Iliad on Anger

Apollo now to tired Achilles turns: (The power confess’d in all his glory burns:) “And what (he cries) has Peleus’ son in view, With mortal speed a godhead to pursue? For not to thee to know the gods is given, Unskill’d to trace the latent marks of heaven. What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain? Vain thy past labour, and thy present vain: Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow’d, While here thy frantic rage attacks a god.”

“Give me, great Jove! to punish lawless lust, And lay the Trojan gasping in the dust: Destroy the aggressor, aid my righteous cause, Avenge the breach of hospitable laws! Let this example future times reclaim, And guard from wrong fair friendship’s holy name,” He said, and poised in air the javelin sent, Through Paris’ shield the forceful weapon went, His corslet pierces, and his garment rends, And glancing downward, near his flank descends. The wary Trojan, bending from the blow, Eludes the death, and disappoints his foe: But fierce Atrides waved his sword, and strook Full on his casque: the crested helmet shook; The brittle steel, unfaithful to his hand, Broke short: the fragments glitter’d on the sand. The raging warrior to the spacious skies Raised his upbraiding voice and angry eyes: “Then is it vain in Jove himself to trust? And is it thus the gods assist the just? When crimes provoke us, Heaven success denies; The dart falls harmless, and the falchion flies.” Furious he said, and towards the Grecian crew (Seized by the crest) the unhappy warrior drew; Struggling he followed, while the embroider’d thong That tied his helmet, dragg’d the chief along. Then had his ruin crown’d Atrides’ joy, But Venus trembled for the prince of Troy: Unseen she came, and burst the golden band; And left an empty helmet in his hand. The casque, enraged, amidst the Greeks he threw; The Greeks with smiles the polish’d trophy view. Then, as once more he lifts the deadly dart, In thirst of vengeance, at his rival’s heart; The queen of love her favour’d champion shrouds (For gods can all things) in a veil of clouds. Raised from the field the panting youth she led, And gently laid him on the bridal bed, With pleasing sweets his fainting sense renews, And all the dome perfumes with heavenly dews. Meantime the brightest of the female kind, The matchless Helen, o’er the walls reclined; To her, beset with Trojan beauties, came, In borrow’d form, the laughter-loving dame.

“Hector! approach my arm, and singly know What strength thou hast, and what the Grecian foe. Achilles shuns the fight; yet some there are, Not void of soul, and not unskill’d in war: Let him, unactive on the sea-beat shore, Indulge his wrath, and aid our arms no more; Whole troops of heroes Greece has yet to boast, And sends thee one, a sample of her host, Such as I am, I come to prove thy might; No more—be sudden, and begin the fight.”

“‘My child! with strength, with glory, and success, Thy arms may Juno and Minerva bless! Trust that to Heaven: but thou, thy cares engage To calm thy passions, and subdue thy rage: From gentler manners let thy glory grow, And shun contention, the sure source of woe; That young and old may in thy praise combine, The virtues of humanity be thine—’ This now-despised advice thy father gave; Ah! check thy anger; and be truly brave. If thou wilt yield to great Atrides’ prayers, Gifts worthy thee his royal hand prepares; If not—but hear me, while I number o’er The proffer’d presents, an exhaustless store. Ten weighty talents of the purest gold, And twice ten vases of refulgent mould; Seven sacred tripods, whose unsullied frame Yet knows no office, nor has felt the flame; Twelve steeds unmatched in fleetness and in force, And still victorious in the dusty course; (Rich were the man, whose ample stores exceed The prizes purchased by their winged speed;) Seven lovely captives of the Lesbian line, Skill’d in each art, unmatch’d in form divine, The same he chose for more than vulgar charms, When Lesbos sank beneath thy conquering arms. All these, to buy thy friendship shall be paid, And, join’d with these, the long-contested maid; With all her charms, Briseïs he’ll resign, And solemn swear those charms were only thine; Untouch’d she stay’d, uninjured she removes, Pure from his arms, and guiltless of his loves. These instant shall be thine; and if the powers Give to our arms proud Ilion’s hostile towers, Then shalt thou store (when Greece the spoil divides) With gold and brass thy loaded navy’s sides. Besides, full twenty nymphs of Trojan race With copious love shall crown thy warm embrace; Such as thyself shall chose; who yield to none, Or yield to Helen’s heavenly charms alone. Yet hear me further: when our wars are o’er, If safe we land on Argos’ fruitful shore, There shalt thou live his son, his honour share, And with Orestes’ self divide his care.

“Rise, son of Peleus! rise, divinely brave! Assist the combat, and Patroclus save: For him the slaughter to the fleet they spread, And fall by mutual wounds around the dead. To drag him back to Troy the foe contends: Nor with his death the rage of Hector ends: A prey to dogs he dooms the corse to lie, And marks the place to fix his head on high. Rise, and prevent (if yet you think of fame) Thy friend’s disgrace, thy own eternal shame!”

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

His warm reproofs the listening kings inflame; And nine, the noblest of the Grecian name, Up-started fierce: but far before the rest The king of men advanced his dauntless breast: Then bold Tydides, great in arms, appear’d; And next his bulk gigantic Ajax rear’d; Oïleus follow’d; Idomen was there,[180] And Merion, dreadful as the god of war: With these Eurypylus and Thoas stand, And wise Ulysses closed the daring band. All these, alike inspired with noble rage, Demand the fight. To whom the Pylian sage:

To this the chief: “With praise the rest inspire, Nor urge a soul already fill’d with fire. What strength I have, be now in battle tried, Till every shaft in Phrygian blood be dyed. Since rallying from our wall we forced the foe, Still aim’d at Hector have I bent my bow: Eight forky arrows from this hand have fled, And eight bold heroes by their points lie dead: But sure some god denies me to destroy This fury of the field, this dog of Troy.”

“Atrides! lo! with what disdainful eye Achilles sees his country’s forces fly; Blind, impious man! whose anger is his guide, Who glories in unutterable pride. So may he perish, so may Jove disclaim The wretch relentless, and o’erwhelm with shame! But Heaven forsakes not thee: o’er yonder sands Soon shall thou view the scattered Trojan bands Fly diverse; while proud kings, and chiefs renown’d, Driven heaps on heaps, with clouds involved around Of rolling dust, their winged wheels employ To hide their ignominious heads in Troy.”

Next on Eryalus he flies; a stone, Large as a rock, was by his fury thrown: Full on his crown the ponderous fragment flew, And burst the helm, and cleft the head in two: Prone to the ground the breathless warrior fell, And death involved him with the shades of hell. Then low in dust Epaltes, Echius, lie; Ipheas, Evippus, Polymelus, die; Amphoterus and Erymas succeed; And last Tlepolemus and Pyres bleed. Where’er he moves, the growing slaughters spread In heaps on heaps a monument of dead.

He spoke in vain—The chief without dismay Ploughs through the boiling surge his desperate way. Then rising in his rage above the shores, From all his deep the bellowing river roars, Huge heaps of slain disgorges on the coast, And round the banks the ghastly dead are toss’d. While all before, the billows ranged on high, (A watery bulwark,) screen the bands who fly. Now bursting on his head with thundering sound, The falling deluge whelms the hero round: His loaded shield bends to the rushing tide; His feet, upborne, scarce the strong flood divide, Sliddering, and staggering. On the border stood A spreading elm, that overhung the flood; He seized a bending bough, his steps to stay; The plant uprooted to his weight gave way.[270] Heaving the bank, and undermining all; Loud flash the waters to the rushing fall Of the thick foliage. The large trunk display’d Bridged the rough flood across: the hero stay’d On this his weight, and raised upon his hand, Leap’d from the channel, and regain’d the land. Then blacken’d the wild waves: the murmur rose: The god pursues, a huger billow throws, And bursts the bank, ambitious to destroy The man whose fury is the fate of Troy. He like the warlike eagle speeds his pace (Swiftest and strongest of the aerial race); Far as a spear can fly, Achilles springs; At every bound his clanging armour rings: Now here, now there, he turns on every side, And winds his course before the following tide; The waves flow after, wheresoe’er he wheels, And gather fast, and murmur at his heels. So when a peasant to his garden brings Soft rills of water from the bubbling springs, And calls the floods from high, to bless his bowers, And feed with pregnant streams the plants and flowers: Soon as he clears whate’er their passage stay’d, And marks the future current with his spade, Swift o’er the rolling pebbles, down the hills, Louder and louder purl the falling rills; Before him scattering, they prevent his pains, And shine in mazy wanderings o’er the plains.

Thus (nought unsaid) the much-advising sage Concludes; then sat, stiff with unwieldy age. Next bold Meriones was seen to rise, The last, but not least ardent for the prize. They mount their seats; the lots their place dispose (Roll’d in his helmet, these Achilles throws). Young Nestor leads the race: Eumelus then; And next the brother of the king of men: Thy lot, Meriones, the fourth was cast; And, far the bravest, Diomed, was last. They stand in order, an impatient train: Pelides points the barrier on the plain, And sends before old Phœnix to the place, To mark the racers, and to judge the race. At once the coursers from the barrier bound; The lifted scourges all at once resound; Their heart, their eyes, their voice, they send before; And up the champaign thunder from the shore: Thick, where they drive, the dusty clouds arise, And the lost courser in the whirlwind flies; Loose on their shoulders the long manes reclined, Float in their speed, and dance upon the wind: The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound, Now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground. While hot for fame, and conquest all their care, (Each o’er his flying courser hung in air,) Erect with ardour, poised upon the rein, They pant, they stretch, they shout along the plain. Now (the last compass fetch’d around the goal) At the near prize each gathers all his soul, Each burns with double hope, with double pain, Tears up the shore, and thunders toward the main. First flew Eumelus on Pheretian steeds; With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds: Close on Eumelus’ back they puff the wind, And seem just mounting on his car behind; Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze, And, hovering o’er, their stretching shadows sees. Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize; But angry Phœbus to Tydides flies, Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain His matchless horses’ labour on the plain. Rage fills his eye with anguish, to survey Snatch’d from his hope the glories of the day.

She ceased, and Juno rein’d the steeds with care: (Heaven’s awful empress, Saturn’s other heir:) Pallas, meanwhile, her various veil unbound, With flowers adorn’d, with art immortal crown’d; The radiant robe her sacred fingers wove Floats in rich waves, and spreads the court of Jove. Her father’s arms her mighty limbs invest, His cuirass blazes on her ample breast. The vigorous power the trembling car ascends: Shook by her arm, the massy javelin bends: Huge, ponderous, strong! that when her fury burns Proud tyrants humbles, and whole hosts o’erturns.

Apollo heard; and, suppliant as he stood, His heavenly hand restrain’d the flux of blood; He drew the dolours from the wounded part, And breathed a spirit in his rising heart. Renew’d by art divine, the hero stands, And owns the assistance of immortal hands. First to the fight his native troops he warms, Then loudly calls on Troy’s vindictive arms; With ample strides he stalks from place to place; Now fires Agenor, now Polydamas: Æneas next, and Hector he accosts; Inflaming thus the rage of all their hosts.

Swift fled the youth: nor Menelaus stands (Though sore distress’d) to aid the Pylian bands; But bids bold Thrasymede those troops sustain; Himself returns to his Patroclus slain. “Gone is Antilochus (the hero said); But hope not, warriors, for Achilles’ aid: Though fierce his rage, unbounded be his woe, Unarm’d, he fights not with the Trojan foe. ’Tis in our hands alone our hopes remain, ’Tis our own vigour must the dead regain, And save ourselves, while with impetuous hate Troy pours along, and this way rolls our fate.”

With that, he gluts his rage on numbers slain: Then Dryops tumbled to the ensanguined plain, Pierced through the neck: he left him panting there, And stopp’d Demuchus, great Philetor’s heir. Gigantic chief! deep gash’d the enormous blade, And for the soul an ample passage made. Laoganus and Dardanus expire, The valiant sons of an unhappy sire; Both in one instant from the chariot hurl’d, Sunk in one instant to the nether world: This difference only their sad fates afford That one the spear destroy’d, and one the sword.

Her speech new fury to their hearts convey’d; While near Tydides stood the Athenian maid; The king beside his panting steeds she found, O’erspent with toil reposing on the ground; To cool his glowing wound he sat apart, (The wound inflicted by the Lycian dart.) Large drops of sweat from all his limbs descend, Beneath his ponderous shield his sinews bend, Whose ample belt, that o’er his shoulder lay, He eased; and wash’d the clotted gore away. The goddess leaning o’er the bending yoke, Beside his coursers, thus her silence broke:

“Whither, oh whither does Ulysses run? Oh, flight unworthy great Laertes’ son! Mix’d with the vulgar shall thy fate be found, Pierced in the back, a vile, dishonest wound? Oh turn and save from Hector’s direful rage The glory of the Greeks, the Pylian sage.” His fruitless words are lost unheard in air, Ulysses seeks the ships, and shelters there. But bold Tydides to the rescue goes, A single warrior midst a host of foes; Before the coursers with a sudden spring He leap’d, and anxious thus bespoke the king:

The leader spoke. From all his host around Shouts of applause along the shores resound. Each from the yoke the smoking steeds untied, And fix’d their headstalls to his chariot-side. Fat sheep and oxen from the town are led, With generous wine, and all-sustaining bread, Full hecatombs lay burning on the shore: The winds to heaven the curling vapours bore. Ungrateful offering to the immortal powers![197] Whose wrath hung heavy o’er the Trojan towers: Nor Priam nor his sons obtain’d their grace; Proud Troy they hated, and her guilty race.

He spake, and smiled severe, for well he knew The bleeding youth: Troy sadden’d at the view. But furious Acamas avenged his cause; As Promachus his slaughtered brother draws, He pierced his heart—“Such fate attends you all, Proud Argives! destined by our arms to fall. Not Troy alone, but haughty Greece, shall share The toils, the sorrows, and the wounds of war. Behold your Promachus deprived of breath, A victim owed to my brave brother’s death. Not unappeased he enters Pluto’s gate, Who leaves a brother to revenge his fate.”

“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.

So they, while down their cheeks the torrents roll; But fix’d remains the purpose of his soul; Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance Expects the hero’s terrible advance. So, roll’d up in his den, the swelling snake Beholds the traveller approach the brake; When fed with noxious herbs his turgid veins Have gather’d half the poisons of the plains; He burns, he stiffens with collected ire, And his red eyeballs glare with living fire. Beneath a turret, on his shield reclined, He stood, and question’d thus his mighty mind:[275]

“Why leave we not the fatal Trojan shore, And measure back the seas we cross’d before? The plague destroying whom the sword would spare, ’Tis time to save the few remains of war. But let some prophet, or some sacred sage, Explore the cause of great Apollo’s rage; Or learn the wasteful vengeance to remove By mystic dreams, for dreams descend from Jove.[53] If broken vows this heavy curse have laid, Let altars smoke, and hecatombs be paid. So Heaven, atoned, shall dying Greece restore, And Phœbus dart his burning shafts no more.”

At this agreed, the heavenly powers withdrew; Sage Helenus their secret counsels knew; Hector, inspired, he sought: to him address’d, Thus told the dictates of his sacred breast: “O son of Priam! let thy faithful ear Receive my words: thy friend and brother hear! Go forth persuasive, and a while engage The warring nations to suspend their rage; Then dare the boldest of the hostile train To mortal combat on the listed plain. For not this day shall end thy glorious date; The gods have spoke it, and their voice is fate.”

Then fierce Achilles, shouting to the skies, On Troy’s whole force with boundless fury flies. First falls Iphytion, at his army’s head; Brave was the chief, and brave the host he led; From great Otrynteus he derived his blood, His mother was a Nais, of the flood; Beneath the shades of Tmolus, crown’d with snow, From Hyde’s walls he ruled the lands below. Fierce as he springs, the sword his head divides: The parted visage falls on equal sides: With loud-resounding arms he strikes the plain; While thus Achilles glories o’er the slain:

Stung with new ardour, thus by heaven impell’d, He springs impetuous, and invades the field: O’er all the expanded plain the waters spread; Heaved on the bounding billows danced the dead, Floating ’midst scatter’d arms; while casques of gold And turn’d-up bucklers glitter’d as they roll’d. High o’er the surging tide, by leaps and bounds, He wades, and mounts; the parted wave resounds. Not a whole river stops the hero’s course, While Pallas fills him with immortal force. With equal rage, indignant Xanthus roars, And lifts his billows, and o’erwhelms his shores.

The monarch spoke; the words, with warmth address’d, To rigid justice steel’d his brother’s breast. Fierce from his knees the hapless chief he thrust; The monarch’s javelin stretch’d him in the dust, Then pressing with his foot his panting heart, Forth from the slain he tugg’d the reeking dart. Old Nestor saw, and roused the warrior’s rage; “Thus, heroes! thus the vigorous combat wage; No son of Mars descend, for servile gains, To touch the booty, while a foe remains. Behold yon glittering host, your future spoil! First gain the conquest, then reward the toil.”

“What thoughts, regardless chief! thy breast employ? Oh too forgetful of the friends of Troy! Those generous friends, who, from their country far, Breathe their brave souls out in another’s war. See! where in dust the great Sarpedon lies, In action valiant, and in council wise, Who guarded right, and kept his people free; To all his Lycians lost, and lost to thee! Stretch’d by Patroclus’ arm on yonder plains, O save from hostile rage his loved remains! Ah let not Greece his conquer’d trophies boast, Nor on his corse revenge her heroes lost!”

“Rise to the war! the insulting flood requires Thy wasteful arm! assemble all thy fires! While to their aid, by our command enjoin’d, Rush the swift eastern and the western wind: These from old ocean at my word shall blow, Pour the red torrent on the watery foe, Corses and arms to one bright ruin turn, And hissing rivers to their bottoms burn. Go, mighty in thy rage! display thy power, Drink the whole flood, the crackling trees devour. Scorch all the banks! and (till our voice reclaim) Exert the unwearied furies of the flame!”

The chief replied: “This time forbids to rest; The Trojan bands, by hostile fury press’d, Demand their Hector, and his arm require; The combat urges, and my soul’s on fire. Urge thou thy knight to march where glory calls, And timely join me, ere I leave the walls. Ere yet I mingle in the direful fray, My wife, my infant, claim a moment’s stay; This day (perhaps the last that sees me here) Demands a parting word, a tender tear: This day, some god who hates our Trojan land May vanquish Hector by a Grecian hand.”

Close to the limits of the trench and mound, The fiery coursers to their chariots bound The squires restrain’d: the foot, with those who wield The lighter arms, rush forward to the field. To second these, in close array combined, The squadrons spread their sable wings behind. Now shouts and tumults wake the tardy sun, As with the light the warriors’ toils begun. Even Jove, whose thunder spoke his wrath, distill’d Red drops of blood o’er all the fatal field;[220] The woes of men unwilling to survey, And all the slaughters that must stain the day.

This said, he rushes where the combat burns; Swift to his tent the Cretan king returns: From thence, two javelins glittering in his hand, And clad in arms that lighten’d all the strand, Fierce on the foe the impetuous hero drove, Like lightning bursting from the arm of Jove, Which to pale man the wrath of heaven declares, Or terrifies the offending world with wars; In streamy sparkles, kindling all the skies, From pole to pole the trail of glory flies: Thus his bright armour o’er the dazzled throng Gleam’d dreadful, as the monarch flash’d along.

Stern Hector waved his sword, and standing near, Where furious Ajax plied his ashen spear, Full on the lance a stroke so justly sped, That the broad falchion lopp’d its brazen head; His pointless spear the warrior shakes in vain; The brazen head falls sounding on the plain. Great Ajax saw, and own’d the hand divine; Confessing Jove, and trembling at the sign, Warn’d he retreats. Then swift from all sides pour The hissing brands; thick streams the fiery shower; O’er the high stern the curling volumes rise, And sheets of rolling smoke involve the skies.

So from the fold the unwilling lion parts, Forced by loud clamours, and a storm of darts; He flies indeed, but threatens as he flies, With heart indignant and retorted eyes. Now enter’d in the Spartan ranks, he turn’d His manly breast, and with new fury burn’d; O’er all the black battalions sent his view, And through the cloud the godlike Ajax knew; Where labouring on the left the warrior stood, All grim in arms, and cover’d o’er with blood; There breathing courage, where the god of day Had sunk each heart with terror and dismay.

His brother follows, and to vengeance warms The hardy Spartans, exercised in arms: Phares and Brysia’s valiant troops, and those Whom Lacedæmon’s lofty hills inclose; Or Messé’s towers for silver doves renown’d, Amyclæ, Laäs, Augia’s happy ground, And those whom Œtylos’ low walls contain, And Helos, on the margin of the main. These, o’er the bending ocean, Helen’s cause, In sixty ships with Menelaus draws: Eager and loud from man to man he flies, Revenge and fury flaming in his eyes; While vainly fond, in fancy oft he hears The fair one’s grief, and sees her falling tears.

“Bold was thy aim, and glorious was the prize, (Ulysses, with a scornful smile, replies,) Far other rulers those proud steeds demand, And scorn the guidance of a vulgar hand; Even great Achilles scarce their rage can tame, Achilles sprung from an immortal dame. But say, be faithful, and the truth recite! Where lies encamp’d the Trojan chief to-night? Where stand his coursers? in what quarter sleep Their other princes? tell what watch they keep: Say, since this conquest, what their counsels are; Or here to combat, from their city far, Or back to Ilion’s walls transfer the war?”

“What god, O Grecians! has your hearts dismay’d? Oh, turn to arms; ’tis Ajax claims your aid. This hour he stands the mark of hostile rage, And this the last brave battle he shall wage: Haste, join your forces; from the gloomy grave The warrior rescue, and your country save.” Thus urged the chief: a generous troop appears, Who spread their bucklers, and advance their spears, To guard their wounded friend: while thus they stand With pious care, great Ajax joins the band: Each takes new courage at the hero’s sight; The hero rallies, and renews the fight.

With that he gives command to Fear and Flight To join his rapid coursers for the fight: Then grim in arms, with hasty vengeance flies; Arms that reflect a radiance through the skies. And now had Jove, by bold rebellion driven, Discharged his wrath on half the host of heaven; But Pallas, springing through the bright abode, Starts from her azure throne to calm the god. Struck for the immortal race with timely fear, From frantic Mars she snatch’d the shield and spear; Then the huge helmet lifting from his head, Thus to the impetuous homicide she said:

“Have mercy on me, O my son! revere The words of age; attend a parent’s prayer! If ever thee in these fond arms I press’d, Or still’d thy infant clamours at this breast; Ah do not thus our helpless years forego, But, by our walls secured, repel the foe. Against his rage if singly thou proceed, Should’st thou, (but Heaven avert it!) should’st thou bleed, Nor must thy corse lie honour’d on the bier, Nor spouse, nor mother, grace thee with a tear! Far from our pious rites those dear remains Must feast the vultures on the naked plains.”

Stern Diomed with either Ajax stood, And great Ulysses, bathed in hostile blood. Embodied close, the labouring Grecian train The fiercest shock of charging hosts sustain. Unmoved and silent, the whole war they wait Serenely dreadful, and as fix’d as fate. So when the embattled clouds in dark array, Along the skies their gloomy lines display; When now the North his boisterous rage has spent, And peaceful sleeps the liquid element: The low-hung vapours, motionless and still, Rest on the summits of the shaded hill; Till the mass scatters as the winds arise, Dispersed and broken through the ruffled skies.

She said, and vanish’d. Hector, with a bound, Springs from his chariot on the trembling ground, In clanging arms: he grasps in either hand A pointed lance, and speeds from band to band; Revives their ardour, turns their steps from flight, And wakes anew the dying flames of fight. They stand to arms: the Greeks their onset dare, Condense their powers, and wait the coming war. New force, new spirit, to each breast returns; The fight renew’d with fiercer fury burns: The king leads on: all fix on him their eye, And learn from him to conquer, or to die.

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.”

But Ajax, glorying in his hardy deed, The well-arm’d Greeks to Agamemnon lead. A steer for sacrifice the king design’d, Of full five years, and of the nobler kind. The victim falls; they strip the smoking hide, The beast they quarter, and the joints divide; Then spread the tables, the repast prepare, Each takes his seat, and each receives his share. The king himself (an honorary sign) Before great Ajax placed the mighty chine.[185] When now the rage of hunger was removed, Nestor, in each persuasive art approved, The sage whose counsels long had sway’d the rest, In words like these his prudent thought express’d:

He said: then from the bank his javelin tore, And left the breathless warrior in his gore. The floating tides the bloody carcase lave, And beat against it, wave succeeding wave; Till, roll’d between the banks, it lies the food Of curling eels, and fishes of the flood. All scatter’d round the stream (their mightiest slain) The amazed Pæonians scour along the plain; He vents his fury on the flying crew, Thrasius, Astyplus, and Mnesus slew; Mydon, Thersilochus, with Ænius, fell; And numbers more his lance had plunged to hell, But from the bottom of his gulfs profound Scamander spoke; the shores return’d the sound.

He said; and, straining, heaved him off the ground With matchless strength; that time Ulysses found The strength to evade, and where the nerves combine His ankle struck: the giant fell supine; Ulysses, following, on his bosom lies; Shouts of applause run rattling through the skies. Ajax to lift Ulysses next essays; He barely stirr’d him, but he could not raise: His knee lock’d fast, the foe’s attempt denied; And grappling close, they tumbled side by side. Defiled with honourable dust they roll, Still breathing strife, and unsubdued of soul: Again they rage, again to combat rise; When great Achilles thus divides the prize:

“Forbear (the progeny of Jove replies) To calm thy fury I forsake the skies: Let great Achilles, to the gods resign’d, To reason yield the empire o’er his mind. By awful Juno this command is given; The king and you are both the care of heaven. The force of keen reproaches let him feel; But sheathe, obedient, thy revenging steel. For I pronounce (and trust a heavenly power) Thy injured honour has its fated hour, When the proud monarch shall thy arms implore, And bribe thy friendship with a boundless store. Then let revenge no longer bear the sway; Command thy passions, and the gods obey.”

Here on the monarch’s speech Achilles broke, And furious, thus, and interrupting spoke: “Tyrant, I well deserved thy galling chain, To live thy slave, and still to serve in vain, Should I submit to each unjust decree:— Command thy vassals, but command not me. Seize on Briseïs, whom the Grecians doom’d My prize of war, yet tamely see resumed; And seize secure; no more Achilles draws His conquering sword in any woman’s cause. The gods command me to forgive the past: But let this first invasion be the last: For know, thy blood, when next thou darest invade, Shall stream in vengeance on my reeking blade.”

His lance bold Thoas at the conqueror sent, Deep in his breast above the pap it went, Amid the lungs was fix’d the winged wood, And quivering in his heaving bosom stood: Till from the dying chief, approaching near, The Ætolian warrior tugg’d his weighty spear: Then sudden waved his flaming falchion round, And gash’d his belly with a ghastly wound; The corpse now breathless on the bloody plain, To spoil his arms the victor strove in vain; The Thracian bands against the victor press’d, A grove of lances glitter’d at his breast. Stern Thoas, glaring with revengeful eyes, In sullen fury slowly quits the prize.

With shame repulsed, with grief and fury driven, The frantic Asius thus accuses Heaven: “In powers immortal who shall now believe? Can those too flatter, and can Jove deceive? What man could doubt but Troy’s victorious power Should humble Greece, and this her fatal hour? But like when wasps from hollow crannies drive, To guard the entrance of their common hive, Darkening the rock, while with unwearied wings They strike the assailants, and infix their stings; A race determined, that to death contend: So fierce these Greeks their last retreats defend. Gods! shall two warriors only guard their gates, Repel an army, and defraud the fates?”

Thus breathing death, in terrible array, The close compacted legions urged their way: Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy; Troy charged the first, and Hector first of Troy. As from some mountain’s craggy forehead torn, A rock’s round fragment flies, with fury borne, (Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends,) Precipitate the ponderous mass descends: From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds; At every shock the crackling wood resounds; Still gathering force, it smokes; and urged amain, Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain: There stops—so Hector. Their whole force he proved,[230] Resistless when he raged, and, when he stopp’d, unmoved.

Then with his sable brow he gave the nod That seals his word; the sanction of the god. The stubborn arms (by Jove’s command disposed) Conform’d spontaneous, and around him closed: Fill’d with the god, enlarged his members grew, Through all his veins a sudden vigour flew, The blood in brisker tides began to roll, And Mars himself came rushing on his soul. Exhorting loud through all the field he strode, And look’d, and moved, Achilles, or a god. Now Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, he inspires, Now Phorcys, Chromius, and Hippothous fires; The great Thersilochus like fury found, Asteropaeus kindled at the sound, And Ennomus, in augury renown’d.

Oilean Ajax first the voice obey’d, Swift was his pace, and ready was his aid: Next him Idomeneus, more slow with age, And Merion, burning with a hero’s rage. The long-succeeding numbers who can name? But all were Greeks, and eager all for fame. Fierce to the charge great Hector led the throng; Whole Troy embodied rush’d with shouts along. Thus, when a mountain billow foams and raves, Where some swoln river disembogues his waves, Full in the mouth is stopp’d the rushing tide, The boiling ocean works from side to side, The river trembles to his utmost shore, And distant rocks re-bellow to the roar.

The next, though distant, Menelaus succeeds; While thus young Nestor animates his steeds: “Now, now, my generous pair, exert your force; Not that we hope to match Tydides’ horse, Since great Minerva wings their rapid way, And gives their lord the honours of the day; But reach Atrides! shall his mare outgo Your swiftness? vanquish’d by a female foe? Through your neglect, if lagging on the plain The last ignoble gift be all we gain, No more shall Nestor’s hand your food supply, The old man’s fury rises, and ye die. Haste then: yon narrow road, before our sight, Presents the occasion, could we use it right.”

Full on the sire the goddess of the skies Roll’d the large orbs of her majestic eyes, And thus return’d:—“Austere Saturnius, say, From whence this wrath, or who controls thy sway? Thy boundless will, for me, remains in force, And all thy counsels take the destined course. But ’tis for Greece I fear: for late was seen, In close consult, the silver-footed queen. Jove to his Thetis nothing could deny, Nor was the signal vain that shook the sky. What fatal favour has the goddess won, To grace her fierce, inexorable son? Perhaps in Grecian blood to drench the plain, And glut his vengeance with my people slain.”

Thus prayed the sage: the eternal gave consent, And peals of thunder shook the firmament. Presumptuous Troy mistook the accepting sign, And catch’d new fury at the voice divine. As, when black tempests mix the seas and skies, The roaring deeps in watery mountains rise, Above the sides of some tall ship ascend, Its womb they deluge, and its ribs they rend: Thus loudly roaring, and o’erpowering all, Mount the thick Trojans up the Grecian wall; Legions on legions from each side arise: Thick sound the keels; the storm of arrows flies. Fierce on the ships above, the cars below, These wield the mace, and those the javelin throw.

Achilles speeds from tent to tent, and warms His hardy Myrmidons to blood and arms. All breathing death, around the chief they stand, A grim, terrific, formidable band: Grim as voracious wolves, that seek the springs[244] When scalding thirst their burning bowels wrings; When some tall stag, fresh-slaughtered in the wood, Has drench’d their wide insatiate throats with blood, To the black fount they rush, a hideous throng, With paunch distended, and with lolling tongue, Fire fills their eye, their black jaws belch the gore, And gorged with slaughter still they thirst for more. Like furious, rush’d the Myrmidonian crew, Such their dread strength, and such their deathful view.

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

These boastful words provoked the raging god; With fury swells the violated flood. What means divine may yet the power employ To check Achilles, and to rescue Troy? Meanwhile the hero springs in arms, to dare The great Asteropeus to mortal war; The son of Pelagon, whose lofty line Flows from the source of Axius, stream divine! (Fair Peribaea’s love the god had crown’d, With all his refluent waters circled round:) On him Achilles rush’d; he fearless stood, And shook two spears, advancing from the flood; The flood impell’d him, on Pelides’ head To avenge his waters choked with heaps of dead. Near as they drew, Achilles thus began:

must fall, And stain the pavement of my regal hall; Where famish’d dogs, late guardians of my door, Shall lick their mangled master’s spatter’d gore. Yet for my sons I thank ye, gods! ’tis well; Well have they perish’d, for in fight they fell. Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best, Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast. But when the fates, in fulness of their rage, Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age, In dust the reverend lineaments deform, And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm: This, this is misery! the last, the worse, That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!”

So spoke the god who darts celestial fires: He dreads his fury, and some steps retires. Then Phœbus bore the chief of Venus’ race To Troy’s high fane, and to his holy place; Latona there and Phoebe heal’d the wound, With vigour arm’d him, and with glory crown’d. This done, the patron of the silver bow A phantom raised, the same in shape and show With great Æneas; such the form he bore, And such in fight the radiant arms he wore. Around the spectre bloody wars are waged, And Greece and Troy with clashing shields engaged. Meantime on Ilion’s tower Apollo stood, And calling Mars, thus urged the raging god: