Iliad on Poverty

Unmoved, Euphorbus thus: “That action known, Come, for my brother’s blood repay thy own. His weeping father claims thy destined head, And spouse, a widow in her bridal bed. On these thy conquer’d spoils I shall bestow, To soothe a consort’s and a parent’s woe. No longer then defer the glorious strife, Let heaven decide our fortune, fame, and life.”

Now at Automedon the Trojan foe Discharged his lance; the meditated blow, Stooping, he shunn’d; the javelin idly fled, And hiss’d innoxious o’er the hero’s head; Deep rooted in the ground, the forceful spear In long vibrations spent its fury there. With clashing falchions now the chiefs had closed, But each brave Ajax heard, and interposed; Nor longer Hector with his Trojans stood, But left their slain companion in his blood: His arms Automedon divests, and cries, “Accept, Patroclus, this mean sacrifice: Thus have I soothed my griefs, and thus have paid, Poor as it is, some offering to thy shade.”

Great Ajax first to conquest led the way, Broke the thick ranks, and turn’d the doubtful day. The Thracian Acamas his falchion found, And hew’d the enormous giant to the ground; His thundering arm a deadly stroke impress’d Where the black horse-hair nodded o’er his crest; Fix’d in his front the brazen weapon lies, And seals in endless shades his swimming eyes. Next Teuthras’ son distain’d the sands with blood, Axylus, hospitable, rich, and good: In fair Arisbe’s walls (his native place)[161] He held his seat! a friend to human race. Fast by the road, his ever-open door Obliged the wealthy, and relieved the poor. To stern Tydides now he falls a prey, No friend to guard him in the dreadful day! Breathless the good man fell, and by his side His faithful servant, old Calesius died.

“Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think’st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he? For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtue’s sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain. O grant me, gods, ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun. No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father’s aid, no mother’s tender care. The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire! His fate compassion in the victor bred; Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, And laid him decent on the funeral pile; Then raised a mountain where his bones were burn’d, The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorn’d, Jove’s sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow A barren shade, and in his honour grow.

“In what vain promise, gods! did I engage, When to console Menoetius’ feeble age, I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore, Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia’s shore?[252] But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain, The long, long views of poor designing man! One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike, And Troy’s black sands must drink our blood alike: Me too a wretched mother shall deplore, An aged father never see me more! Yet, my Patroclus! yet a space I stay, Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way. Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid, Shall Hector’s head be offer’d to thy shade; That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine; And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line, Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire; Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre. Thus let me lie till then! thus, closely press’d, Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast! While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay, Weep all the night and murmur all the day: Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide, Our swords kept time, and conquer’d side by side.”

Swift as the word she vanish’d from their view; Swift as the word the winds tumultuous flew; Forth burst the stormy band with thundering roar, And heaps on heaps the clouds are toss’d before. To the wide main then stooping from the skies, The heaving deeps in watery mountains rise: Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls, Till on the pile the gather’d tempest falls. The structure crackles in the roaring fires, And all the night the plenteous flame aspires. All night Achilles hails Patroclus’ soul, With large libations from the golden bowl. As a poor father, helpless and undone, Mourns o’er the ashes of an only son, Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn, And pours in tears, ere yet they close the urn: So stay’d Achilles, circling round the shore, So watch’d the flames, till now they flame no more. ’Twas when, emerging through the shades of night, The morning planet told the approach of light; And, fast behind, Aurora’s warmer ray O’er the broad ocean pour’d the golden day: Then sank the blaze, the pile no longer burn’d, And to their caves the whistling winds return’d: Across the Thracian seas their course they bore; The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.

Not all Apollo’s Pythian treasures hold, Or Troy once held, in peace and pride of sway, Can bribe the poor possession of a day! Lost herds and treasures we by arms regain, And steeds unrivall’d on the dusty plain: But from our lips the vital spirit fled, Returns no more to wake the silent dead. My fates long since by Thetis were disclosed, And each alternate, life or fame, proposed; Here, if I stay, before the Trojan town, Short is my date, but deathless my renown: If I return, I quit immortal praise For years on years, and long-extended days. Convinced, though late, I find my fond mistake, And warn the Greeks the wiser choice to make; To quit these shores, their native seats enjoy, Nor hope the fall of heaven-defended Troy. Jove’s arm display’d asserts her from the skies! Her hearts are strengthen’d, and her glories rise. Go then to Greece, report our fix’d design; Bid all your counsels, all your armies join, Let all your forces, all your arts conspire, To save the ships, the troops, the chiefs, from fire. One stratagem has fail’d, and others will: Ye find, Achilles is unconquer’d still. Go then—digest my message as ye may— But here this night let reverend Phœnix stay: His tedious toils and hoary hairs demand A peaceful death in Pythia’s friendly land. But whether he remain or sail with me, His age be sacred, and his will be free.”

Thus he. The coursers at their master’s threat With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat. And now Antilochus with nice survey Observes the compass of the hollow way. ’Twas where, by force of wintry torrents torn, Fast by the road a precipice was worn: Here, where but one could pass, to shun the throng The Spartan hero’s chariot smoked along. Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep, Still edging near, and bears him toward the steep. Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below, And wonders at the rashness of his foe. “Hold, stay your steeds—What madness thus to ride This narrow way! take larger field (he cried), Or both must fall.”—Atrides cried in vain; He flies more fast, and throws up all the rein. Far as an able arm the disk can send, When youthful rivals their full force extend, So far, Antilochus! thy chariot flew Before the king: he, cautious, backward drew His horse compell’d; foreboding in his fears The rattling ruin of the clashing cars, The floundering coursers rolling on the plain, And conquest lost through frantic haste to gain. But thus upbraids his rival as he flies: “Go, furious youth! ungenerous and unwise! Go, but expect not I’ll the prize resign; Add perjury to fraud, and make it thine—” Then to his steeds with all his force he cries, “Be swift, be vigorous, and regain the prize! Your rivals, destitute of youthful force, With fainting knees shall labour in the course, And yield the glory yours.”—The steeds obey; Already at their heels they wing their way, And seem already to retrieve the day.

A flood of tears, at this, the goddess shed: “Ah then, I see thee dying, see thee dead! When Hector falls, thou diest.”—“Let Hector die, And let me fall! (Achilles made reply) Far lies Patroclus from his native plain! He fell, and falling, wish’d my aid in vain. Ah then, since from this miserable day I cast all hope of my return away; Since, unrevenged, a hundred ghosts demand The fate of Hector from Achilles’ hand; Since here, for brutal courage far renown’d, I live an idle burden to the ground, (Others in council famed for nobler skill, More useful to preserve, than I to kill,) Let me—But oh! ye gracious powers above! Wrath and revenge from men and gods remove: Far, far too dear to every mortal breast, Sweet to the soul, as honey to the taste: Gathering like vapours of a noxious kind From fiery blood, and darkening all the mind. Me Agamemnon urged to deadly hate; ’Tis past—I quell it; I resign to fate. Yes—I will meet the murderer of my friend; Or (if the gods ordain it) meet my end. The stroke of fate the strongest cannot shun: The great Alcides, Jove’s unequall’d son, To Juno’s hate, at length resign’d his breath, And sunk the victim of all-conquering death. So shall Achilles fall! stretch’d pale and dead, No more the Grecian hope, or Trojan dread! Let me, this instant, rush into the fields, And reap what glory life’s short harvest yields. Shall I not force some widow’d dame to tear With frantic hands her long dishevell’d hair? Shall I not force her breast to heave with sighs, And the soft tears to trickle from her eyes? Yes, I shall give the fair those mournful charms— In vain you hold me—Hence! my arms! my arms!— Soon shall the sanguine torrent spread so wide, That all shall know Achilles swells the tide.”

As when two scales are charged with doubtful loads, From side to side the trembling balance nods, (While some laborious matron, just and poor, With nice exactness weighs her woolly store,) Till poised aloft, the resting beam suspends Each equal weight; nor this, nor that, descends:[227] So stood the war, till Hector’s matchless might, With fates prevailing, turn’d the scale of fight. Fierce as a whirlwind up the walls he flies, And fires his host with loud repeated cries. “Advance, ye Trojans! lend your valiant hands, Haste to the fleet, and toss the blazing brands!” They hear, they run; and, gathering at his call, Raise scaling engines, and ascend the wall: Around the works a wood of glittering spears Shoots up, and all the rising host appears. A ponderous stone bold Hector heaved to throw, Pointed above, and rough and gross below: Not two strong men the enormous weight could raise, Such men as live in these degenerate days: Yet this, as easy as a swain could bear The snowy fleece, he toss’d, and shook in air; For Jove upheld, and lighten’d of its load The unwieldy rock, the labour of a god. Thus arm’d, before the folded gates he came, Of massy substance, and stupendous frame; With iron bars and brazen hinges strong, On lofty beams of solid timber hung: Then thundering through the planks with forceful sway, Drives the sharp rock; the solid beams give way, The folds are shatter’d; from the crackling door Leap the resounding bars, the flying hinges roar. Now rushing in, the furious chief appears, Gloomy as night![228] and shakes two shining spears: A dreadful gleam from his bright armour came, And from his eye-balls flash’d the living flame. He moves a god, resistless in his course, And seems a match for more than mortal force. Then pouring after, through the gaping space, A tide of Trojans flows, and fills the place; The Greeks behold, they tremble, and they fly; The shore is heap’d with death, and tumult rends the sky.

“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.

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

At this, the sire embraced the maid again, So sadly lost, so lately sought in vain. Then near the altar of the darting king, Disposed in rank their hecatomb they bring; With water purify their hands, and take The sacred offering of the salted cake; While thus with arms devoutly raised in air, And solemn voice, the priest directs his prayer:

“Oh friends! be men: your generous breasts inflame With mutual honour, and with mutual shame! Think of your hopes, your fortunes; all the care Your wives, your infants, and your parents share: Think of each living father’s reverend head; Think of each ancestor with glory dead; Absent, by me they speak, by me they sue, They ask their safety, and their fame, from you: The gods their fates on this one action lay, And all are lost, if you desert the day.”

“If yet Achilles have a friend, whose care Is bent to please him, this request forbear; Till yonder sun descend, ah, let me pay To grief and anguish one abstemious day.”

“Why with our wiser elders should we strive? The gods still love them, and they always thrive. Ye see, to Ajax I must yield the prize: He to Ulysses, still more aged and wise; (A green old age unconscious of decays, That proves the hero born in better days!) Behold his vigour in this active race! Achilles only boasts a swifter pace: For who can match Achilles? He who can, Must yet be more than hero, more than man.”

“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.”

“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.”