Iliad on Grief

He said, and, entering, took his seat of state; Where full before him reverend Priam sate; To whom, composed, the godlike chief begun: “Lo! to thy prayer restored, thy breathless son; Extended on the funeral couch he lies; And soon as morning paints the eastern skies, The sight is granted to thy longing eyes: But now the peaceful hours of sacred night Demand reflection, and to rest invite: Nor thou, O father! thus consumed with woe, The common cares that nourish life forego. Not thus did Niobe, of form divine, A parent once, whose sorrows equall’d thine: Six youthful sons, as many blooming maids, In one sad day beheld the Stygian shades; Those by Apollo’s silver bow were slain, These, Cynthia’s arrows stretch’d upon the plain: So was her pride chastised by wrath divine, Who match’d her own with bright Latona’s line; But two the goddess, twelve the queen enjoy’d; Those boasted twelve, the avenging two destroy’d. Steep’d in their blood, and in the dust outspread, Nine days, neglected, lay exposed the dead; None by to weep them, to inhume them none; (For Jove had turn’d the nation all to stone.) The gods themselves, at length relenting gave The unhappy race the honours of a grave. Herself a rock (for such was heaven’s high will) Through deserts wild now pours a weeping rill; Where round the bed whence Achelous springs, The watery fairies dance in mazy rings; There high on Sipylus’s shaggy brow, She stands, her own sad monument of woe; The rock for ever lasts, the tears for ever flow.

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.

“Achilles with unactive fury glows, And gives to passion what to Greece he owes. How shall he grieve, when to the eternal shade Her hosts shall sink, nor his the power to aid! O friend! my memory recalls the day, When, gathering aids along the Grecian sea, I, and Ulysses, touch’d at Phthia’s port, And entered Peleus’ hospitable court. A bull to Jove he slew in sacrifice, And pour’d libations on the flaming thighs. Thyself, Achilles, and thy reverend sire Menoetius, turn’d the fragments on the fire. Achilles sees us, to the feast invites; Social we sit, and share the genial rites. We then explained the cause on which we came, Urged you to arms, and found you fierce for fame. Your ancient fathers generous precepts gave; Peleus said only this:—‘My son! be brave.’ Menoetius thus: ‘Though great Achilles shine In strength superior, and of race divine, Yet cooler thoughts thy elder years attend; Let thy just counsels aid, and rule thy friend.’ Thus spoke your father at Thessalia’s court: Words now forgot, though now of vast import. Ah! try the utmost that a friend can say: Such gentle force the fiercest minds obey; Some favouring god Achilles’ heart may move; Though deaf to glory, he may yield to love. If some dire oracle his breast alarm, If aught from Heaven withhold his saving arm, Some beam of comfort yet on Greece may shine, If thou but lead the Myrmidonian line; Clad in Achilles’ arms, if thou appear, Proud Troy may tremble, and desist from war; Press’d by fresh forces, her o’er-labour’d train Shall seek their walls, and Greece respire again.”

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.

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.

“’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.

“Unhappy monarch! whom the Grecian race With shame deserting, heap with vile disgrace. Not such at Argos was their generous vow: Once all their voice, but ah! forgotten now: Ne’er to return, was then the common cry, Till Troy’s proud structures should in ashes lie. Behold them weeping for their native shore; What could their wives or helpless children more? What heart but melts to leave the tender train, And, one short month, endure the wintry main? Few leagues removed, we wish our peaceful seat, When the ship tosses, and the tempests beat: Then well may this long stay provoke their tears, The tedious length of nine revolving years. Not for their grief the Grecian host I blame; But vanquish’d! baffled! oh, eternal shame! Expect the time to Troy’s destruction given. And try the faith of Chalcas and of heaven. What pass’d at Aulis, Greece can witness bear,[89] And all who live to breathe this Phrygian air. Beside a fountain’s sacred brink we raised Our verdant altars, and the victims blazed: ’Twas where the plane-tree spread its shades around, The altars heaved; and from the crumbling ground A mighty dragon shot, of dire portent; From Jove himself the dreadful sign was sent. Straight to the tree his sanguine spires he roll’d, And curl’d around in many a winding fold; The topmost branch a mother-bird possess’d; Eight callow infants fill’d the mossy nest; Herself the ninth; the serpent, as he hung, Stretch’d his black jaws and crush’d the crying young; While hovering near, with miserable moan, The drooping mother wail’d her children gone. The mother last, as round the nest she flew, Seized by the beating wing, the monster slew; Nor long survived: to marble turn’d, he stands A lasting prodigy on Aulis’ sands. Such was the will of Jove; and hence we dare Trust in his omen, and support the war. For while around we gazed with wondering eyes, And trembling sought the powers with sacrifice, Full of his god, the reverend Chalcas cried,[90] ‘Ye Grecian warriors!

“Divine Achilles! wilt thou then retire, And leave our hosts in blood, our fleets on fire? If wrath so dreadful fill thy ruthless mind, How shall thy friend, thy Phœnix, stay behind? The royal Peleus, when from Pythia’s coast He sent thee early to the Achaian host; Thy youth as then in sage debates unskill’d, And new to perils of the direful field: He bade me teach thee all the ways of war, To shine in councils, and in camps to dare. Never, ah, never let me leave thy side! No time shall part us, and no fate divide, Not though the god, that breathed my life, restore The bloom I boasted, and the port I bore, When Greece of old beheld my youthful flames (Delightful Greece, the land of lovely dames), My father faithless to my mother’s arms, Old as he was, adored a stranger’s charms. I tried what youth could do (at her desire) To win the damsel, and prevent my sire. My sire with curses loads my hated head, And cries, ‘Ye furies! barren be his bed.’ Infernal Jove, the vengeful fiends below, And ruthless Proserpine, confirm’d his vow. Despair and grief distract my labouring mind! Gods! what a crime my impious heart design’d! I thought (but some kind god that thought suppress’d) To plunge the poniard in my father’s breast; Then meditate my flight: my friends in vain With prayers entreat me, and with force detain. On fat of rams, black bulls, and brawny swine, They daily feast, with draughts of fragrant wine; Strong guards they placed, and watch’d nine nights entire; The roofs and porches flamed with constant fire. The tenth, I forced the gates, unseen of all: And, favour’d by the night, o’erleap’d the wall, My travels thence through spacious Greece extend; In Phthia’s court at last my labours end. Your sire received me, as his son caress’d, With gifts enrich’d, and with possessions bless’d. The strong Dolopians thenceforth own’d my reign, And all the coast that runs along the main.

“O wretched husband of a wretched wife! Born with one fate, to one unhappy life! For sure one star its baneful beam display’d On Priam’s roof, and Hippoplacia’s shade. From different parents, different climes we came. At different periods, yet our fate the same! Why was my birth to great Aëtion owed, And why was all that tender care bestow’d? Would I had never been!—O thou, the ghost Of my dead husband! miserably lost! Thou to the dismal realms for ever gone! And I abandon’d, desolate, alone! An only child, once comfort of my pains, Sad product now of hapless love, remains! No more to smile upon his sire; no friend To help him now! no father to defend! For should he ’scape the sword, the common doom, What wrongs attend him, and what griefs to come! Even from his own paternal roof expell’d, Some stranger ploughs his patrimonial field. The day, that to the shades the father sends, Robs the sad orphan of his father’s friends: He, wretched outcast of mankind! appears For ever sad, for ever bathed in tears; Amongst the happy, unregarded, he Hangs on the robe, or trembles at the knee, While those his father’s former bounty fed Nor reach the goblet, nor divide the bread: The kindest but his present wants allay, To leave him wretched the succeeding day. Frugal compassion! Heedless, they who boast Both parents still, nor feel what he has lost, Shall cry, ‘Begone! thy father feasts not here:’ The wretch obeys, retiring with a tear. Thus wretched, thus retiring all in tears, To my sad soul Astyanax appears! Forced by repeated insults to return, And to his widow’d mother vainly mourn: He, who, with tender delicacy bred, With princes sported, and on dainties fed, And when still evening gave him up to rest, Sunk soft in down upon the nurse’s breast, Must—ah what must he not? Whom Ilion calls Astyanax, from her well-guarded walls,[279] Is now that name no more, unhappy boy! Since now no more thy father guards his Troy.

“Alas, what weight of anguish hast thou known, Unhappy prince! thus guardless and alone To pass through foes, and thus undaunted face The man whose fury has destroy’d thy race! Heaven sure has arm’d thee with a heart of steel, A strength proportion’d to the woes you feel. Rise, then: let reason mitigate your care: To mourn avails not: man is born to bear. Such is, alas! the gods’ severe decree: They, only they are blest, and only free. Two urns by Jove’s high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ill; To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed To taste the bad unmix’d, is cursed indeed; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven. The happiest taste not happiness sincere; But find the cordial draught is dash’d with care. Who more than Peleus shone in wealth and power What stars concurring bless’d his natal hour! A realm, a goddess, to his wishes given; Graced by the gods with all the gifts of heaven. One evil yet o’ertakes his latest day: No race succeeding to imperial sway; An only son; and he, alas! ordain’d To fall untimely in a foreign land. See him, in Troy, the pious care decline Of his weak age, to live the curse of thine! Thou too, old man, hast happier days beheld; In riches once, in children once excell’d; Extended Phrygia own’d thy ample reign, And all fair Lesbos’ blissful seats contain, And all wide Hellespont’s unmeasured main. But since the god his hand has pleased to turn, And fill thy measure from his bitter urn, What sees the sun, but hapless heroes’ falls? War, and the blood of men, surround thy walls! What must be, must be. Bear thy lot, nor shed These unavailing sorrows o’er the dead; Thou canst not call him from the Stygian shore, But thou, alas! may’st live to suffer more!”

“If some dire oracle thy breast alarm, If aught from Jove, or Thetis, stop thy arm, Some beam of comfort yet on Greece may shine, If I but lead the Myrmidonian line: Clad in thy dreadful arms if I appear, Proud Troy shall tremble, and desert the war; Without thy person Greece shall win the day, And thy mere image chase her foes away. Press’d by fresh forces, her o’erlabour’d train Shall quit the ships, and Greece respire again.” Thus, blind to fate! with supplicating breath, Thou begg’st his arms, and in his arms thy death. Unfortunately good! a boding sigh Thy friend return’d; and with it, this reply: “Patroclus! thy Achilles knows no fears; Nor words from Jove nor oracles he hears; Nor aught a mother’s caution can suggest; The tyrant’s pride lies rooted in my breast. My wrongs, my wrongs, my constant thought engage, Those, my sole oracles, inspire my rage: I made him tyrant: gave him power to wrong Even me: I felt it; and shall feel it long. The maid, my black-eyed maid, he forced away, Due to the toils of many a well-fought day; Due to my conquest of her father’s reign; Due to the votes of all the Grecian train. From me he forced her; me, the bold and brave, Disgraced, dishonour’d, like the meanest slave. But bear we this—the wrongs I grieve are past; ’Tis time our fury should relent at last: I fix’d its date; the day I wish’d appears: How Hector to my ships his battle bears, The flames my eyes, the shouts invade my ears. Go then, Patroclus! court fair honour’s charms In Troy’s famed fields, and in Achilles’ arms: Lead forth my martial Myrmidons to fight, Go save the fleets, and conquer in my right. See the thin relics of their baffled band At the last edge of yon deserted land! Behold all Ilion on their ships descends; How the cloud blackens, how the storm impends! It was not thus, when, at my sight amazed, Troy saw and trembled, as this helmet blazed: Had not the injurious king our friendship lost, Yon ample trench had buried half her host.

Next Erymas was doom’d his fate to feel, His open’d mouth received the Cretan steel: Beneath the brain the point a passage tore, Crash’d the thin bones, and drown’d the teeth in gore: His mouth, his eyes, his nostrils, pour a flood; He sobs his soul out in the gush of blood.

“Why mourns my son? thy late preferr’d request The god has granted, and the Greeks distress’d: Why mourns my son? thy anguish let me share, Reveal the cause, and trust a parent’s care.”

So spake the mournful dame: her matrons hear, Sigh back her sighs, and answer tear with tear.

“How long, unhappy! shall thy sorrows flow, And thy heart waste with life-consuming woe: Mindless of food, or love, whose pleasing reign Soothes weary life, and softens human pain? O snatch the moments yet within thy power; Not long to live, indulge the amorous hour! Lo! Jove himself (for Jove’s command I bear) Forbids to tempt the wrath of heaven too far. No longer then (his fury if thou dread) Detain the relics of great Hector dead; Nor vent on senseless earth thy vengeance vain, But yield to ransom, and restore the slain.”

“Such griefs, O king! have other parents known; Remember theirs, and mitigate thy own. The care of heaven thy Hector has appear’d, Nor shall he lie unwept, and uninterr’d; Soon may thy aged cheeks in tears be drown’d, And all the eyes of Ilion stream around.”

“Permit me now, beloved of Jove! to steep My careful temples in the dew of sleep: For, since the day that number’d with the dead My hapless son, the dust has been my bed; Soft sleep a stranger to my weeping eyes; My only food, my sorrows and my sighs! Till now, encouraged by the grace you give, I share thy banquet, and consent to live.”