Iliad on Death

He, deeply groaning—“To this cureless grief, Not even the Thunderer’s favour brings relief. Patroclus—Ah!—say, goddess, can I boast A pleasure now? revenge itself is lost; Patroclus, loved of all my martial train, Beyond mankind, beyond myself is slain! Lost are those arms the gods themselves bestow’d On Peleus; Hector bears the glorious load. Cursed be that day, when all the powers above Thy charms submitted to a mortal love: O hadst thou still, a sister of the main, Pursued the pleasures of the watery reign: And happier Peleus, less ambitious, led A mortal beauty to his equal bed! Ere the sad fruit of thy unhappy womb Had caused such sorrows past, and woes to come. For soon, alas! that wretched offspring slain, New woes, new sorrows, shall create again. ’Tis not in fate the alternate now to give; Patroclus dead, Achilles hates to live. Let me revenge it on proud Hector’s heart, Let his last spirit smoke upon my dart; On these conditions will I breathe: till then, I blush to walk among the race of men.”

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.

Thus to bold Hector spoke the son of Jove, And breathed immortal ardour from above. As when the pamper’d steed, with reins unbound, Breaks from his stall, and pours along the ground; With ample strokes he rushes to the flood, To bathe his sides, and cool his fiery blood; His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevell’d o’er his shoulders flies: He snuffs the females in the well-known plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again: Urged by the voice divine, thus Hector flew, Full of the god; and all his hosts pursue. As when the force of men and dogs combined Invade the mountain goat, or branching hind; Far from the hunter’s rage secure they lie Close in the rock, (not fated yet to die) When lo! a lion shoots across the way! They fly: at once the chasers and the prey. So Greece, that late in conquering troops pursued, And mark’d their progress through the ranks in blood, Soon as they see the furious chief appear, Forget to vanquish, and consent to fear.

The sons of Merops shone amidst the war; Towering they rode in one refulgent car: In deep prophetic arts their father skill’d, Had warn’d his children from the Trojan field. Fate urged them on: the father warn’d in vain; They rush’d to fight, and perish’d on the plain; Their breasts no more the vital spirit warms; The stern Tydides strips their shining arms. Hypirochus by great Ulysses dies, And rich Hippodamus becomes his prize. Great Jove from Ide with slaughter fills his sight, And level hangs the doubtful scale of fight. By Tydeus’ lance Agastrophus was slain, The far-famed hero of Pæonian strain; Wing’d with his fears, on foot he strove to fly, His steeds too distant, and the foe too nigh: Through broken orders, swifter than the wind, He fled, but flying left his life behind. This Hector sees, as his experienced eyes Traverse the files, and to the rescue flies; Shouts, as he pass’d, the crystal regions rend, And moving armies on his march attend. Great Diomed himself was seized with fear, And thus bespoke his brother of the war:

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.””

“O son of Tydeus, cease! be wise and see How vast the difference of the gods and thee; Distance immense! between the powers that shine Above, eternal, deathless, and divine, And mortal man! a wretch of humble birth, A short-lived reptile in the dust of earth.”

But Neptune, rising from the seas profound, The god whose earthquakes rock the solid ground, Now wears a mortal form; like Calchas seen, Such his loud voice, and such his manly mien; His shouts incessant every Greek inspire, But most the Ajaces, adding fire to fire.

She ceased; and, smiling with superior love, Thus answer’d mild the cloud-compelling Jove: “Nor god nor mortal shall our joys behold, Shaded with clouds, and circumfused in gold; Not even the sun, who darts through heaven his rays, And whose broad eye the extended earth surveys.”

The son of Panthus, skill’d the dart to send, Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend. “This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low; Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow: To me the spoils my prowess won, resign: Depart with life, and leave the glory mine.”

He ceased. The Fates suppress’d his labouring breath, And his eyes stiffen’d at the hand of death; To the dark realm the spirit wings its way, (The manly body left a load of clay,) And plaintive glides along the dreary coast, A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Two sons of Priam next to battle move, The product, one of marriage, one of love:[222] In the same car the brother-warriors ride; This took the charge to combat, that to guide: Far other task, than when they wont to keep, On Ida’s tops, their father’s fleecy sheep. These on the mountains once Achilles found, And captive led, with pliant osiers bound; Then to their sire for ample sums restored; But now to perish by Atrides’ sword: Pierced in the breast the base-born Isus bleeds: Cleft through the head his brother’s fate succeeds, Swift to the spoil the hasty victor falls, And, stript, their features to his mind recalls. The Trojans see the youths untimely die, But helpless tremble for themselves, and fly. So when a lion ranging o’er the lawns, Finds, on some grassy lair, the couching fawns, Their bones he cracks, their reeking vitals draws, And grinds the quivering flesh with bloody jaws; The frighted hind beholds, and dares not stay, But swift through rustling thickets bursts her way; All drown’d in sweat, the panting mother flies, And the big tears roll trickling from her eyes.

“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,”

His spear in shivers falls; his ample shield Drops from his arm: his baldric strows the field: The corslet his astonish’d breast forsakes: Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes; Stupid he stares, and all-assistless stands: Such is the force of more than mortal hands!

“What moves the god who heaven and earth commands, And grasps the thunder in his awful hands, Thus to convene the whole ethereal state? Is Greece and Troy the subject in debate? Already met, the louring hosts appear, And death stands ardent on the edge of war.”

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.

“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.”

“O suffer not the foe to bear away My helpless corpse, an unassisted prey; If I, unbless’d, must see my son no more, My much-loved consort, and my native shore, Yet let me die in Ilion’s sacred wall; Troy, in whose cause I fell, shall mourn my fall.”

“Alas! who sees not Jove’s almighty hand Transfers the glory to the Trojan band? Whether the weak or strong discharge the dart, He guides each arrow to a Grecian heart: Not so our spears; incessant though they rain, He suffers every lance to fall in vain. Deserted of the god, yet let us try What human strength and prudence can supply; If yet this honour’d corse, in triumph borne, May glad the fleets that hope not our return, Who tremble yet, scarce rescued from their fates, And still hear Hector thundering at their gates. Some hero too must be despatch’d to bear The mournful message to Pelides’ ear; For sure he knows not, distant on the shore, His friend, his loved Patroclus, is no more. But such a chief I spy not through the host: The men, the steeds, the armies, all are lost In general darkness—Lord of earth and air! Oh king! Oh father! hear my humble prayer: Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore; Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more: If Greece must perish, we thy will obey, But let us perish in the face of day!”

“Goddess! (he cried,) these glorious arms, that shine With matchless art, confess the hand divine. Now to the bloody battle let me bend: But ah! the relics of my slaughter’d friend! In those wide wounds through which his spirit fled, Shall flies, and worms obscene, pollute the dead?”

“Thou too, Patroclus! (thus his heart he vents) Once spread the inviting banquet in our tents: Thy sweet society, thy winning care, Once stay’d Achilles, rushing to the war. But now, alas! to death’s cold arms resign’d, What banquet but revenge can glad my mind? What greater sorrow could afflict my breast, What more if hoary Peleus were deceased? Who now, perhaps, in Phthia dreads to hear His son’s sad fate, and drops a tender tear. What more, should Neoptolemus the brave, My only offspring, sink into the grave? If yet that offspring lives; (I distant far, Of all neglectful, wage a hateful war.) I could not this, this cruel stroke attend; Fate claim’d Achilles, but might spare his friend. I hoped Patroclus might survive, to rear My tender orphan with a parent’s care, From Scyros’ isle conduct him o’er the main, And glad his eyes with his paternal reign, The lofty palace, and the large domain. For Peleus breathes no more the vital air; Or drags a wretched life of age and care, But till the news of my sad fate invades His hastening soul, and sinks him to the shades.”

While thus the gods in various league engage, Achilles glow’d with more than mortal rage: Hector he sought; in search of Hector turn’d His eyes around, for Hector only burn’d; And burst like lightning through the ranks, and vow’d To glut the god of battles with his blood.

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.

Fired by his words, the troops dismiss their fears, They join, they thicken, they protend their spears; Full on the Greeks they drive in firm array, And each from Ajax hopes the glorious prey: Vain hope! what numbers shall the field o’erspread, What victims perish round the mighty dead!

And now he shakes his great paternal spear, Ponderous and huge, which not a Greek could rear, From Pelion’s cloudy top an ash entire Old Chiron fell’d, and shaped it for his sire; A spear which stern Achilles only wields, The death of heroes, and the dread of fields.

“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.”

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.”

Thus said the chief; and Nestor, skill’d in war, Approves his counsel, and ascends the car: The steeds he left, their trusty servants hold; Eurymedon, and Sthenelus the bold: The reverend charioteer directs the course, And strains his aged arm to lash the horse. Hector they face; unknowing how to fear, Fierce he drove on; Tydides whirl’d his spear. The spear with erring haste mistook its way, But plunged in Eniopeus’ bosom lay. His opening hand in death forsakes the rein; The steeds fly back: he falls, and spurns the plain. Great Hector sorrows for his servant kill’d, Yet unrevenged permits to press the field; Till, to supply his place and rule the car, Rose Archeptolemus, the fierce in war. And now had death and horror cover’d all;[193] Like timorous flocks the Trojans in their wall Inclosed had bled: but Jove with awful sound Roll’d the big thunder o’er the vast profound: Full in Tydides’ face the lightning flew; The ground before him flamed with sulphur blue; The quivering steeds fell prostrate at the sight; And Nestor’s trembling hand confess’d his fright: He dropp’d the reins: and, shook with sacred dread, Thus, turning, warn’d the intrepid Diomed:

“Why boast we, Glaucus! our extended reign,[226] Where Xanthus’ streams enrich the Lycian plain, Our numerous herds that range the fruitful field, And hills where vines their purple harvest yield, Our foaming bowls with purer nectar crown’d, Our feasts enhanced with music’s sprightly sound? Why on those shores are we with joy survey’d, Admired as heroes, and as gods obey’d, Unless great acts superior merit prove, And vindicate the bounteous powers above? ’Tis ours, the dignity they give to grace; The first in valour, as the first in place; That when with wondering eyes our martial bands Behold our deeds transcending our commands, Such, they may cry, deserve the sovereign state, Whom those that envy dare not imitate! Could all our care elude the gloomy grave, Which claims no less the fearful and the brave, For lust of fame I should not vainly dare In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war. But since, alas! ignoble age must come, Disease, and death’s inexorable doom, The life, which others pay, let us bestow, And give to fame what we to nature owe; Brave though we fall, and honour’d if we live, Or let us glory gain, or glory give!”

“What, shall I fly this terror of the plain! Like others fly, and be like others slain? Vain hope! to shun him by the self-same road Yon line of slaughter’d Trojans lately trod. No: with the common heap I scorn to fall— What if they pass’d me to the Trojan wall, While I decline to yonder path, that leads To Ida’s forests and surrounding shades? So may I reach, conceal’d, the cooling flood, From my tired body wash the dirt and blood, As soon as night her dusky veil extends, Return in safety to my Trojan friends. What if?—But wherefore all this vain debate? Stand I to doubt, within the reach of fate? Even now perhaps, ere yet I turn the wall, The fierce Achilles sees me, and I fall: Such is his swiftness, ’tis in vain to fly, And such his valour, that who stands must die. Howe’er ’tis better, fighting for the state, Here, and in public view, to meet my fate. Yet sure he too is mortal; he may feel (Like all the sons of earth) the force of steel. One only soul informs that dreadful frame: And Jove’s sole favour gives him all his fame.”

In their fell jaws high-lifting through the wood, And sprinkling all the shrubs with drops of blood; So these, the chief: great Ajax from the dead Strips his bright arms; Oïleus lops his head: Toss’d like a ball, and whirl’d in air away, At Hector’s feet the gory visage lay.

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.

And now the Thunderer meditates his flight From Ida’s summits to the Olympian height. Swifter than thought, the wheels instinctive fly, Flame through the vast of air, and reach the sky. ’Twas Neptune’s charge his coursers to unbrace, And fix the car on its immortal base; There stood the chariot, beaming forth its rays, Till with a snowy veil he screen’d the blaze. He, whose all-conscious eyes the world behold, The eternal Thunderer sat, enthroned in gold. High heaven the footstool of his feet he makes, And wide beneath him all Olympus shakes. Trembling afar the offending powers appear’d, Confused and silent, for his frown they fear’d. He saw their soul, and thus his word imparts: “Pallas and Juno! say, why heave your hearts? Soon was your battle o’er: proud Troy retired Before your face, and in your wrath expired. But know, whoe’er almighty power withstand! Unmatch’d our force, unconquer’d is our hand: Who shall the sovereign of the skies control? Not all the gods that crown the starry pole. Your hearts shall tremble, if our arms we take, And each immortal nerve with horror shake. For thus I speak, and what I speak shall stand; What power soe’er provokes our lifted hand, On this our hill no more shall hold his place; Cut off, and exiled from the ethereal race.”

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.

Now on the fleet the tides of Trojans drove, Fierce to fulfil the stern decrees of Jove: The sire of gods, confirming Thetis’ prayer, The Grecian ardour quench’d in deep despair; But lifts to glory Troy’s prevailing bands, Swells all their hearts, and strengthens all their hands. On Ida’s top he waits with longing eyes, To view the navy blazing to the skies; Then, nor till then, the scale of war shall turn, The Trojans fly, and conquer’d Ilion burn. These fates revolved in his almighty mind, He raises Hector to the work design’d, Bids him with more than mortal fury glow, And drives him, like a lightning, on the foe. So Mars, when human crimes for vengeance call, Shakes his huge javelin, and whole armies fall. Not with more rage a conflagration rolls, Wraps the vast mountains, and involves the poles. He foams with wrath; beneath his gloomy brow Like fiery meteors his red eye-balls glow: The radiant helmet on his temple burns, Waves when he nods, and lightens as he turns: For Jove his splendour round the chief had thrown, And cast the blaze of both the hosts on one. Unhappy glories! for his fate was near, Due to stern Pallas, and Pelides’ spear: Yet Jove deferr’d the death he was to pay, And gave what fate allow’d, the honours of a day!

Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet closed, To armour armour, lance to lance opposed, Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew, The sounding darts in iron tempests flew, Victors and vanquish’d join’d promiscuous cries, And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise; With streaming blood the slippery fields are dyed, And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.

So spoke the fair, with sorrow-streaming eye. Distressful beauty melts each stander-by. On all around the infectious sorrow grows; But Priam check’d the torrent as it rose: “Perform, ye Trojans! what the rites require, And fell the forests for a funeral pyre; Twelve days, nor foes nor secret ambush dread; Achilles grants these honours to the dead.”[299]

From rich Apæsus and Adrestia’s towers, High Teree’s summits, and Pityea’s bowers; From these the congregated troops obey Young Amphius and Adrastus’ equal sway; Old Merops’ sons; whom, skill’d in fates to come, The sire forewarn’d, and prophesied their doom: Fate urged them on! the sire forewarn’d in vain, They rush’d to war, and perish’d on the plain.

Thus o’er Patroclus while the hero pray’d, On his cold hand the sacred lock he laid. Once more afresh the Grecian sorrows flow: And now the sun had set upon their woe; But to the king of men thus spoke the chief: “Enough, Atrides! give the troops relief: Permit the mourning legions to retire, And let the chiefs alone attend the pyre; The pious care be ours, the dead to burn—” He said: the people to their ships return: While those deputed to inter the slain Heap with a rising pyramid the plain.[288] A hundred foot in length, a hundred wide, The growing structure spreads on every side; High on the top the manly corse they lay, And well-fed sheep and sable oxen slay: Achilles covered with their fat the dead, And the piled victims round the body spread; Then jars of honey, and of fragrant oil, Suspends around, low-bending o’er the pile. Four sprightly coursers, with a deadly groan Pour forth their lives, and on the pyre are thrown. Of nine large dogs, domestic at his board, Fall two, selected to attend their lord, Then last of all, and horrible to tell, Sad sacrifice! twelve Trojan captives fell.[289] On these the rage of fire victorious preys, Involves and joins them in one common blaze. Smear’d with the bloody rites, he stands on high, And calls the spirit with a dreadful cry:[290]

Beneath a beech, Jove’s consecrated shade, His mournful friends divine Sarpedon laid: Brave Pelagon, his favourite chief, was nigh, Who wrench’d the javelin from his sinewy thigh. The fainting soul stood ready wing’d for flight, And o’er his eye-balls swam the shades of night; But Boreas rising fresh, with gentle breath, Recall’d his spirit from the gates of death.

Then thus Minerva:—“Brave Tydides, hear! Not Mars himself, nor aught immortal, fear. Full on the god impel thy foaming horse: Pallas commands, and Pallas lends thee force. Rash, furious, blind, from these to those he flies, And every side of wavering combat tries; Large promise makes, and breaks the promise made: Now gives the Grecians, now the Trojans aid.”[159]

A lofty bier the breathless warrior bears: Around, his sad companions melt in tears. But chief Achilles, bending down his head, Pours unavailing sorrows o’er the dead, Whom late triumphant, with his steeds and car, He sent refulgent to the field of war; (Unhappy change!) now senseless, pale, he found, Stretch’d forth, and gash’d with many a gaping wound.

Nor yet the rage his boiling breast forsook, Which thus redoubling on Atrides broke: “O monster! mix’d of insolence and fear, Thou dog in forehead, but in heart a deer! When wert thou known in ambush’d fights to dare, Or nobly face the horrid front of war? ’Tis ours, the chance of fighting fields to try; Thine to look on, and bid the valiant die: So much ’tis safer through the camp to go, And rob a subject, than despoil a foe. Scourge of thy people, violent and base! Sent in Jove’s anger on a slavish race; Who, lost to sense of generous freedom past, Are tamed to wrongs;—or this had been thy last. Now by this sacred sceptre hear me swear, Which never more shall leaves or blossoms bear, Which sever’d from the trunk (as I from thee) On the bare mountains left its parent tree; This sceptre, form’d by temper’d steel to prove An ensign of the delegates of Jove, From whom the power of laws and justice springs (Tremendous oath! inviolate to kings); By this I swear:—when bleeding Greece again Shall call Achilles, she shall call in vain. When, flush’d with slaughter, Hector comes to spread The purpled shore with mountains of the dead, Then shalt thou mourn the affront thy madness gave, Forced to deplore when impotent to save: Then rage in bitterness of soul to know This act has made the bravest Greek thy foe.”

The best and bravest of the Grecian band (A warlike circle) round Tydides stand. Such was their look as lions bathed in blood, Or foaming boars, the terror of the wood. Heaven’s empress mingles with the mortal crowd, And shouts, in Stentor’s sounding voice, aloud; Stentor the strong, endued with brazen lungs,[158] Whose throats surpass’d the force of fifty tongues.

Scarce had his falchion cut the reins, and freed The encumber’d chariot from the dying steed, When dreadful Hector, thundering through the war, Pour’d to the tumult on his whirling car. That day had stretch’d beneath his matchless hand The hoary monarch of the Pylian band, But Diomed beheld; from forth the crowd He rush’d, and on Ulysses call’d aloud:

“O daughter of that god, whose arm can wield The avenging bolt, and shake the saber shield! No more let beings of superior birth Contend with Jove for this low race of earth; Triumphant now, now miserably slain, They breathe or perish as the fates ordain: But Jove’s high counsels full effect shall find; And, ever constant, ever rule mankind.”

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

“Now, Trojan prince, employ thy pious arms, If e’er thy bosom felt fair honour’s charms. Alcathous dies, thy brother and thy friend; Come, and the warrior’s loved remains defend. Beneath his cares thy early youth was train’d, One table fed you, and one roof contain’d. This deed to fierce Idomeneus we owe; Haste, and revenge it on th’ insulting foe.”

“What further subterfuge, what hopes remain? What shame, inglorious if I quit the plain? What danger, singly if I stand the ground, My friends all scatter’d, all the foes around? Yet wherefore doubtful? let this truth suffice, The brave meets danger, and the coward flies. To die or conquer, proves a hero’s heart; And, knowing this, I know a soldier’s part.”

“’Tis true, ’tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains: The form subsists without the body’s aid, Aerial semblance, and an empty shade! This night my friend, so late in battle lost, Stood at my side, a pensive, plaintive ghost: Even now familiar, as in life, he came; Alas! how different! yet how like the same!”

As the slow beast, with heavy strength endued, In some wide field by troops of boys pursued, Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain, Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain; Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound, The patient animal maintains his ground, Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased, And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last: On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung, The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung; Confiding now in bulky strength he stands, Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands; Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly, And threats his followers with retorted eye. Fix’d as the bar between two warring powers, While hissing darts descend in iron showers: In his broad buckler many a weapon stood, Its surface bristled with a quivering wood; And many a javelin, guiltless on the plain, Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain. But bold Eurypylus his aid imparts, And dauntless springs beneath a cloud of darts; Whose eager javelin launch’d against the foe, Great Apisaon felt the fatal blow; From his torn liver the red current flow’d, And his slack knees desert their dying load. The victor rushing to despoil the dead, From Paris’ bow a vengeful arrow fled; Fix’d in his nervous thigh the weapon stood, Fix’d was the point, but broken was the wood. Back to the lines the wounded Greek retired, Yet thus retreating, his associates fired:

Meanwhile the sons of Nestor, in the rear, (Their fellows routed,) toss the distant spear, And skirmish wide: so Nestor gave command, When from the ships he sent the Pylian band. The youthful brothers thus for fame contend, Nor knew the fortune of Achilles’ friend; In thought they view’d him still, with martial joy, Glorious in arms, and dealing death to Troy.

Unmov’d, Automedon attends the fight, Implores the Eternal, and collects his might. Then turning to his friend, with dauntless mind: “Oh keep the foaming coursers close behind! Full on my shoulders let their nostrils blow, For hard the fight, determined is the foe; ’Tis Hector comes: and when he seeks the prize, War knows no mean; he wins it or he dies.”

“What words are these? (the imperial dame replies, While anger flash’d from her majestic eyes) Succour like this a mortal arm might lend, And such success mere human wit attend: And shall not I, the second power above, Heaven’s queen, and consort of the thundering Jove, Say, shall not I one nation’s fate command, Not wreak my vengeance on one guilty land?”

The chief incensed—“Too partial god of day! To check my conquests in the middle way: How few in Ilion else had refuge found! What gasping numbers now had bit the ground! Thou robb’st me of a glory justly mine, Powerful of godhead, and of fraud divine: Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain, To cheat a mortal who repines in vain.”

Young Xanthus next, and Thoon felt his rage; The joy and hope of Phaenops’ feeble age: Vast was his wealth, and these the only heirs Of all his labours and a life of cares. Cold death o’ertakes them in their blooming years, And leaves the father unavailing tears: To strangers now descends his heapy store, The race forgotten, and the name no more.

“No wonder, Greeks! that all to Hector yield; Secure of favouring gods, he takes the field; His strokes they second, and avert our spears. Behold where Mars in mortal arms appears! Retire then, warriors, but sedate and slow; Retire, but with your faces to the foe. Trust not too much your unavailing might; ’Tis not with Troy, but with the gods ye fight.”

Astyalus by Polypœtes fell; Ulysses’ spear Pidytes sent to hell; By Teucer’s shaft brave Aretaon bled, And Nestor’s son laid stern Ablerus dead; Great Agamemnon, leader of the brave, The mortal wound of rich Elatus gave, Who held in Pedasus his proud abode,[162] And till’d the banks where silver Satnio flow’d. Melanthius by Eurypylus was slain; And Phylacus from Leitus flies in vain.

Still raged the conflict round the hero dead, And heaps on heaps by mutual wounds they bled. “Cursed be the man (even private Greeks would say) Who dares desert this well-disputed day! First may the cleaving earth before our eyes Gape wide, and drink our blood for sacrifice; First perish all, ere haughty Troy shall boast We lost Patroclus, and our glory lost!”

To whom the son of Jove: “That god implore, And be what great Achilles was before. From heavenly Venus thou deriv’st thy strain, And he but from a sister of the main; An aged sea-god father of his line; But Jove himself the sacred source of thine. Then lift thy weapon for a noble blow, Nor fear the vaunting of a mortal foe.”

But thou, my Hector, liest exposed in air, Far from thy parents’ and thy consort’s care; Whose hand in vain, directed by her love, The martial scarf and robe of triumph wove. Now to devouring flames be these a prey, Useless to thee, from this accursed day! Yet let the sacrifice at least be paid, An honour to the living, not the dead!”