his pride; He slights thy friendship, thy proposals scorns, And, thus implored, with fiercer fury burns. To save our army, and our fleets to free, Is not his care; but left to Greece and thee. Your eyes shall view, when morning paints the sky, Beneath his oars the whitening billows fly; Us too he bids our oars and sails employ, Nor hope the fall of heaven-protected Troy; For Jove o’ershades her with his arm divine, Inspires her war, and bids her glory shine. Such was his word: what further he declared, These sacred heralds and great Ajax heard. But Phœnix in his tent the chief retains, Safe to transport him to his native plains When morning dawns; if other he decree, His age is sacred, and his choice is free.”

Jove view’d the combat with a stern survey, And eyes that flash’d intolerable day. Fix’d on the field his sight, his breast debates The vengeance due, and meditates the fates: Whether to urge their prompt effect, and call The force of Hector to Patroclus’ fall, This instant see his short-lived trophies won, And stretch him breathless on his slaughter’d son; Or yet, with many a soul’s untimely flight, Augment the fame and horror of the fight. To crown Achilles’ valiant friend with praise At length he dooms; and, that his last of days Shall set in glory, bids him drive the foe; Nor unattended see the shades below. Then Hector’s mind he fills with dire dismay; He mounts his car, and calls his hosts away; Sunk with Troy’s heavy fates, he sees decline The scales of Jove, and pants with awe divine.

Greece, in close order, and collected might, Yet suffers least, and sways the wavering fight; Fierce as conflicting fires the combat burns, And now it rises, now it sinks by turns. In one thick darkness all the fight was lost; The sun, the moon, and all the ethereal host Seem’d as extinct: day ravish’d from their eyes, And all heaven’s splendours blotted from the skies. Such o’er Patroclus’ body hung the night, The rest in sunshine fought, and open light; Unclouded there, the aerial azure spread, No vapour rested on the mountain’s head, The golden sun pour’d forth a stronger ray, And all the broad expansion flamed with day. Dispersed around the plain, by fits they fight, And here and there their scatter’d arrows light: But death and darkness o’er the carcase spread, There burn’d the war, and there the mighty bled.

So lies great Hector prostrate on the shore; His slacken’d hand deserts the lance it bore; His following shield the fallen chief o’erspread; Beneath his helmet dropp’d his fainting head; His load of armour, sinking to the ground, Clanks on the field, a dead and hollow sound. Loud shouts of triumph fill the crowded plain; Greece sees, in hope, Troy’s great defender slain: All spring to seize him; storms of arrows fly, And thicker javelins intercept the sky. In vain an iron tempest hisses round; He lies protected, and without a wound.[238] Polydamas, Agenor the divine, The pious warrior of Anchises’ line, And each bold leader of the Lycian band, With covering shields (a friendly circle) stand, His mournful followers, with assistant care, The groaning hero to his chariot bear; His foaming coursers, swifter than the wind, Speed to the town, and leave the war behind.

Thus like the rage of fire the combat burns,[250] And now it rises, now it sinks by turns. Meanwhile, where Hellespont’s broad waters flow, Stood Nestor’s son, the messenger of woe: There sat Achilles, shaded by his sails, On hoisted yards extended to the gales; Pensive he sat; for all that fate design’d Rose in sad prospect to his boding mind. Thus to his soul he said: “Ah! what constrains The Greeks, late victors, now to quit the plains? Is this the day, which heaven so long ago Ordain’d, to sink me with the weight of woe? (So Thetis warn’d;) when by a Trojan hand The bravest of the Myrmidonian band Should lose the light! Fulfilled is that decree; Fallen is the warrior, and Patroclus he! In vain I charged him soon to quit the plain, And warn’d to shun Hectorean force in vain!”

There sat the seniors of the Trojan race: (Old Priam’s chiefs, and most in Priam’s grace,) The king the first; Thymœtes at his side; Lampus and Clytius, long in council tried; Panthus, and Hicetaon, once the strong; And next, the wisest of the reverend throng, Antenor grave, and sage Ucalegon, Lean’d on the walls and bask’d before the sun: Chiefs, who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer days, like grasshoppers rejoice, A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice. These, when the Spartan queen approach’d the tower, In secret own’d resistless beauty’s power: They cried, “No wonder[113] such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms; What winning graces! what majestic mien! She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen! Yet hence, O Heaven, convey that fatal face, And from destruction save the Trojan race.”

“What brings this Lycian counsellor so far, To tremble at our arms, not mix in war! Know thy vain self, nor let their flattery move, Who style thee son of cloud-compelling Jove. How far unlike those chiefs of race divine, How vast the difference of their deeds and thine! Jove got such heroes as my sire, whose soul No fear could daunt, nor earth nor hell control. Troy felt his arm, and yon proud ramparts stand Raised on the ruins of his vengeful hand: With six small ships, and but a slender train, He left the town a wide-deserted plain. But what art thou, who deedless look’st around, While unrevenged thy Lycians bite the ground! Small aid to Troy thy feeble force can be; But wert thou greater, thou must yield to me. Pierced by my spear, to endless darkness go! I make this present to the shades below.”

“Thou comest, fair Thetis, but with grief o’ercast; Maternal sorrows; long, ah, long to last! Suffice, we know and we partake thy cares; But yield to fate, and hear what Jove declares. Nine days are past since all the court above In Hector’s cause have moved the ear of Jove; ’Twas voted, Hermes from his godlike foe By stealth should bear him, but we will’d not so: We will, thy son himself the corse restore, And to his conquest add this glory more. Then hie thee to him, and our mandate bear: Tell him he tempts the wrath of heaven too far; Nor let him more (our anger if he dread) Vent his mad vengeance on the sacred dead; But yield to ransom and the father’s prayer; The mournful father, Iris shall prepare With gifts to sue; and offer to his hands Whate’er his honour asks, or heart demands.”

Lo! the sad father, frantic with his pain, Around him furious drives his menial train: In vain each slave with duteous care attends, Each office hurts him, and each face offends. “What make ye here, officious crowds! (he cries): Hence! nor obtrude your anguish on my eyes. Have ye no griefs at home, to fix ye there: Am I the only object of despair? Am I become my people’s common show, Set up by Jove your spectacle of woe? No, you must feel him too; yourselves must fall; The same stern god to ruin gives you all: Nor is great Hector lost by me alone; Your sole defence, your guardian power is gone! I see your blood the fields of Phrygia drown, I see the ruins of your smoking town! O send me, gods! ere that sad day shall come, A willing ghost to Pluto’s dreary dome!”

They said, while Pallas through the Trojan throng, (In shape a mortal,) pass’d disguised along. Like bold Laodocus, her course she bent, Who from Antenor traced his high descent. Amidst the ranks Lycaon’s son she found, The warlike Pandarus, for strength renown’d; Whose squadrons, led from black Æsepus’ flood,[130] With flaming shields in martial circle stood. To him the goddess: “Phrygian! canst thou hear A well-timed counsel with a willing ear? What praise were thine, couldst thou direct thy dart, Amidst his triumph, to the Spartan’s heart? What gifts from Troy, from Paris wouldst thou gain, Thy country’s foe, the Grecian glory slain? Then seize the occasion, dare the mighty deed, Aim at his breast, and may that aim succeed! But first, to speed the shaft, address thy vow To Lycian Phœbus with the silver bow, And swear the firstlings of thy flock to pay, On Zelia’s altars, to the god of day.”[131]

Then, where the cry directs, his course he bends; Great Ajax, like the god of war, attends, The prudent chief in sore distress they found, With bands of furious Trojans compass’d round.[223] As when some huntsman, with a flying spear, From the blind thicket wounds a stately deer; Down his cleft side, while fresh the blood distils, He bounds aloft, and scuds from hills to hills, Till life’s warm vapour issuing through the wound, Wild mountain-wolves the fainting beast surround: Just as their jaws his prostrate limbs invade, The lion rushes through the woodland shade, The wolves, though hungry, scour dispersed away; The lordly savage vindicates his prey. Ulysses thus, unconquer’d by his pains, A single warrior half a host sustains: But soon as Ajax leaves his tower-like shield, The scattered crowds fly frighted o’er the field; Atrides’ arm the sinking hero stays, And, saved from numbers, to his car conveys.

The towering chiefs to fiercer fight advance: And first Sarpedon whirl’d his weighty lance, Which o’er the warrior’s shoulder took its course, And spent in empty air its dying force. Not so Patroclus’ never-erring dart; Aim’d at his breast it pierced a mortal part, Where the strong fibres bind the solid heart. Then as the mountain oak, or poplar tall, Or pine (fit mast for some great admiral) Nods to the axe, till with a groaning sound It sinks, and spreads its honours on the ground, Thus fell the king; and laid on earth supine, Before his chariot stretch’d his form divine: He grasp’d the dust distain’d with streaming gore, And, pale in death, lay groaning on the shore. So lies a bull beneath the lion’s paws, While the grim savage grinds with foamy jaws The trembling limbs, and sucks the smoking blood; Deep groans, and hollow roars, rebellow through the wood.

“Ah, dearest friend! in whom the gods had join’d[298] The mildest manners with the bravest mind, Now twice ten years (unhappy years) are o’er Since Paris brought me to the Trojan shore, (O had I perish’d, ere that form divine Seduced this soft, this easy heart of mine!) Yet was it ne’er my fate, from thee to find A deed ungentle, or a word unkind. When others cursed the authoress of their woe, Thy pity check’d my sorrows in their flow. If some proud brother eyed me with disdain, Or scornful sister with her sweeping train, Thy gentle accents soften’d all my pain. For thee I mourn, and mourn myself in thee, The wretched source of all this misery. The fate I caused, for ever I bemoan; Sad Helen has no friend, now thou art gone! Through Troy’s wide streets abandon’d shall I roam! In Troy deserted, as abhorr’d at home!”

The bold Antilochus the slaughter led, The first who struck a valiant Trojan dead: At great Echepolus the lance arrives, Razed his high crest, and through his helmet drives; Warm’d in the brain the brazen weapon lies, And shades eternal settle o’er his eyes. So sinks a tower, that long assaults had stood Of force and fire, its walls besmear’d with blood. Him, the bold leader of the Abantian throng,[140] Seized to despoil, and dragg’d the corpse along: But while he strove to tug the inserted dart, Agenor’s javelin reach’d the hero’s heart. His flank, unguarded by his ample shield, Admits the lance: he falls, and spurns the field; The nerves, unbraced, support his limbs no more; The soul comes floating in a tide of gore. Trojans and Greeks now gather round the slain; The war renews, the warriors bleed again: As o’er their prey rapacious wolves engage, Man dies on man, and all is blood and rage.

“The morning sun, awaked by loud alarms, Shall see the almighty Thunderer in arms. What heaps of Argives then shall load the plain, Those radiant eyes shall view, and view in vain. Nor shall great Hector cease the rage of fight, The navy flaming, and thy Greeks in flight, Even till the day when certain fates ordain That stern Achilles (his Patroclus slain) Shall rise in vengeance, and lay waste the plain. For such is fate, nor canst thou turn its course With all thy rage, with all thy rebel force. Fly, if thy wilt, to earth’s remotest bound, Where on her utmost verge the seas resound; Where cursed Iapetus and Saturn dwell, Fast by the brink, within the streams of hell; No sun e’er gilds the gloomy horrors there; No cheerful gales refresh the lazy air: There arm once more the bold Titanian band; And arm in vain; for what I will, shall stand.”

Thoas with grief observed his dreadful course, Thoas, the bravest of the Ætolian force; Skill’d to direct the javelin’s distant flight, And bold to combat in the standing fight, Not more in councils famed for solid sense, Than winning words and heavenly eloquence. “Gods! what portent (he cried) these eyes invades? Lo! Hector rises from the Stygian shades! We saw him, late, by thundering Ajax kill’d: What god restores him to the frighted field; And not content that half of Greece lie slain, Pours new destruction on her sons again? He comes not, Jove! without thy powerful will; Lo! still he lives, pursues, and conquers still! Yet hear my counsel, and his worst withstand: The Greeks’ main body to the fleet command; But let the few whom brisker spirits warm, Stand the first onset, and provoke the storm. Thus point your arms; and when such foes appear, Fierce as he is, let Hector learn to fear.”

Meantime, at distance from the scene of blood, The pensive steeds of great Achilles stood: Their godlike master slain before their eyes, They wept, and shared in human miseries.[248] In vain Automedon now shakes the rein, Now plies the lash, and soothes and threats in vain; Nor to the fight nor Hellespont they go, Restive they stood, and obstinate in woe: Still as a tombstone, never to be moved, On some good man or woman unreproved Lays its eternal weight; or fix’d, as stands A marble courser by the sculptor’s hands, Placed on the hero’s grave. Along their face The big round drops coursed down with silent pace, Conglobing on the dust. Their manes, that late Circled their arched necks, and waved in state, Trail’d on the dust beneath the yoke were spread, And prone to earth was hung their languid head: Nor Jove disdain’d to cast a pitying look, While thus relenting to the steeds he spoke:

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:

“Beloved of Jove, Achilles! would’st thou know Why angry Phœbus bends his fatal bow? First give thy faith, and plight a prince’s word Of sure protection, by thy power and sword: For I must speak what wisdom would conceal, And truths, invidious to the great, reveal, Bold is the task, when subjects, grown too wise, Instruct a monarch where his error lies; For though we deem the short-lived fury past, ’Tis sure the mighty will revenge at last.” To whom Pelides:—“From thy inmost soul Speak what thou know’st, and speak without control. E’en by that god I swear who rules the day, To whom thy hands the vows of Greece convey. And whose bless’d oracles thy lips declare; Long as Achilles breathes this vital air, No daring Greek, of all the numerous band, Against his priest shall lift an impious hand; Not e’en the chief by whom our hosts are led, The king of kings, shall touch that sacred head.”

Dione then: “Thy wrongs with patience bear, And share those griefs inferior powers must share: Unnumber’d woes mankind from us sustain, And men with woes afflict the gods again. The mighty Mars in mortal fetters bound,[149] And lodged in brazen dungeons underground, Full thirteen moons imprison’d roar’d in vain; Otus and Ephialtes held the chain: Perhaps had perish’d had not Hermes’ care Restored the groaning god to upper air. Great Juno’s self has borne her weight of pain, The imperial partner of the heavenly reign; Amphitryon’s son infix’d the deadly dart,[150] And fill’d with anguish her immortal heart. E’en hell’s grim king Alcides’ power confess’d, The shaft found entrance in his iron breast; To Jove’s high palace for a cure he fled, Pierced in his own dominions of the dead; Where Paeon, sprinkling heavenly balm around, Assuaged the glowing pangs, and closed the wound. Rash, impious man! to stain the bless’d abodes, And drench his arrows in the blood of gods!

Pallas disrobes; her radiant veil untied, With flowers adorn’d, with art diversified, (The laboured veil her heavenly fingers wove,) Flows on the pavement of the court of Jove. Now heaven’s dread arms her mighty limbs invest, Jove’s cuirass blazes on her ample breast; Deck’d in sad triumph for the mournful field, O’er her broad shoulders hangs his horrid shield, Dire, black, tremendous! Round the margin roll’d, A fringe of serpents hissing guards the gold: Here all the terrors of grim War appear, Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear, Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d, And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d. The massy golden helm she next assumes, That dreadful nods with four o’ershading plumes; So vast, the broad circumference contains A hundred armies on a hundred plains. The goddess thus the imperial car ascends; Shook by her arm the mighty javelin bends, Ponderous and huge; that when her fury burns, Proud tyrants humbles, and whole hosts o’erturns.

“Monarch of nations! whose superior sway Assembled states, and lords of earth obey, The laws and sceptres to thy hand are given, And millions own the care of thee and Heaven. O king! the counsels of my age attend; With thee my cares begin, with thee must end. Thee, prince! it fits alike to speak and hear, Pronounce with judgment, with regard give ear, To see no wholesome motion be withstood, And ratify the best for public good. Nor, though a meaner give advice, repine, But follow it, and make the wisdom thine. Hear then a thought, not now conceived in haste, At once my present judgment and my past. When from Pelides’ tent you forced the maid, I first opposed, and faithful, durst dissuade; But bold of soul, when headlong fury fired, You wronged the man, by men and gods admired: Now seek some means his fatal wrath to end, With prayers to move him, or with gifts to bend.”

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!”

“Friends and confederates! with attentive ear Receive my words, and credit what you hear. Late as I slumber’d in the shades of night, A dream divine appear’d before my sight; Whose visionary form like Nestor came, The same in habit, and in mien the same.[80] The heavenly phantom hover’d o’er my head, ‘And, dost thou sleep, O Atreus’ son? (he said) Ill fits a chief who mighty nations guides, Directs in council, and in war presides; To whom its safety a whole people owes, To waste long nights in indolent repose. Monarch, awake! ’tis Jove’s command I bear, Thou and thy glory claim his heavenly care. In just array draw forth the embattled train, And lead the Grecians to the dusty plain; E’en now, O king! ’tis given thee to destroy The lofty towers of wide-extended Troy. For now no more the gods with fate contend, At Juno’s suit the heavenly factions end. Destruction hangs o’er yon devoted wall, And nodding Ilion waits the impending fall.

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 sleep those aids among the Trojan train, (Inquired the chief,) or scattered o’er the plain?” To whom the spy: “Their powers they thus dispose The Paeons, dreadful with their bended bows, The Carians, Caucons, the Pelasgian host, And Leleges, encamp along the coast. Not distant far, lie higher on the land The Lycian, Mysian, and Mæonian band, And Phrygia’s horse, by Thymbras’ ancient wall; The Thracians utmost, and apart from all. These Troy but lately to her succour won, Led on by Rhesus, great Eioneus’ son: I saw his coursers in proud triumph go, Swift as the wind, and white as winter-snow; Rich silver plates his shining car infold; His solid arms, refulgent, flame with gold; No mortal shoulders suit the glorious load, Celestial panoply, to grace a god! Let me, unhappy, to your fleet be borne, Or leave me here, a captive’s fate to mourn, In cruel chains, till your return reveal The truth or falsehood of the news I tell.”

“Thus, Trojans, thus, at length be taught to fear; O race perfidious, who delight in war! Already noble deeds ye have perform’d; A princess raped transcends a navy storm’d: In such bold feats your impious might approve, Without th’ assistance, or the fear of Jove. The violated rites, the ravish’d dame; Our heroes slaughter’d and our ships on flame, Crimes heap’d on crimes, shall bend your glory down, And whelm in ruins yon flagitious town. O thou, great father! lord of earth and skies, Above the thought of man, supremely wise! If from thy hand the fates of mortals flow, From whence this favour to an impious foe? A godless crew, abandon’d and unjust, Still breathing rapine, violence, and lust? The best of things, beyond their measure, cloy; Sleep’s balmy blessing, love’s endearing joy; The feast, the dance; whate’er mankind desire, Even the sweet charms of sacred numbers tire. But Troy for ever reaps a dire delight In thirst of slaughter, and in lust of fight.”

Thus round Pelides breathing war and blood Greece, sheathed in arms, beside her vessels stood; While near impending from a neighbouring height, Troy’s black battalions wait the shock of fight. Then Jove to Themis gives command, to call The gods to council in the starry hall: Swift o’er Olympus’ hundred hills she flies, And summons all the senate of the skies. These shining on, in long procession come To Jove’s eternal adamantine dome. Not one was absent, not a rural power That haunts the verdant gloom, or rosy bower; Each fair-hair’d dryad of the shady wood, Each azure sister of the silver flood; All but old Ocean, hoary sire! who keeps His ancient seat beneath the sacred deeps. On marble thrones, with lucid columns crown’d, (The work of Vulcan,) sat the powers around. Even he whose trident sways the watery reign Heard the loud summons, and forsook the main, Assumed his throne amid the bright abodes, And question’d thus the sire of men and gods: