Iliad on Strength

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:

Then to the city, terrible and strong, With high and haughty steps he tower’d along, So the proud courser, victor of the prize, To the near goal with double ardour flies. Him, as he blazing shot across the field, The careful eyes of Priam first beheld. Not half so dreadful rises to the sight,[274] Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night, Orion’s dog (the year when autumn weighs), And o’er the feebler stars exerts his rays; Terrific glory! for his burning breath Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death. So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage: He strikes his reverend head, now white with age; He lifts his wither’d arms; obtests the skies; He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries: The son, resolved Achilles’ force to dare, Full at the Scæan gates expects the war; While the sad father on the rampart stands, And thus adjures him with extended hands:

Hector this heard, return’d without delay; Swift through the town he trod his former way, Through streets of palaces, and walks of state; And met the mourner at the Scæan gate. With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair. His blameless wife, Aëtion’s wealthy heir (Cilician Thebe great Aëtion sway’d, And Hippoplacus’ wide extended shade): The nurse stood near, in whose embraces press’d, His only hope hung smiling at her breast, Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn. To this loved infant Hector gave the name Scamandrius, from Scamander’s honour’d stream; Astyanax the Trojans call’d the boy, From his great father, the defence of Troy. Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resign’d To tender passions all his mighty mind; His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke; Her bosom laboured with a boding sigh, And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

Agamemnon, after the last day’s defeat, proposes to the Greeks to quit the siege, and return to their country. Diomed opposes this, and Nestor seconds him, praising his wisdom and resolution. He orders the guard to be strengthened, and a council summoned to deliberate what measures are to be followed in this emergency. Agamemnon pursues this advice, and Nestor further prevails upon him to send ambassadors to Achilles, in order to move him to a reconciliation. Ulysses and Ajax are made choice of, who are accompanied by old Phœnix. They make, each of them, very moving and pressing speeches, but are rejected with roughness by Achilles, who notwithstanding retains Phœnix in his tent. The ambassadors return unsuccessfully to the camp, and the troops betake themselves to sleep. This book, and the next following, take up the space of one night, which is the twenty-seventh from the beginning of the poem. The scene lies on the sea-shore, the station of the Grecian ships.

As through the forest, o’er the vale and lawn, The well-breath’d beagle drives the flying fawn, In vain he tries the covert of the brakes, Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes; Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews, The certain hound his various maze pursues. Thus step by step, where’er the Trojan wheel’d, There swift Achilles compass’d round the field. Oft as to reach the Dardan gates he bends, And hopes the assistance of his pitying friends, (Whose showering arrows, as he coursed below, From the high turrets might oppress the foe,) So oft Achilles turns him to the plain: He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain. As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace, One to pursue, and one to lead the chase, Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake, Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake: No less the labouring heroes pant and strain: While that but flies, and this pursues in vain.

“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.

“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.”

“Imperial dame (the balmy power replies), Great Saturn’s heir, and empress of the skies! O’er other gods I spread my easy chain; The sire of all, old Ocean, owns my reign. And his hush’d waves lie silent on the main. But how, unbidden, shall I dare to steep Jove’s awful temples in the dew of sleep? Long since, too venturous, at thy bold command, On those eternal lids I laid my hand; What time, deserting Ilion’s wasted plain, His conquering son, Alcides, plough’d the main. When lo! the deeps arise, the tempests roar, And drive the hero to the Coan shore: Great Jove, awaking, shook the blest abodes With rising wrath, and tumbled gods on gods; Me chief he sought, and from the realms on high Had hurl’d indignant to the nether sky, But gentle Night, to whom I fled for aid, (The friend of earth and heaven,) her wings display’d; Impower’d the wrath of gods and men to tame, Even Jove revered the venerable dame.”

Jupiter, awaking, sees the Trojans repulsed from the trenches, Hector in a swoon, and Neptune at the head of the Greeks: he is highly incensed at the artifice of Juno, who appeases him by her submissions; she is then sent to Iris and Apollo. Juno, repairing to the assembly of the gods, attempts, with extraordinary address, to incense them against Jupiter; in particular she touches Mars with a violent resentment; he is ready to take arms, but is prevented by Minerva. Iris and Apollo obey the orders of Jupiter; Iris commands Neptune to leave the battle, to which, after much reluctance and passion, he consents. Apollo reinspires Hector with vigour, brings him back to the battle, marches before him with his ægis, and turns the fortune of the fight. He breaks down great part of the Grecian wall: the Trojans rush in, and attempt to fire the first line of the fleet, but are, as yet, repelled by the greater Ajax with a prodigious slaughter.

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:

Ulysses ceased: the great Achaian host, With sorrow seized, in consternation lost, Attend the stern reply. Tydides broke The general silence, and undaunted spoke. “Why should we gifts to proud Achilles send, Or strive with prayers his haughty soul to bend? His country’s woes he glories to deride, And prayers will burst that swelling heart with pride. Be the fierce impulse of his rage obey’d, Our battles let him or desert or aid; Then let him arm when Jove or he think fit: That, to his madness, or to Heaven commit: What for ourselves we can, is always ours; This night, let due repast refresh our powers; (For strength consists in spirits and in blood, And those are owed to generous wine and food;) But when the rosy messenger of day Strikes the blue mountains with her golden ray, Ranged at the ships, let all our squadrons shine In flaming arms, a long-extended line: In the dread front let great Atrides stand, The first in danger, as in high command.”

All night the chiefs before their vessels lay, And lost in sleep the labours of the day: All but the king: with various thoughts oppress’d,[215] His country’s cares lay rolling in his breast. As when by lightnings Jove’s ethereal power Foretels the rattling hail, or weighty shower, Or sends soft snows to whiten all the shore, Or bids the brazen throat of war to roar; By fits one flash succeeds as one expires, And heaven flames thick with momentary fires: So bursting frequent from Atrides’ breast, Sighs following sighs his inward fears confess’d. Now o’er the fields, dejected, he surveys From thousand Trojan fires the mounting blaze; Hears in the passing wind their music blow, And marks distinct the voices of the foe. Now looking backwards to the fleet and coast, Anxious he sorrows for the endangered host. He rends his hair, in sacrifice to Jove, And sues to him that ever lives above: Inly he groans; while glory and despair Divide his heart, and wage a double war.

(That large reprisal he might justly claim, For prize defrauded, and insulted fame, When Elis’ monarch, at the public course, Detain’d his chariot, and victorious horse.) The rest the people shared; myself survey’d The just partition, and due victims paid. Three days were past, when Elis rose to war, With many a courser, and with many a car; The sons of Actor at their army’s head (Young as they were) the vengeful squadrons led. High on the rock fair Thryoessa stands, Our utmost frontier on the Pylian lands: Not far the streams of famed Alphaeus flow: The stream they pass’d, and pitch’d their tents below. Pallas, descending in the shades of night, Alarms the Pylians and commands the fight. Each burns for fame, and swells with martial pride, Myself the foremost; but my sire denied; Fear’d for my youth, exposed to stern alarms; And stopp’d my chariot, and detain’d my arms. My sire denied in vain: on foot I fled Amidst our chariots; for the goddess led.

“O thou, still adverse to the eternal will, For ever studious in promoting ill! Thy arts have made the godlike Hector yield, And driven his conquering squadrons from the field. Canst thou, unhappy in thy wiles, withstand Our power immense, and brave the almighty hand? Hast thou forgot, when, bound and fix’d on high, From the vast concave of the spangled sky, I hung thee trembling in a golden chain, And all the raging gods opposed in vain? Headlong I hurl’d them from the Olympian hall, Stunn’d in the whirl, and breathless with the fall. For godlike Hercules these deeds were done, Nor seem’d the vengeance worthy such a son: When, by thy wiles induced, fierce Boreas toss’d The shipwreck’d hero on the Coan coast, Him through a thousand forms of death I bore, And sent to Argos, and his native shore. Hear this, remember, and our fury dread, Nor pull the unwilling vengeance on thy head; Lest arts and blandishments successless prove, Thy soft deceits, and well-dissembled love.”

Thetis brings to her son the armour made by Vulcan. She preserves the body of his friend from corruption, and commands him to assemble the army, to declare his resentment at an end. Agamemnon and Achilles are solemnly reconciled: the speeches, presents, and ceremonies on that occasion. Achilles is with great difficulty persuaded to refrain from the battle till the troops have refreshed themselves by the advice of Ulysses. The presents are conveyed to the tent of Achilles, where Briseïs laments over the body of Patroclus. The hero obstinately refuses all repast, and gives himself up to lamentations for his friend. Minerva descends to strengthen him, by the order of Jupiter. He arms for the fight: his appearance described. He addresses himself to his horses, and reproaches them with the death of Patroclus. One of them is miraculously endued with voice, and inspired to prophesy his fate: but the hero, not astonished by that prodigy, rushes with fury to the combat. The thirtieth day. The scene is on the sea-shore.

Threatening he said: the hostile chiefs advance; At once Asteropeus discharged each lance, (For both his dexterous hands the lance could wield,) One struck, but pierced not, the Vulcanian shield; One razed Achilles’ hand; the spouting blood Spun forth; in earth the fasten’d weapon stood. Like lightning next the Pelean javelin flies: Its erring fury hiss’d along the skies; Deep in the swelling bank was driven the spear, Even to the middle earth; and quiver’d there. Then from his side the sword Pelides drew, And on his foe with double fury flew. The foe thrice tugg’d, and shook the rooted wood; Repulsive of his might the weapon stood: The fourth, he tries to break the spear in vain; Bent as he stands, he tumbles to the plain; His belly open’d with a ghastly wound, The reeking entrails pour upon the ground. Beneath the hero’s feet he panting lies, And his eye darkens, and his spirit flies; While the proud victor thus triumphing said, His radiant armour tearing from the dead:

“Unhappy son! (fair Thetis thus replies, While tears celestial trickle from her eyes) Why have I borne thee with a mother’s throes, To Fates averse, and nursed for future woes?[65] So short a space the light of heaven to view! So short a space! and fill’d with sorrow too! O might a parent’s careful wish prevail, Far, far from Ilion should thy vessels sail, And thou, from camps remote, the danger shun Which now, alas! too nearly threats my son. Yet (what I can) to move thy suit I’ll go To great Olympus crown’d with fleecy snow. Meantime, secure within thy ships, from far Behold the field, not mingle in the war. The sire of gods and all the ethereal train, On the warm limits of the farthest main, Now mix with mortals, nor disdain to grace The feasts of Æthiopia’s blameless race,[66] Twelve days the powers indulge the genial rite, Returning with the twelfth revolving light. Then will I mount the brazen dome, and move The high tribunal of immortal Jove.”

Thus while the morning-beams, increasing bright, O’er heaven’s pure azure spread the glowing light, Commutual death the fate of war confounds, Each adverse battle gored with equal wounds. But now (what time in some sequester’d vale The weary woodman spreads his sparing meal, When his tired arms refuse the axe to rear, And claim a respite from the sylvan war; But not till half the prostrate forests lay Stretch’d in long ruin, and exposed to day) Then, nor till then, the Greeks’ impulsive might Pierced the black phalanx, and let in the light. Great Agamemnon then the slaughter led, And slew Bienor at his people’s head: Whose squire Oïleus, with a sudden spring, Leap’d from the chariot to revenge his king; But in his front he felt the fatal wound, Which pierced his brain, and stretch’d him on the ground. Atrides spoil’d, and left them on the plain: Vain was their youth, their glittering armour vain: Now soil’d with dust, and naked to the sky, Their snowy limbs and beauteous bodies lie.

Meanwhile (his conquest ravished from his eyes) The raging chief in chase of Venus flies: No goddess she, commission’d to the field, Like Pallas dreadful with her sable shield, Or fierce Bellona thundering at the wall, While flames ascend, and mighty ruins fall; He knew soft combats suit the tender dame, New to the field, and still a foe to fame. Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends, And at the goddess his broad lance extends; Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove, The ambrosial veil which all the Graces wove; Her snowy hand the razing steel profaned, And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d, From the clear vein a stream immortal flow’d, Such stream as issues from a wounded god;[148] Pure emanation! uncorrupted flood! Unlike our gross, diseased, terrestrial blood: (For not the bread of man their life sustains, Nor wine’s inflaming juice supplies their veins:) With tender shrieks the goddess fill’d the place, And dropp’d her offspring from her weak embrace. Him Phœbus took: he casts a cloud around The fainting chief, and wards the mortal wound.

Has he not walls no human force can shake? Has he not fenced his guarded navy round With piles, with ramparts, and a trench profound? And will not these (the wonders he has done) Repel the rage of Priam’s single son? There was a time (’twas when for Greece I fought) When Hector’s prowess no such wonders wrought; He kept the verge of Troy, nor dared to wait Achilles’ fury at the Scæan gate; He tried it once, and scarce was saved by fate. But now those ancient enmities are o’er; To-morrow we the favouring gods implore; Then shall you see our parting vessels crown’d, And hear with oars the Hellespont resound. The third day hence shall Pythia greet our sails,[208] If mighty Neptune send propitious gales; Pythia to her Achilles shall restore The wealth he left for this detested shore: Thither the spoils of this long war shall pass, The ruddy gold, the steel, and shining brass: My beauteous captives thither I’ll convey, And all that rests of my unravish’d prey. One only valued gift your tyrant gave, And that resumed—the fair Lyrnessian slave.

This counsel pleased: the godlike Hector sprung Swift from his seat; his clanging armour rung. The chief’s example follow’d by his train, Each quits his car, and issues on the plain, By orders strict the charioteers enjoin’d Compel the coursers to their ranks behind. The forces part in five distinguish’d bands, And all obey their several chiefs’ commands. The best and bravest in the first conspire, Pant for the fight, and threat the fleet with fire: Great Hector glorious in the van of these, Polydamas, and brave Cebriones. Before the next the graceful Paris shines, And bold Alcathous, and Agenor joins. The sons of Priam with the third appear, Deiphobus, and Helenas the seer; In arms with these the mighty Asius stood, Who drew from Hyrtacus his noble blood, And whom Arisba’s yellow coursers bore, The coursers fed on Sellè’s winding shore. Antenor’s sons the fourth battalion guide, And great Æneas, born on fountful Ide. Divine Sarpedon the last band obey’d, Whom Glaucus and Asteropaeus aid. Next him, the bravest, at their army’s head, But he more brave than all the hosts he led.

“How oft, my brother, thy reproach I bear, For words well meant, and sentiments sincere? True to those counsels which I judge the best, I tell the faithful dictates of my breast. To speak his thoughts is every freeman’s right, In peace, in war, in council, and in fight; And all I move, deferring to thy sway, But tends to raise that power which I obey. Then hear my words, nor may my words be vain! Seek not this day the Grecian ships to gain; For sure, to warn us, Jove his omen sent, And thus my mind explains its clear event: The victor eagle, whose sinister flight Retards our host, and fills our hearts with fright, Dismiss’d his conquest in the middle skies, Allow’d to seize, but not possess the prize; Thus, though we gird with fires the Grecian fleet, Though these proud bulwalks tumble at our feet, Toils unforeseen, and fiercer, are decreed; More woes shall follow, and more heroes bleed. So bodes my soul, and bids me thus advise; For thus a skilful seer would read the skies.”

High o’er the slain the great Achilles stands, Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands; And thus aloud, while all the host attends: “Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends! Since now at length the powerful will of heaven The dire destroyer to our arm has given, Is not Troy fallen already? Haste, ye powers! See, if already their deserted towers Are left unmann’d; or if they yet retain The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain. But what is Troy, or glory what to me? Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee, Divine Patroclus! Death hath seal’d his eyes; Unwept, unhonour’d, uninterr’d he lies! Can his dear image from my soul depart, Long as the vital spirit moves my heart? If in the melancholy shades below, The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow, Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay’d, Burn on through death, and animate my shade. Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring The corpse of Hector, and your pæans sing. Be this the song, slow-moving toward the shore, “Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more.””

This said, he stalk’d with ample strides along, To Crete’s brave monarch and his martial throng; High at their head he saw the chief appear, And bold Meriones excite the rear. At this the king his generous joy express’d, And clasp’d the warrior to his armed breast. “Divine Idomeneus! what thanks we owe To worth like thine! what praise shall we bestow? To thee the foremost honours are decreed, First in the fight and every graceful deed. For this, in banquets, when the generous bowls Restore our blood, and raise the warriors’ souls, Though all the rest with stated rules we bound, Unmix’d, unmeasured, are thy goblets crown’d. Be still thyself, in arms a mighty name; Maintain thy honours, and enlarge thy fame.” To whom the Cretan thus his speech address’d: “Secure of me, O king! exhort the rest. Fix’d to thy side, in every toil I share, Thy firm associate in the day of war. But let the signal be this moment given; To mix in fight is all I ask of Heaven. The field shall prove how perjuries succeed, And chains or death avenge the impious deed.”

“Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates! (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother’s death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam’s hoary hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread: I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led! In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes, of which so large a part was thine! To bear the victor’s hard commands, or bring The weight of waters from Hyperia’s spring. There while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry, ‘Behold the mighty Hector’s wife!’ Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Imbitters all thy woes, by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs shall waken at the name! May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press’d with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.”

“Mark how this way yon bending squadrons yield! The storm rolls on, and Hector rules the field: Here stand his utmost force.”—The warrior said; Swift at the word his ponderous javelin fled; Nor miss’d its aim, but where the plumage danced Razed the smooth cone, and thence obliquely glanced. Safe in his helm (the gift of Phœbus’ hands) Without a wound the Trojan hero stands; But yet so stunn’d, that, staggering on the plain. His arm and knee his sinking bulk sustain; O’er his dim sight the misty vapours rise, And a short darkness shades his swimming eyes. Tydides followed to regain his lance; While Hector rose, recover’d from the trance, Remounts his car, and herds amidst the crowd: The Greek pursues him, and exults aloud: “Once more thank Phœbus for thy forfeit breath, Or thank that swiftness which outstrips the death. Well by Apollo are thy prayers repaid, And oft that partial power has lent his aid. Thou shall not long the death deserved withstand, If any god assist Tydides’ hand. Fly then, inglorious! but thy flight, this day, Whole hecatombs of Trojan ghosts shall pay,”

He said; his words the listening chief inspire With equal warmth, and rouse the warrior’s fire; The troops pursue their leaders with delight, Rush to the foe, and claim the promised fight. Menestheus from on high the storm beheld Threatening the fort, and blackening in the field: Around the walls he gazed, to view from far What aid appear’d to avert the approaching war, And saw where Teucer with the Ajaces stood, Of fight insatiate, prodigal of blood. In vain he calls; the din of helms and shields Rings to the skies, and echoes through the fields, The brazen hinges fly, the walls resound, Heaven trembles, roar the mountains, thunders all the ground. Then thus to Thoos: “Hence with speed (he said), And urge the bold Ajaces to our aid; Their strength, united, best may help to bear The bloody labours of the doubtful war: Hither the Lycian princes bend their course, The best and bravest of the hostile force. But if too fiercely there the foes contend, Let Telamon, at least, our towers defend, And Teucer haste with his unerring bow To share the danger, and repel the foe.”

The sons their father’s wretched age revere, Forgive his anger, and produce the car. High on the seat the cabinet they bind: The new-made car with solid beauty shined; Box was the yoke, emboss’d with costly pains, And hung with ringlets to receive the reins; Nine cubits long, the traces swept the ground: These to the chariot’s polish’d pole they bound. Then fix’d a ring the running reins to guide, And close beneath the gather’d ends were tied. Next with the gifts (the price of Hector slain) The sad attendants load the groaning wain: Last to the yoke the well-matched mules they bring, (The gift of Mysia to the Trojan king.) But the fair horses, long his darling care, Himself received, and harness’d to his car: Grieved as he was, he not this task denied; The hoary herald help’d him, at his side. While careful these the gentle coursers join’d, Sad Hecuba approach’d with anxious mind; A golden bowl that foam’d with fragrant wine, (Libation destined to the power divine,) Held in her right, before the steed she stands, And thus consigns it to the monarch’s hands:

“Ah think, thou favour’d of the powers divine![295] Think of thy father’s age, and pity mine! In me that father’s reverend image trace, Those silver hairs, that venerable face; His trembling limbs, his helpless person, see! In all my equal, but in misery! Yet now, perhaps, some turn of human fate Expels him helpless from his peaceful state; Think, from some powerful foe thou seest him fly, And beg protection with a feeble cry. Yet still one comfort in his soul may rise; He hears his son still lives to glad his eyes, And, hearing, still may hope a better day May send him thee, to chase that foe away. No comfort to my griefs, no hopes remain, The best, the bravest, of my sons are slain! Yet what a race! ere Greece to Ilion came, The pledge of many a loved and loving dame: Nineteen one mother bore—Dead, all are dead! How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled! Still one was left their loss to recompense; His father’s hope, his country’s last defence. Him too thy rage has slain! beneath thy steel, Unhappy in his country’s cause he fell!

Now near the Greeks the black battalions drew; And first two leaders valiant Hector slew: His force Anchialus and Mnesthes found, In every art of glorious war renown’d; In the same car the chiefs to combat ride, And fought united, and united died. Struck at the sight, the mighty Ajax glows With thirst of vengeance, and assaults the foes. His massy spear with matchless fury sent, Through Amphius’ belt and heaving belly went; Amphius Apæsus’ happy soil possess’d, With herds abounding, and with treasure bless’d; But fate resistless from his country led The chief, to perish at his people’s head. Shook with his fall his brazen armour rung, And fierce, to seize it, conquering Ajax sprung; Around his head an iron tempest rain’d; A wood of spears his ample shield sustain’d: Beneath one foot the yet warm corpse he press’d, And drew his javelin from the bleeding breast: He could no more; the showering darts denied To spoil his glittering arms, and plumy pride. Now foes on foes came pouring on the fields, With bristling lances, and compacted shields; Till in the steely circle straiten’d round, Forced he gives way, and sternly quits the ground.

“At length the monarch, with repentant grief, Confess’d the gods, and god-descended chief; His daughter gave, the stranger to detain, With half the honours of his ample reign: The Lycians grant a chosen space of ground, With woods, with vineyards, and with harvests crown’d. There long the chief his happy lot possess’d, With two brave sons and one fair daughter bless’d; (Fair e’en in heavenly eyes: her fruitful love Crown’d with Sarpedon’s birth the embrace of Jove;) But when at last, distracted in his mind, Forsook by heaven, forsaking humankind, Wide o’er the Aleian field he chose to stray, A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way![170] Woes heap’d on woes consumed his wasted heart: His beauteous daughter fell by Phoebe’s dart; His eldest born by raging Mars was slain, In combat on the Solymaean plain. Hippolochus survived: from him I came, The honour’d author of my birth and name; By his decree I sought the Trojan town; By his instructions learn to win renown, To stand the first in worth as in command, To add new honours to my native land, Before my eyes my mighty sires to place, And emulate the glories of our race.”

Nor yet from fight Idomeneus withdraws; Resolved to perish in his country’s cause, Or find some foe, whom heaven and he shall doom To wail his fate in death’s eternal gloom. He sees Alcathous in the front aspire: Great Æsyetes was the hero’s sire; His spouse Hippodame, divinely fair, Anchises’ eldest hope, and darling care: Who charm’d her parents’ and her husband’s heart With beauty, sense, and every work of art: He once of Ilion’s youth the loveliest boy, The fairest she of all the fair of Troy. By Neptune now the hapless hero dies, Who covers with a cloud those beauteous eyes, And fetters every limb: yet bent to meet His fate he stands; nor shuns the lance of Crete. Fix’d as some column, or deep-rooted oak, While the winds sleep; his breast received the stroke. Before the ponderous stroke his corslet yields, Long used to ward the death in fighting fields. The riven armour sends a jarring sound; His labouring heart heaves with so strong a bound, The long lance shakes, and vibrates in the wound; Fast flowing from its source, as prone he lay, Life’s purple tide impetuous gush’d away.

And now the chief (the foremost troops repell’d) Back to the ships his destined progress held, Bore down half Troy in his resistless way, And forced the routed ranks to stand the day. Between the space where silver Simois flows, Where lay the fleets, and where the rampires rose, All grim in dust and blood Patroclus stands, And turns the slaughter on the conquering bands. First Pronous died beneath his fiery dart, Which pierced below the shield his valiant heart. Thestor was next, who saw the chief appear, And fell the victim of his coward fear; Shrunk up he sat, with wild and haggard eye, Nor stood to combat, nor had force to fly; Patroclus mark’d him as he shunn’d the war, And with unmanly tremblings shook the car, And dropp’d the flowing reins. Him ’twixt the jaws, The javelin sticks, and from the chariot draws. As on a rock that overhangs the main, An angler, studious of the line and cane, Some mighty fish draws panting to the shore: Not with less ease the barbed javelin bore The gaping dastard; as the spear was shook, He fell, and life his heartless breast forsook.

Fierce to the van of fight Patroclus came, And, like an eagle darting at his game, Sprung on the Trojan and the Lycian band. What grief thy heart, what fury urged thy hand, O generous Greek! when with full vigour thrown, At Sthenelaus flew the weighty stone, Which sunk him to the dead: when Troy, too near That arm, drew back; and Hector learn’d to fear. Far as an able hand a lance can throw, Or at the lists, or at the fighting foe; So far the Trojans from their lines retired; Till Glaucus, turning, all the rest inspired. Then Bathyclaeus fell beneath his rage, The only hope of Chalcon’s trembling age; Wide o’er the land was stretch’d his large domain, With stately seats, and riches blest in vain: Him, bold with youth, and eager to pursue The flying Lycians, Glaucus met and slew; Pierced through the bosom with a sudden wound, He fell, and falling made the fields resound. The Achaians sorrow for their heroes slain; With conquering shouts the Trojans shake the plain, And crowd to spoil the dead: the Greeks oppose; An iron circle round the carcase grows.

“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.”

Oft hast thou triumph’d in the glorious boast, That thou stood’st forth of all the ethereal host, When bold rebellion shook the realms above, The undaunted guard of cloud-compelling Jove: When the bright partner of his awful reign, The warlike maid, and monarch of the main, The traitor-gods, by mad ambition driven, Durst threat with chains the omnipotence of Heaven. Then, call’d by thee, the monster Titan came (Whom gods Briareus, men Ægeon name), Through wondering skies enormous stalk’d along; Not he that shakes the solid earth so strong: With giant-pride at Jove’s high throne he stands, And brandish’d round him all his hundred hands: The affrighted gods confess’d their awful lord, They dropp’d the fetters, trembled, and adored.[64] This, goddess, this to his remembrance call, Embrace his knees, at his tribunal fall; Conjure him far to drive the Grecian train, To hurl them headlong to their fleet and main, To heap the shores with copious death, and bring The Greeks to know the curse of such a king. Let Agamemnon lift his haughty head O’er all his wide dominion of the dead, And mourn in blood that e’er he durst disgrace The boldest warrior of the Grecian race.”

As when a lion, rushing from his den, Amidst the plain of some wide-water’d fen, (Where numerous oxen, as at ease they feed, At large expatiate o’er the ranker mead) Leaps on the herds before the herdsman’s eyes; The trembling herdsman far to distance flies; Some lordly bull (the rest dispersed and fled) He singles out; arrests, and lays him dead. Thus from the rage of Jove-like Hector flew All Greece in heaps; but one he seized, and slew: Mycenian Periphes, a mighty name, In wisdom great, in arms well known to fame; The minister of stern Eurystheus’ ire Against Alcides, Copreus was his sire: The son redeem’d the honours of the race, A son as generous as the sire was base; O’er all his country’s youth conspicuous far In every virtue, or of peace or war: But doom’d to Hector’s stronger force to yield! Against the margin of his ample shield He struck his hasty foot: his heels up-sprung; Supine he fell; his brazen helmet rung. On the fallen chief the invading Trojan press’d, And plunged the pointed javelin in his breast. His circling friends, who strove to guard too late The unhappy hero, fled, or shared his fate.

She said: the cloud-compeller, overcome, Assents to fate, and ratifies the doom. Then touch’d with grief, the weeping heavens distill’d A shower of blood o’er all the fatal field: The god, his eyes averting from the plain, Laments his son, predestined to be slain, Far from the Lycian shores, his happy native reign. Now met in arms, the combatants appear; Each heaved the shield, and poised the lifted spear; From strong Patroclus’ hand the javelin fled, And pass’d the groin of valiant Thrasymed; The nerves unbraced no more his bulk sustain, He falls, and falling bites the bloody plain. Two sounding darts the Lycian leader threw: The first aloof with erring fury flew, The next transpierced Achilles’ mortal steed, The generous Pedasus of Theban breed: Fix’d in the shoulder’s joint, he reel’d around, Roll’d in the bloody dust, and paw’d the slippery ground. His sudden fall the entangled harness broke; Each axle crackled, and the chariot shook: When bold Automedon, to disengage The starting coursers, and restrain their rage, Divides the traces with his sword, and freed The encumbered chariot from the dying steed: The rest move on, obedient to the rein: The car rolls slowly o’er the dusty plain.

Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew, And, all collected, on Achilles flew. So Jove’s bold bird, high balanced in the air, Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare. Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares: Before his breast the flaming shield he bears, Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun. Nodding at every step: (Vulcanian frame!) And as he moved, his figure seem’d on flame. As radiant Hesper shines with keener light,[277] Far-beaming o’er the silver host of night, When all the starry train emblaze the sphere: So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear. In his right hand he waves the weapon round, Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound; But the rich mail Patroclus lately wore Securely cased the warrior’s body o’er. One space at length he spies, to let in fate, Where ’twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate Gave entrance: through that penetrable part Furious he drove the well-directed dart: Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour. Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies, While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries:

“Unpitying powers! how oft each holy fane Has Hector tinged with blood of victims slain? And can ye still his cold remains pursue? Still grudge his body to the Trojans’ view? Deny to consort, mother, son, and sire, The last sad honours of a funeral fire? Is then the dire Achilles all your care? That iron heart, inflexibly severe; A lion, not a man, who slaughters wide, In strength of rage, and impotence of pride; Who hastes to murder with a savage joy, Invades around, and breathes but to destroy! Shame is not of his soul; nor understood, The greatest evil and the greatest good. Still for one loss he rages unresign’d, Repugnant to the lot of all mankind; To lose a friend, a brother, or a son, Heaven dooms each mortal, and its will is done: Awhile they sorrow, then dismiss their care; Fate gives the wound, and man is born to bear. But this insatiate, the commission given By fate exceeds, and tempts the wrath of heaven: Lo, how his rage dishonest drags along Hector’s dead earth, insensible of wrong! Brave though he be, yet by no reason awed, He violates the laws of man and god.”

The hoary monarch thus. Her piercing cries Sad Hecuba renews, and then replies: “Ah! whither wanders thy distemper’d mind? And where the prudence now that awed mankind? Through Phrygia once and foreign regions known; Now all confused, distracted, overthrown! Singly to pass through hosts of foes! to face (O heart of steel!) the murderer of thy race! To view that deathful eye, and wander o’er Those hands yet red with Hector’s noble gore! Alas! my lord! he knows not how to spare, And what his mercy, thy slain sons declare; So brave! so many fallen! To claim his rage Vain were thy dignity, and vain thy age. No—pent in this sad palace, let us give To grief the wretched days we have to live. Still, still for Hector let our sorrows flow, Born to his own, and to his parents’ woe! Doom’d from the hour his luckless life begun, To dogs, to vultures, and to Peleus’ son! Oh! in his dearest blood might I allay My rage, and these barbarities repay! For ah! could Hector merit thus, whose breath Expired not meanly, in unactive death? He poured his latest blood in manly fight, And fell a hero in his country’s right.”

“Hear, all ye Trojan, all ye Grecian bands, What my soul prompts, and what some god commands. Great Jove, averse our warfare to compose, O’erwhelms the nations with new toils and woes; War with a fiercer tide once more returns, Till Ilion falls, or till yon navy burns. You then, O princes of the Greeks! appear; ’Tis Hector speaks, and calls the gods to hear: From all your troops select the boldest knight, And him, the boldest, Hector dares to fight. Here if I fall, by chance of battle slain, Be his my spoil, and his these arms remain; But let my body, to my friends return’d, By Trojan hands and Trojan flames be burn’d. And if Apollo, in whose aid I trust, Shall stretch your daring champion in the dust; If mine the glory to despoil the foe; On Phœbus’ temple I’ll his arms bestow: The breathless carcase to your navy sent, Greece on the shore shall raise a monument; Which when some future mariner surveys, Wash’d by broad Hellespont’s resounding seas, Thus shall he say, ‘A valiant Greek lies there, By Hector slain, the mighty man of war,’ The stone shall tell your vanquish’d hero’s name And distant ages learn the victor’s fame.”

Now side by side, with like unwearied care, Each Ajax laboured through the field of war: So when two lordly bulls, with equal toil, Force the bright ploughshare through the fallow soil, Join’d to one yoke, the stubborn earth they tear, And trace large furrows with the shining share; O’er their huge limbs the foam descends in snow, And streams of sweat down their sour foreheads flow. A train of heroes followed through the field, Who bore by turns great Ajax’ sevenfold shield; Whene’er he breathed, remissive of his might, Tired with the incessant slaughters of the fight. No following troops his brave associate grace: In close engagement an unpractised race, The Locrian squadrons nor the javelin wield, Nor bear the helm, nor lift the moony shield; But skill’d from far the flying shaft to wing, Or whirl the sounding pebble from the sling, Dexterous with these they aim a certain wound, Or fell the distant warrior to the ground. Thus in the van the Telamonian train, Throng’d in bright arms, a pressing fight maintain: Far in the rear the Locrian archers lie, Whose stones and arrows intercept the sky, The mingled tempest on the foes they pour; Troy’s scattering orders open to the shower.

“Say, chief, is all thy ancient valour lost? Where are thy threats, and where thy glorious boast, That propp’d alone by Priam’s race should stand Troy’s sacred walls, nor need a foreign hand? Now, now thy country calls her wonted friends, And the proud vaunt in just derision ends. Remote they stand while alien troops engage, Like trembling hounds before the lion’s rage. Far distant hence I held my wide command, Where foaming Xanthus laves the Lycian land; With ample wealth (the wish of mortals) bless’d, A beauteous wife, and infant at her breast; With those I left whatever dear could be: Greece, if she conquers, nothing wins from me; Yet first in fight my Lycian bands I cheer, And long to meet this mighty man ye fear; While Hector idle stands, nor bids the brave Their wives, their infants, and their altars save. Haste, warrior, haste! preserve thy threaten’d state, Or one vast burst of all-involving fate Full o’er your towers shall fall, and sweep away Sons, sires, and wives, an undistinguish’d prey. Rouse all thy Trojans, urge thy aids to fight; These claim thy thoughts by day, thy watch by night; With force incessant the brave Greeks oppose; Such cares thy friends deserve, and such thy foes.”

He spoke, and transport fill’d Tydides’ heart; In earth the generous warrior fix’d his dart, Then friendly, thus the Lycian prince address’d: “Welcome, my brave hereditary guest! Thus ever let us meet, with kind embrace, Nor stain the sacred friendship of our race. Know, chief, our grandsires have been guests of old; Œneus the strong, Bellerophon the bold: Our ancient seat his honour’d presence graced, Where twenty days in genial rites he pass’d. The parting heroes mutual presents left; A golden goblet was thy grandsire’s gift; Œneus a belt of matchless work bestowed, That rich with Tyrian dye refulgent glow’d. (This from his pledge I learn’d, which, safely stored Among my treasures, still adorns my board: For Tydeus left me young, when Thebe’s wall Beheld the sons of Greece untimely fall.) Mindful of this, in friendship let us join; If heaven our steps to foreign lands incline, My guest in Argos thou, and I in Lycia thine. Enough of Trojans to this lance shall yield, In the full harvest of yon ample field; Enough of Greeks shall dye thy spear with gore; But thou and Diomed be foes no more. Now change we arms, and prove to either host We guard the friendship of the line we boast.”

Swift to her bright apartment she repairs, Sacred to dress and beauty’s pleasing cares: With skill divine had Vulcan form’d the bower, Safe from access of each intruding power. Touch’d with her secret key, the doors unfold: Self-closed, behind her shut the valves of gold. Here first she bathes; and round her body pours Soft oils of fragrance, and ambrosial showers: The winds, perfumed, the balmy gale convey Through heaven, through earth, and all the aerial way: Spirit divine! whose exhalation greets The sense of gods with more than mortal sweets. Thus while she breathed of heaven, with decent pride Her artful hands the radiant tresses tied; Part on her head in shining ringlets roll’d, Part o’er her shoulders waved like melted gold. Around her next a heavenly mantle flow’d, That rich with Pallas’ labour’d colours glow’d: Large clasps of gold the foldings gather’d round, A golden zone her swelling bosom bound. Far-beaming pendants tremble in her ear, Each gem illumined with a triple star. Then o’er her head she cast a veil more white Than new-fallen snow, and dazzling as the light. Last her fair feet celestial sandals grace. Thus issuing radiant with majestic pace, Forth from the dome the imperial goddess moves, And calls the mother of the smiles and loves.

And now Minerva from the realms of air Descends impetuous, and renews the war; For, pleased at length the Grecian arms to aid, The lord of thunders sent the blue-eyed maid. As when high Jove denouncing future woe, O’er the dark clouds extends his purple bow, (In sign of tempests from the troubled air, Or from the rage of man, destructive war,) The drooping cattle dread the impending skies, And from his half-till’d field the labourer flies: In such a form the goddess round her drew A livid cloud, and to the battle flew. Assuming Phœnix’ shape on earth she falls, And in his well-known voice to Sparta calls: “And lies Achilles’ friend, beloved by all, A prey to dogs beneath the Trojan wall? What shame 'o Greece for future times to tell, To thee the greatest in whose cause he fell!” “O chief, O father! (Atreus’ son replies) O full of days! by long experience wise! What more desires my soul, than here unmoved To guard the body of the man I loved? Ah, would Minerva send me strength to rear This wearied arm, and ward the storm of war! But Hector, like the rage of fire, we dread, And Jove’s own glories blaze around his head!”

But thee, Atrides! in that dangerous hour The gods forget not, nor thy guardian power, Pallas assists, and (weakened in its force) Diverts the weapon from its destined course: So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye, The watchful mother wafts the envenom’d fly. Just where his belt with golden buckles join’d, Where linen folds the double corslet lined, She turn’d the shaft, which, hissing from above, Pass’d the broad belt, and through the corslet drove; The folds it pierced, the plaited linen tore, And razed the skin, and drew the purple gore. As when some stately trappings are decreed To grace a monarch on his bounding steed, A nymph in Caria or Mæonia bred, Stains the pure ivory with a lively red; With equal lustre various colours vie, The shining whiteness, and the Tyrian dye: So great Atrides! show’d thy sacred blood, As down thy snowy thigh distill’d the streaming flood. With horror seized, the king of men descried The shaft infix’d, and saw the gushing tide: Nor less the Spartan fear’d, before he found The shining barb appear above the wound, Then, with a sigh, that heaved his manly breast, The royal brother thus his grief express’d, And grasp’d his hand; while all the Greeks around With answering sighs return’d the plaintive sound.

Thus he. The sage Ulysses thus replies, While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes: “What shameful words (unkingly as thou art) Fall from that trembling tongue and timorous heart? Oh were thy sway the curse of meaner powers, And thou the shame of any host but ours! A host, by Jove endued with martial might, And taught to conquer, or to fall in fight: Adventurous combats and bold wars to wage, Employ’d our youth, and yet employs our age. And wilt thou thus desert the Trojan plain? And have whole streams of blood been spilt in vain? In such base sentence if thou couch thy fear, Speak it in whispers, lest a Greek should hear. Lives there a man so dead to fame, who dares To think such meanness, or the thought declares? And comes it even from him whose sovereign sway The banded legions of all Greece obey? Is this a general’s voice that calls to flight, While war hangs doubtful, while his soldiers fight? What more could Troy? What yet their fate denies Thou givest the foe: all Greece becomes their prize. No more the troops (our hoisted sails in view, Themselves abandon’d) shall the fight pursue; But thy ships flying, with despair shall see; And owe destruction to a prince like thee.”

“O first of Greeks, (Ulysses thus rejoin’d,) The best and bravest of the warrior kind! Thy praise it is in dreadful camps to shine, But old experience and calm wisdom mine. Then hear my counsel, and to reason yield, The bravest soon are satiate of the field; Though vast the heaps that strow the crimson plain, The bloody harvest brings but little gain: The scale of conquest ever wavering lies, Great Jove but turns it, and the victor dies! The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall, And endless were the grief, to weep for all. Eternal sorrows what avails to shed? Greece honours not with solemn fasts the dead: Enough, when death demands the brave, to pay The tribute of a melancholy day. One chief with patience to the grave resign’d, Our care devolves on others left behind. Let generous food supplies of strength produce, Let rising spirits flow from sprightly juice, Let their warm heads with scenes of battle glow, And pour new furies on the feebler foe. Yet a short interval, and none shall dare Expect a second summons to the war; Who waits for that, the dire effects shall find, If trembling in the ships he lags behind. Embodied, to the battle let us bend, And all at once on haughty Troy descend.”

“Amidst the glories of so bright a reign, What moves the great Atrides to complain? ’Tis thine whate’er the warrior’s breast inflames, The golden spoil, and thine the lovely dames. With all the wealth our wars and blood bestow, Thy tents are crowded and thy chests o’erflow. Thus at full ease in heaps of riches roll’d, What grieves the monarch? Is it thirst of gold? Say, shall we march with our unconquer’d powers (The Greeks and I) to Ilion’s hostile towers, And bring the race of royal bastards here, For Troy to ransom at a price too dear? But safer plunder thy own host supplies; Say, wouldst thou seize some valiant leader’s prize? Or, if thy heart to generous love be led, Some captive fair, to bless thy kingly bed? Whate’er our master craves submit we must, Plagued with his pride, or punish’d for his lust. Oh women of Achaia; men no more! Hence let us fly, and let him waste his store In loves and pleasures on the Phrygian shore. We may be wanted on some busy day, When Hector comes: so great Achilles may: From him he forced the prize we jointly gave, From him, the fierce, the fearless, and the brave: And durst he, as he ought, resent that wrong, This mighty tyrant were no tyrant long.”

“Me dost thou bid to shun the coming fight? Me wouldst thou move to base, inglorious flight? Know, ’tis not honest in my soul to fear, Nor was Tydides born to tremble here. I hate the cumbrous chariot’s slow advance, And the long distance of the flying lance; But while my nerves are strong, my force entire, Thus front the foe, and emulate my sire. Nor shall yon steeds, that fierce to fight convey Those threatening heroes, bear them both away; One chief at least beneath this arm shall die; So Pallas tells me, and forbids to fly. But if she dooms, and if no god withstand, That both shall fall by one victorious hand, Then heed my words: my horses here detain, Fix’d to the chariot by the straiten’d rein; Swift to Æneas’ empty seat proceed, And seize the coursers of ethereal breed; The race of those, which once the thundering god[146] For ravish’d Ganymede on Tros bestow’d, The best that e’er on earth’s broad surface run, Beneath the rising or the setting sun. Hence great Anchises stole a breed unknown, By mortal mares, from fierce Laomedon: Four of this race his ample stalls contain, And two transport Æneas o’er the plain. These, were the rich immortal prize our own, Through the wide world should make our glory known.”

“Celestial states! immortal gods! give ear, Hear our decree, and reverence what ye hear; The fix’d decree which not all heaven can move; Thou, fate! fulfil it! and, ye powers, approve! What god but enters yon forbidden field, Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield, Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven, Gash’d with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven; Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown, Low in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan, With burning chains fix’d to the brazen floors, And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors; As deep beneath the infernal centre hurl’d,[190] As from that centre to the ethereal world. Let him who tempts me, dread those dire abodes: And know, the Almighty is the god of gods. League all your forces, then, ye powers above, Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove. Let down our golden everlasting chain[191] Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth, To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth: Ye strive in vain! if I but stretch this hand, I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land; I fix the chain to great Olympus’ height, And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight! For such I reign, unbounded and above; And such are men, and gods, compared to Jove.”

“O reverend prince! (Tydides thus replies) Thy years are awful, and thy words are wise. But ah, what grief! should haughty Hector boast I fled inglorious to the guarded coast. Before that dire disgrace shall blast my fame, O’erwhelm me, earth; and hide a warrior’s shame!” To whom Gerenian Nestor thus replied:[194] “Gods! can thy courage fear the Phrygian’s pride? Hector may vaunt, but who shall heed the boast? Not those who felt thy arm, the Dardan host, Nor Troy, yet bleeding in her heroes lost; Not even a Phrygian dame, who dreads the sword That laid in dust her loved, lamented lord.” He said, and, hasty, o’er the gasping throng Drives the swift steeds: the chariot smokes along; The shouts of Trojans thicken in the wind; The storm of hissing javelins pours behind. Then with a voice that shakes the solid skies, Pleased, Hector braves the warrior as he flies. “Go, mighty hero! graced above the rest In seats of council and the sumptuous feast: Now hope no more those honours from thy train; Go less than woman, in the form of man! To scale our walls, to wrap our towers in flames, To lead in exile the fair Phrygian dames, Thy once proud hopes, presumptuous prince! are fled; This arm shall reach thy heart, and stretch thee dead.”

The spear the conqueror from his body drew, And death’s dim shadows swarm before his view. Next brave Deipyrus in dust was laid: King Helenus waved high the Thracian blade, And smote his temples with an arm so strong, The helm fell off, and roll’d amid the throng: There for some luckier Greek it rests a prize; For dark in death the godlike owner lies! Raging with grief, great Menelaus burns, And fraught with vengeance, to the victor turns: That shook the ponderous lance, in act to throw; And this stood adverse with the bended bow: Full on his breast the Trojan arrow fell, But harmless bounded from the plated steel. As on some ample barn’s well harden’d floor, (The winds collected at each open door,) While the broad fan with force is whirl’d around, Light leaps the golden grain, resulting from the ground: So from the steel that guards Atrides’ heart, Repell’d to distance flies the bounding dart. Atrides, watchful of the unwary foe, Pierced with his lance the hand that grasp’d the bow. And nailed it to the yew: the wounded hand Trail’d the long lance that mark’d with blood the sand: But good Agenor gently from the wound The spear solicits, and the bandage bound; A sling’s soft wool, snatch’d from a soldier’s side, At once the tent and ligature supplied.

“Return! (said Hector, fired with stern disdain) What! coop whole armies in our walls again? Was’t not enough, ye valiant warriors, say, Nine years imprison’d in those towers ye lay? Wide o’er the world was Ilion famed of old For brass exhaustless, and for mines of gold: But while inglorious in her walls we stay’d, Sunk were her treasures, and her stores decay’d; The Phrygians now her scatter’d spoils enjoy, And proud Mæonia wastes the fruits of Troy. Great Jove at length my arms to conquest calls, And shuts the Grecians in their wooden walls, Darest thou dispirit whom the gods incite? Flies any Trojan? I shall stop his flight. To better counsel then attention lend; Take due refreshment, and the watch attend. If there be one whose riches cost him care, Forth let him bring them for the troops to share; ’Tis better generously bestow’d on those, Than left the plunder of our country’s foes. Soon as the morn the purple orient warms, Fierce on yon navy will we pour our arms. If great Achilles rise in all his might, His be the danger: I shall stand the fight. Honour, ye gods! or let me gain or give; And live he glorious, whosoe’er shall live! Mars is our common lord, alike to all; And oft the victor triumphs, but to fall.”

With words like these the troops Ulysses ruled, The loudest silenced, and the fiercest cool’d. Back to the assembly roll the thronging train, Desert the ships, and pour upon the plain. Murmuring they move, as when old ocean roars, And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores; The groaning banks are burst with bellowing sound, The rocks remurmur and the deeps rebound. At length the tumult sinks, the noises cease, And a still silence lulls the camp to peace. Thersites only clamour’d in the throng, Loquacious, loud, and turbulent of tongue: Awed by no shame, by no respect controll’d, In scandal busy, in reproaches bold: With witty malice studious to defame, Scorn all his joy, and laughter all his aim:— But chief he gloried with licentious style To lash the great, and monarchs to revile. His figure such as might his soul proclaim; One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame: His mountain shoulders half his breast o’erspread, Thin hairs bestrew’d his long misshapen head. Spleen to mankind his envious heart possess’d, And much he hated all, but most the best: Ulysses or Achilles still his theme; But royal scandal his delight supreme, Long had he lived the scorn of every Greek, Vex’d when he spoke, yet still they heard him speak. Sharp was his voice; which in the shrillest tone, Thus with injurious taunts attack’d the throne.

To him the Lycian: “Whom your eyes behold, If right I judge, is Diomed the bold: Such coursers whirl him o’er the dusty field, So towers his helmet, and so flames his shield. If ’tis a god, he wears that chief’s disguise: Or if that chief, some guardian of the skies, Involved in clouds, protects him in the fray, And turns unseen the frustrate dart away. I wing’d an arrow, which not idly fell, The stroke had fix’d him to the gates of hell; And, but some god, some angry god withstands, His fate was due to these unerring hands. Skill’d in the bow, on foot I sought the war, Nor join’d swift horses to the rapid car. Ten polish’d chariots I possess’d at home, And still they grace Lycaon’s princely dome: There veil’d in spacious coverlets they stand; And twice ten coursers wait their lord’s command. The good old warrior bade me trust to these, When first for Troy I sail’d the sacred seas; In fields, aloft, the whirling car to guide, And through the ranks of death triumphant ride. But vain with youth, and yet to thrift inclined, I heard his counsels with unheedful mind, And thought the steeds (your large supplies unknown) Might fail of forage in the straiten’d town; So took my bow and pointed darts in hand And left the chariots in my native land.

“Long since had Hector stain’d these fields with gore, Stretch’d by some Argive on his native shore: But he above, the sire of heaven, withstands, Mocks our attempts, and slights our just demands; The stubborn god, inflexible and hard, Forgets my service and deserved reward: Saved I, for this, his favourite son distress’d, By stern Eurystheus with long labours press’d? He begg’d, with tears he begg’d, in deep dismay; I shot from heaven, and gave his arm the day. Oh had my wisdom known this dire event, When to grim Pluto’s gloomy gates he went; The triple dog had never felt his chain, Nor Styx been cross’d, nor hell explored in vain. Averse to me of all his heaven of gods, At Thetis’ suit the partial Thunderer nods; To grace her gloomy, fierce, resenting son, My hopes are frustrate, and my Greeks undone. Some future day, perhaps, he may be moved To call his blue-eyed maid his best beloved. Haste, launch thy chariot, through yon ranks to ride; Myself will arm, and thunder at thy side. Then, goddess! say, shall Hector glory then? (That terror of the Greeks, that man of men) When Juno’s self, and Pallas shall appear, All dreadful in the crimson walks of war! What mighty Trojan then, on yonder shore, Expiring, pale, and terrible no more, Shall feast the fowls, and glut the dogs with gore?”

Yet more—three daughters in his court are bred, And each well worthy of a royal bed: Laodice and Iphigenia fair, And bright Chrysothemis with golden hair: Her shalt thou wed whom most thy eyes approve; He asks no presents, no reward for love: Himself will give the dower; so vast a store As never father gave a child before. Seven ample cities shall confess thy sway, The Enope and Pheræ thee obey, Cardamyle with ample turrets crown’d, And sacred Pedasus, for vines renown’d: Æpea fair, the pastures Hira yields, And rich Antheia with her flowery fields; The whole extent to Pylos’ sandy plain, Along the verdant margin of the main. There heifers graze, and labouring oxen toil; Bold are the men, and generous is the soil. There shalt thou reign, with power and justice crown’d, And rule the tributary realms around. Such are the proffers which this day we bring, Such the repentance of a suppliant king. But if all this, relentless, thou disdain, If honour and if interest plead in vain, Yet some redress to suppliant Greece afford, And be, amongst her guardian gods, adored. If no regard thy suffering country claim, Hear thy own glory, and the voice of fame: For now that chief, whose unresisted ire Made nations tremble, and whole hosts retire, Proud Hector, now, the unequal fight demands, And only triumphs to deserve thy hands.”