Iliad on Compassion

He said: compassion touch’d the hero’s heart He stood, suspended with the lifted dart: As pity pleaded for his vanquish’d prize, Stern Agamemnon swift to vengeance flies, And, furious, thus: “Oh impotent of mind![164] Shall these, shall these Atrides’ mercy find? Well hast thou known proud Troy’s perfidious land, And well her natives merit at thy hand! Not one of all the race, nor sex, nor age, Shall save a Trojan from our boundless rage: Ilion shall perish whole, and bury all; Her babes, her infants at the breast, shall fall;[165] A dreadful lesson of exampled fate, To warn the nations, and to curb the great!”

“Good heaven! what active feats yon artist shows! What skilful divers are our Phrygian foes! Mark with what ease they sink into the sand! Pity that all their practice is by land!”

Sighing he said: his grief the heroes join’d, Each stole a tear for what he left behind. Their mingled grief the sire of heaven survey’d, And thus with pity to his blue-eyed maid:

“Thy well-known captive, great Achilles! see, Once more Lycaon trembles at thy knee. Some pity to a suppliant’s name afford, Who shared the gifts of Ceres at thy board; Whom late thy conquering arm to Lemnos bore, Far from his father, friends, and native shore; A hundred oxen were his price that day, Now sums immense thy mercy shall repay. Scarce respited from woes I yet appear, And scarce twelve morning suns have seen me here; Lo! Jove again submits me to thy hands, Again, her victim cruel Fate demands! I sprang from Priam, and Laothoe fair, (Old Altes’ daughter, and Lelegia’s heir; Who held in Pedasus his famed abode, And ruled the fields where silver Satnio flow’d,) Two sons (alas! unhappy sons) she bore; For ah! one spear shall drink each brother’s gore, And I succeed to slaughter’d Polydore. How from that arm of terror shall I fly? Some demon urges! ’tis my doom to die! If ever yet soft pity touch’d thy mind, Ah! think not me too much of Hector’s kind! Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath, With his, who wrought thy loved Patroclus’ death.”

“Thy words, that speak benevolence of mind, Are true, my son! (the godlike sire rejoin’d:) Great are my hazards; but the gods survey My steps, and send thee, guardian of my way. Hail, and be bless’d! For scarce of mortal kind Appear thy form, thy feature, and thy mind.”

So warr’d both armies on the ensanguined shore, While the black vessels smoked with human gore. Meantime Patroclus to Achilles flies; The streaming tears fall copious from his eyes. Not faster, trickling to the plains below, From the tall rock the sable waters flow. Divine Pelides, with compassion moved. Thus spoke, indulgent, to his best beloved:[243]

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hush’d to repose, and with a smile survey’d. The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, She mingled with a smile a tender tear. The soften’d chief with kind compassion view’d, And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:

“O first and greatest! God, by gods adored We own thy might, our father and our lord! But, ah! permit to pity human state: If not to help, at least lament their fate. From fields forbidden we submiss refrain, With arms unaiding mourn our Argives slain; Yet grant my counsels still their breasts may move, Or all must perish in the wrath of Jove.”

To calm their passion with the words of age, Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage, Experienced Nestor, in persuasion skill’d; Words, sweet as honey, from his lips distill’d:[58] Two generations now had pass’d away, Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway; Two ages o’er his native realm he reign’d, And now the example of the third remain’d. All view’d with awe the venerable man; Who thus with mild benevolence began:—

Achilles in his ships at distance lay, Nor knew the fatal fortune of the day; He, yet unconscious of Patroclus’ fall, In dust extended under Ilion’s wall, Expects him glorious from the conquered plain, And for his wish’d return prepares in vain; Though well he knew, to make proud Ilion bend Was more than heaven had destined to his friend. Perhaps to him: this Thetis had reveal’d; The rest, in pity to her son, conceal’d.

To whom the king: “O favour’d of the skies! Here let me grow to earth! since Hector lies On the bare beach deprived of obsequies. O give me Hector! to my eyes restore His corse, and take the gifts: I ask no more. Thou, as thou may’st, these boundless stores enjoy; Safe may’st thou sail, and turn thy wrath from Troy; So shall thy pity and forbearance give A weak old man to see the light and live!”

“By every oath that powers immortal ties, The foodful earth and all-infolding skies; By thy black waves, tremendous Styx! that flow Through the drear realms of gliding ghosts below; By the dread honours of thy sacred head, And that unbroken vow, our virgin bed! Not by my arts the ruler of the main Steeps Troy in blood, and ranges round the plain: By his own ardour, his own pity sway’d, To help his Greeks, he fought and disobey’d: Else had thy Juno better counsels given, And taught submission to the sire of heaven.”

These words soft pity in the chief inspire, Touch’d with the dear remembrance of his sire. Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay) The old man’s cheek he gently turn’d away. Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe; And now the mingled tides together flow: This low on earth, that gently bending o’er; A father one, and one a son deplore: But great Achilles different passions rend, And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend. The infectious softness through the heroes ran; One universal solemn shower began; They bore as heroes, but they felt as man.

Thus raged both armies like conflicting fires, While Nestor’s chariot far from fight retires: His coursers steep’d in sweat, and stain’d with gore, The Greeks’ preserver, great Machaon, bore. That hour Achilles, from the topmost height Of his proud fleet, o’erlook’d the fields of fight; His feasted eyes beheld around the plain The Grecian rout, the slaying, and the slain. His friend Machaon singled from the rest, A transient pity touch’d his vengeful breast. Straight to Menoetius’ much-loved son he sent: Graceful as Mars, Patroclus quits his tent; In evil hour! Then fate decreed his doom, And fix’d the date of all his woes to come.

This touch’d his generous heart, and from the tent Along the shore with hasty strides he went; Soon as he came, where, on the crowded strand, The public mart and courts of justice stand, Where the tall fleet of great Ulysses lies, And altars to the guardian gods arise; There, sad, he met the brave Euaemon’s son, Large painful drops from all his members run; An arrow’s head yet rooted in his wound, The sable blood in circles mark’d the ground. As faintly reeling he confess’d the smart, Weak was his pace, but dauntless was his heart. Divine compassion touch’d Patroclus’ breast, Who, sighing, thus his bleeding friend address’d:

“Griev’st thou for me, or for my martial band? Or come sad tidings from our native land? Our fathers live (our first, most tender care), Thy good Menoetius breathes the vital air, And hoary Peleus yet extends his days; Pleased in their age to hear their children’s praise. Or may some meaner cause thy pity claim? Perhaps yon relics of the Grecian name, Doom’d in their ships to sink by fire and sword, And pay the forfeit of their haughty lord? Whate’er the cause, reveal thy secret care, And speak those sorrows which a friend would share.” A sigh that instant from his bosom broke, Another follow’d, and Patroclus spoke:

“Let Greece at length with pity touch thy breast, Thyself a Greek; and, once, of Greeks the best! Lo! every chief that might her fate prevent, Lies pierced with wounds, and bleeding in his tent: Eurypylus, Tydides, Atreus’ son, And wise Ulysses, at the navy groan, More for their country’s wounds than for their own. Their pain soft arts of pharmacy can ease, Thy breast alone no lenitives appease. May never rage like thine my soul enslave, O great in vain! unprofitably brave! Thy country slighted in her last distress, What friend, what man, from thee shall hope redress? No—men unborn, and ages yet behind, Shall curse that fierce, that unforgiving mind.

“Lie there, Lycaon! let the fish surround Thy bloated corpse, and suck thy gory wound: There no sad mother shall thy funerals weep, But swift Scamander roll thee to the deep, Whose every wave some watery monster brings, To feast unpunish’d on the fat of kings. So perish Troy, and all the Trojan line! Such ruin theirs, and such compassion mine. What boots ye now Scamander’s worshipp’d stream, His earthly honours, and immortal name? In vain your immolated bulls are slain, Your living coursers glut his gulfs in vain! Thus he rewards you, with this bitter fate; Thus, till the Grecian vengeance is complete: Thus is atoned Patroclus’ honour’d shade, And the short absence of Achilles paid.”

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

He said, and, rising, chose the victim ewe With silver fleece, which his attendants slew. The limbs they sever from the reeking hide, With skill prepare them, and in parts divide: Each on the coals the separate morsels lays, And, hasty, snatches from the rising blaze. With bread the glittering canisters they load, Which round the board Automedon bestow’d. The chief himself to each his portion placed, And each indulging shared in sweet repast. When now the rage of hunger was repress’d, The wondering hero eyes his royal guest: No less the royal guest the hero eyes, His godlike aspect and majestic size; Here, youthful grace and noble fire engage; And there, the mild benevolence of age. Thus gazing long, the silence neither broke, (A solemn scene!) at length the father spoke:

Paris from far the moving sight beheld, With pity soften’d and with fury swell’d: His honour’d host, a youth of matchless grace, And loved of all the Paphlagonian race! With his full strength he bent his angry bow, And wing’d the feather’d vengeance at the foe. A chief there was, the brave Euchenor named, For riches much, and more for virtue famed. Who held his seat in Corinth’s stately town; Polydus’ son, a seer of old renown. Oft had the father told his early doom, By arms abroad, or slow disease at home: He climb’d his vessel, prodigal of breath, And chose the certain glorious path to death. Beneath his ear the pointed arrow went; The soul came issuing at the narrow vent: His limbs, unnerved, drop useless on the ground, And everlasting darkness shades him round.

“You tempt me, father, and with pity touch: On this sad subject you inquire too much. Oft have these eyes that godlike Hector view’d In glorious fight, with Grecian blood embrued: I saw him when, like Jove, his flames he toss’d On thousand ships, and wither’d half a host: I saw, but help’d not: stern Achilles’ ire Forbade assistance, and enjoy’d the fire. For him I serve, of Myrmidonian race; One ship convey’d us from our native place; Polyctor is my sire, an honour’d name, Old like thyself, and not unknown to fame; Of seven his sons, by whom the lot was cast To serve our prince, it fell on me, the last. To watch this quarter, my adventure falls: For with the morn the Greeks attack your walls; Sleepless they sit, impatient to engage, And scarce their rulers check their martial rage.”

Him, proud in triumph, glittering from afar, The god whose thunder rends the troubled air Beheld with pity; as apart he sat, And, conscious, look’d through all the scene of fate. He shook the sacred honours of his head; Olympus trembled, and the godhead said; “Ah, wretched man! unmindful of thy end! A moment’s glory; and what fates attend! In heavenly panoply divinely bright Thou stand’st, and armies tremble at thy sight, As at Achilles’ self! beneath thy dart Lies slain the great Achilles’ dearer part. Thou from the mighty dead those arms hast torn, Which once the greatest of mankind had worn. Yet live! I give thee one illustrious day, A blaze of glory ere thou fad’st away. For ah! no more Andromache shall come With joyful tears to welcome Hector home; No more officious, with endearing charms, From thy tired limbs unbrace Pelides’ arms!”

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

The sons of Dares first the combat sought, A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault; In Vulcan’s fane the father’s days were led, The sons to toils of glorious battle bred; These singled from their troops the fight maintain, These, from their steeds, Tydides on the plain. Fierce for renown the brother-chiefs draw near, And first bold Phegeus cast his sounding spear, Which o’er the warrior’s shoulder took its course, And spent in empty air its erring force. Not so, Tydides, flew thy lance in vain, But pierced his breast, and stretch’d him on the plain. Seized with unusual fear, Idæus fled, Left the rich chariot, and his brother dead. And had not Vulcan lent celestial aid, He too had sunk to death’s eternal shade; But in a smoky cloud the god of fire Preserved the son, in pity to the sire. The steeds and chariot, to the navy led, Increased the spoils of gallant Diomed.

Æneas heard, and for a space resign’d To tender pity all his manly mind; Then rising in his rage, he burns to fight: The Greek awaits him with collected might. As the fell boar, on some rough mountain’s head, Arm’d with wild terrors, and to slaughter bred, When the loud rustics rise, and shout from far, Attends the tumult, and expects the war; O’er his bent back the bristly horrors rise; Fires stream in lightning from his sanguine eyes, His foaming tusks both dogs and men engage; But most his hunters rouse his mighty rage: So stood Idomeneus, his javelin shook, And met the Trojan with a lowering look. Antilochus, Deipyrus, were near, The youthful offspring of the god of war, Merion, and Aphareus, in field renown’d: To these the warrior sent his voice around. “Fellows in arms! your timely aid unite; Lo, great Æneas rushes to the fight: Sprung from a god, and more than mortal bold; He fresh in youth, and I in arms grown old. Else should this hand, this hour decide the strife, The great dispute, of glory, or of life.”

“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!

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

The gods deliberate about the redemption of Hector’s body. Jupiter sends Thetis to Achilles, to dispose him for the restoring it, and Iris to Priam, to encourage him to go in person and treat for it. The old king, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his queen, makes ready for the journey, to which he is encouraged by an omen from Jupiter. He sets forth in his chariot, with a waggon loaded with presents, under the charge of Idæus the herald. Mercury descends in the shape of a young man, and conducts him to the pavilion of Achilles. Their conversation on the way. Priam finds Achilles at his table, casts himself at his feet, and begs for the body of his son: Achilles, moved with compassion, grants his request, detains him one night in his tent, and the next morning sends him home with the body: the Trojans run out to meet him. The lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba, and Helen, with the solemnities of the funeral. The time of twelve days is employed in this book, while the body of Hector lies in the tent of Achilles; and as many more are spent in the truce allowed for his interment. The scene is partly in Achilles’ camp, and partly in Troy.

Jove heard his prayer, and from the throne on high, Despatch’d his bird, celestial augury! The swift-wing’d chaser of the feather’d game, And known to gods by Percnos’ lofty name. Wide as appears some palace-gate display’d, So broad, his pinions stretch’d their ample shade, As stooping dexter with resounding wings The imperial bird descends in airy rings. A dawn of joy in every face appears: The mourning matron dries her timorous tears: Swift on his car the impatient monarch sprung; The brazen portal in his passage rung; The mules preceding draw the loaded wain, Charged with the gifts: Idæus holds the rein: The king himself his gentle steeds controls, And through surrounding friends the chariot rolls. On his slow wheels the following people wait, Mourn at each step, and give him up to fate; With hands uplifted eye him as he pass’d, And gaze upon him as they gazed their last. Now forward fares the father on his way, Through the lone fields, and back to Ilion they. Great Jove beheld him as he cross’d the plain, And felt the woes of miserable man. Then thus to Hermes: “Thou whose constant cares Still succour mortals, and attend their prayers; Behold an object to thy charge consign’d: If ever pity touch’d thee for mankind, Go, guard the sire: the observing foe prevent, And safe conduct him to Achilles’ tent.”

“Think’st thou with me? fair empress of the skies! (The immortal father with a smile replies;) Then soon the haughty sea-god shall obey, Nor dare to act but when we point the way. If truth inspires thy tongue, proclaim our will To yon bright synod on the Olympian hill; Our high decree let various Iris know, And call the god that bears the silver bow. Let her descend, and from the embattled plain Command the sea-god to his watery reign: While Phœbus hastes great Hector to prepare To rise afresh, and once more wake the war: His labouring bosom re-inspires with breath, And calls his senses from the verge of death. Greece chased by Troy, even to Achilles’ fleet, Shall fall by thousands at the hero’s feet. He, not untouch’d with pity, to the plain Shall send Patroclus, but shall send in vain. What youths he slaughters under Ilion’s walls! Even my loved son, divine Sarpedon, falls! Vanquish’d at last by Hector’s lance he lies. Then, nor till then, shall great Achilles rise: And lo! that instant, godlike Hector dies. From that great hour the war’s whole fortune turns, Pallas assists, and lofty Ilion burns. Not till that day shall Jove relax his rage, Nor one of all the heavenly host engage In aid of Greece. The promise of a god I gave, and seal’d it with the almighty nod, Achilles’ glory to the stars to raise; Such was our word, and fate the word obeys.”

“Wisely and well, my son, thy words have proved A senior honour’d, and a friend beloved! Too true it is, deserted of my strength, These wither’d arms and limbs have fail’d at length. Oh! had I now that force I felt of yore, Known through Buprasium and the Pylian shore! Victorious then in every solemn game, Ordain’d to Amarynces’ mighty name; The brave Epeians gave my glory way, Ætolians, Pylians, all resign’d the day. I quell’d Clytomedes in fights of hand, And backward hurl’d Ancæus on the sand, Surpass’d Iphyclus in the swift career, Phyleus and Polydorus with the spear. The sons of Actor won the prize of horse, But won by numbers, not by art or force: For the famed twins, impatient to survey Prize after prize by Nestor borne away, Sprung to their car; and with united pains One lash’d the coursers, while one ruled the reins. Such once I was! Now to these tasks succeeds A younger race, that emulate our deeds: I yield, alas! (to age who must not yield?) Though once the foremost hero of the field. Go thou, my son! by generous friendship led, With martial honours decorate the dead: While pleased I take the gift thy hands present, (Pledge of benevolence, and kind intent,) Rejoiced, of all the numerous Greeks, to see Not one but honours sacred age and me: Those due distinctions thou so well canst pay, May the just gods return another day!”

To whom the mournful mother thus replies: (The crystal drops stood trembling in her eyes:) “O Vulcan! say, was ever breast divine So pierced with sorrows, so o’erwhelm’d as mine? Of all the goddesses, did Jove prepare For Thetis only such a weight of care? I, only I, of all the watery race By force subjected to a man’s embrace, Who, sinking now with age and sorrow, pays The mighty fine imposed on length of days. Sprung from my bed, a godlike hero came, The bravest sure that ever bore the name; Like some fair plant beneath my careful hand He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land! To Troy I sent him! but his native shore Never, ah never, shall receive him more; (Even while he lives, he wastes with secret woe;) Nor I, a goddess, can retard the blow! Robb’d of the prize the Grecian suffrage gave, The king of nations forced his royal slave: For this he grieved; and, till the Greeks oppress’d Required his arm, he sorrow’d unredress’d. Large gifts they promise, and their elders send; In vain—he arms not, but permits his friend His arms, his steeds, his forces to employ: He marches, combats, almost conquers Troy: Then slain by Phœbus (Hector had the name) At once resigns his armour, life, and fame. But thou, in pity, by my prayer be won: Grace with immortal arms this short-lived son, And to the field in martial pomp restore, To shine with glory, till he shines no more!”

He said, then took the chariot at a bound, And snatch’d the reins, and whirl’d the lash around: Before the inspiring god that urged them on, The coursers fly with spirit not their own. And now they reach’d the naval walls, and found The guards repasting, while the bowls go round; On these the virtue of his wand he tries, And pours deep slumber on their watchful eyes: Then heaved the massy gates, removed the bars, And o’er the trenches led the rolling cars. Unseen, through all the hostile camp they went, And now approach’d Pelides’ lofty tent. On firs the roof was raised, and cover’d o’er With reeds collected from the marshy shore; And, fenced with palisades, a hall of state, (The work of soldiers,) where the hero sat: Large was the door, whose well-compacted strength A solid pine-tree barr’d of wondrous length: Scarce three strong Greeks could lift its mighty weight, But great Achilles singly closed the gate. This Hermes (such the power of gods) set wide; Then swift alighted the celestial guide, And thus reveal’d—”Hear, prince! and understand Thou ow’st thy guidance to no mortal hand: Hermes I am, descended from above, The king of arts, the messenger of Jove, Farewell: to shun Achilles’ sight I fly; Uncommon are such favours of the sky, Nor stand confess’d to frail mortality. Now fearless enter, and prefer thy prayers; Adjure him by his father’s silver hairs, His son, his mother! urge him to bestow Whatever pity that stern heart can know.”

The mother first beheld with sad survey; She rent her tresses, venerable grey, And cast, far off, the regal veils away. With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans, While the sad father answers groans with groans, Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o’erflow, And the whole city wears one face of woe: No less than if the rage of hostile fires, From her foundations curling to her spires, O’er the proud citadel at length should rise, And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies. The wretched monarch of the falling state, Distracted, presses to the Dardan gate. Scarce the whole people stop his desperate course, While strong affliction gives the feeble force: Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro, In all the raging impotence of woe. At length he roll’d in dust, and thus begun, Imploring all, and naming one by one: “Ah! let me, let me go where sorrow calls; I, only I, will issue from your walls (Guide or companion, friends! I ask ye none), And bow before the murderer of my son. My grief perhaps his pity may engage; Perhaps at least he may respect my age. He has a father too; a man like me; One, not exempt from age and misery (Vigorous no more, as when his young embrace Begot this pest of me, and all my race). How many valiant sons, in early bloom, Has that cursed hand sent headlong to the tomb! Thee, Hector! last: thy loss (divinely brave) Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave. O had thy gentle spirit pass’d in peace, The son expiring in the sire’s embrace, While both thy parents wept the fatal hour, And, bending o’er thee, mix’d the tender shower! Some comfort that had been, some sad relief, To melt in full satiety of grief!”

“’Tis now no season for these kind delays; The great Achilles with impatience stays. To great Achilles this respect I owe; Who asks, what hero, wounded by the foe, Was borne from combat by thy foaming steeds? With grief I see the great Machaon bleeds. This to report, my hasty course I bend; Thou know’st the fiery temper of my friend.” “Can then the sons of Greece (the sage rejoin’d) Excite compassion in Achilles’ mind? Seeks he the sorrows of our host to know? This is not half the story of our woe. Tell him, not great Machaon bleeds alone, Our bravest heroes in the navy groan, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Diomed, And stern Eurypylus, already bleed. But, ah! what flattering hopes I entertain! Achilles heeds not, but derides our pain: Even till the flames consume our fleet he stays, And waits the rising of the fatal blaze. Chief after chief the raging foe destroys; Calm he looks on, and every death enjoys. Now the slow course of all-impairing time Unstrings my nerves, and ends my manly prime; Oh! had I still that strength my youth possess’d, When this bold arm the Epeian powers oppress’d, The bulls of Elis in glad triumph led, And stretch’d the great Itymonaeus dead! Then from my fury fled the trembling swains, And ours was all the plunder of the plains: Fifty white flocks, full fifty herds of swine, As many goats, as many lowing kine: And thrice the number of unrivall’d steeds, All teeming females, and of generous breeds. These, as my first essay of arms, I won; Old Neleus gloried in his conquering son. Thus Elis forced, her long arrears restored, And shares were parted to each Pylian lord. The state of Pyle was sunk to last despair, When the proud Elians first commenced the war: For Neleus’ sons Alcides’ rage had slain; Of twelve bold brothers, I alone remain! Oppress’d, we arm’d; and now this conquest gain’d, My sire three hundred chosen sheep obtain’d.

By love to thee his bounties I repaid, And early wisdom to thy soul convey’d: Great as thou art, my lessons made thee brave: A child I took thee, but a hero gave. Thy infant breast a like affection show’d; Still in my arms (an ever-pleasing load) Or at my knee, by Phœnix wouldst thou stand; No food was grateful but from Phœnix’ hand.[211] I pass my watchings o’er thy helpless years, The tender labours, the compliant cares, The gods (I thought) reversed their hard decree, And Phœnix felt a father’s joys in thee: Thy growing virtues justified my cares, And promised comfort to my silver hairs. Now be thy rage, thy fatal rage, resign’d; A cruel heart ill suits a manly mind: The gods (the only great, and only wise) Are moved by offerings, vows, and sacrifice; Offending man their high compassion wins, And daily prayers atone for daily sins. Prayers are Jove’s daughters, of celestial race, Lame are their feet, and wrinkled is their face; With humble mien, and with dejected eyes, Constant they follow, where injustice flies. Injustice swift, erect, and unconfined, Sweeps the wide earth, and tramples o’er mankind, While Prayers, to heal her wrongs, move slow behind. Who hears these daughters of almighty Jove, For him they mediate to the throne above: When man rejects the humble suit they make, The sire revenges for the daughters’ sake; From Jove commission’d, fierce injustice then Descends to punish unrelenting men. O let not headlong passion bear the sway These reconciling goddesses obey: Due honours to the seed of Jove belong, Due honours calm the fierce, and bend the strong. Were these not paid thee by the terms we bring, Were rage still harbour’d in the haughty king; Nor Greece nor all her fortunes should engage Thy friend to plead against so just a rage. But since what honour asks the general sends, And sends by those whom most thy heart commends; The best and noblest of the Grecian train; Permit not these to sue, and sue in vain!

“Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone; Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son! Methinks already I behold thee slain, And stretch’d beneath that fury of the plain. Implacable Achilles! might’st thou be To all the gods no dearer than to me! Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore, And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore. How many valiant sons I late enjoy’d, Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy’d: Or, worse than slaughtered, sold in distant isles To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils. Two, while I speak, my eyes in vain explore, Two from one mother sprung, my Polydore, And loved Lycaon; now perhaps no more! Oh! if in yonder hostile camp they live, What heaps of gold, what treasures would I give! (Their grandsire’s wealth, by right of birth their own, Consign’d his daughter with Lelegia’s throne:) But if (which Heaven forbid) already lost, All pale they wander on the Stygian coast; What sorrows then must their sad mother know, What anguish I? unutterable woe! Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me, Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee. Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall; And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all! Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save. Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs; While yet thy father feels the woes he bears, Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage (All trembling on the verge of helpless age) Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain! The bitter dregs of fortune’s cup to drain: To fill with scenes of death his closing eyes, And number all his days by miseries! My heroes slain, my bridal bed o’erturn’d, My daughters ravish’d, and my city burn’d, My bleeding infants dash’d against the floor; These I have yet to see, perhaps yet more! Perhaps even I, reserved by angry fate, The last sad relic of my ruin’d state, (Dire pomp of sovereign wretchedness!)

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

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

’Twas thus the general voice the hero praised, Who, rising, high the imperial sceptre raised: The blue-eyed Pallas, his celestial friend, (In form a herald,) bade the crowds attend. The expecting crowds in still attention hung, To hear the wisdom of his heavenly tongue. Then deeply thoughtful, pausing ere he spoke, His silence thus the prudent hero broke:

“O great in action, and in council wise! With ours, thy care and ardour are the same, Nor need I to commend, nor aught to blame. Sage as thou art, and learn’d in human kind, Forgive the transport of a martial mind. Haste to the fight, secure of just amends; The gods that make, shall keep the worthy, friends.”

Thus he: the stern Achilles thus replied: “My second father, and my reverend guide: Thy friend, believe me, no such gifts demands, And asks no honours from a mortal’s hands; Jove honours me, and favours my designs; His pleasure guides me, and his will confines; And here I stay (if such his high behest) While life’s warm spirit beats within my breast. Yet hear one word, and lodge it in thy heart: No more molest me on Atrides’ part: Is it for him these tears are taught to flow, For him these sorrows? for my mortal foe? A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows; One should our interests and our passions be; My friend must hate the man that injures me. Do this, my Phœnix, ’tis a generous part; And share my realms, my honours, and my heart. Let these return: our voyage, or our stay, Rest undetermined till the dawning day.”

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

“Still may our souls, O generous youth! agree ’Tis now Atrides’ turn to yield to thee. Rash heat perhaps a moment might control, Not break, the settled temper of thy soul. Not but (my friend) ’tis still the wiser way To waive contention with superior sway; For ah! how few, who should like thee offend, Like thee, have talents to regain the friend! To plead indulgence, and thy fault atone, Suffice thy father’s merit and thy own: Generous alike, for me, the sire and son Have greatly suffer’d, and have greatly done. I yield; that all may know, my soul can bend, Nor is my pride preferr’d before my friend.”

“Your noble vigour, O my friends, restrain; Nor weary out your generous strength in vain. Ye both have won: let others who excel, Now prove that prowess you have proved so well.”

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