Iliad on The Divine

“By what wild passion, furious! art thou toss’d? Striv’st thou with Jove? thou art already lost. Shall not the Thunderer’s dread command restrain, And was imperial Juno heard in vain? Back to the skies wouldst thou with shame be driven, And in thy guilt involve the host of heaven? Ilion and Greece no more should Jove engage, The skies would yield an ampler scene of rage; Guilty and guiltless find an equal fate And one vast ruin whelm the Olympian state. Cease then thy offspring’s death unjust to call; Heroes as great have died, and yet shall fall. Why should heaven’s law with foolish man comply Exempted from the race ordain’d to die?”

The trembling queen (the almighty order given) Swift from the Idaean summit shot to heaven. As some wayfaring man, who wanders o’er In thought a length of lands he trod before, Sends forth his active mind from place to place, Joins hill to dale, and measures space with space: So swift flew Juno to the bless’d abodes, If thought of man can match the speed of gods. There sat the powers in awful synod placed; They bow’d, and made obeisance as she pass’d Through all the brazen dome:[239] with goblets crown’d They hail her queen; the nectar streams around. Fair Themis first presents the golden bowl, And anxious asks what cares disturb her soul?

The voice divine confess’d the martial maid; In haste he mounted, and her word obey’d; The coursers fly before Ulysses’ bow, Swift as the wind, and white as winter-snow.

O’ertaken Neamas by Merion bleeds, Pierced through the shoulder as he mounts his steeds; Back from the car he tumbles to the ground: His swimming eyes eternal shades surround.

Then first he form’d the immense and solid shield; Rich various artifice emblazed the field; Its utmost verge a threefold circle bound;[253] A silver chain suspends the massy round; Five ample plates the broad expanse compose, And godlike labours on the surface rose. There shone the image of the master-mind: There earth, there heaven, there ocean he design’d; The unwearied sun, the moon completely round; The starry lights that heaven’s high convex crown’d; The Pleiads, Hyads, with the northern team; And great Orion’s more refulgent beam; To which, around the axle of the sky, The Bear, revolving, points his golden eye, Still shines exalted on the ethereal plain, Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main.

Then thus the Thunderer checks the imperial dame: “Let not thy wrath the court of heaven inflame; Their merits, nor their honours, are the same. But mine, and every god’s peculiar grace Hector deserves, of all the Trojan race: Still on our shrines his grateful offerings lay, (The only honours men to gods can pay,) Nor ever from our smoking altar ceased The pure libation, and the holy feast: Howe’er by stealth to snatch the corse away, We will not: Thetis guards it night and day. But haste, and summon to our courts above The azure queen; let her persuasion move Her furious son from Priam to receive The proffer’d ransom, and the corse to leave.”

“Move me no more, (Achilles thus replies, While kindling anger sparkled in his eyes,) Nor seek by tears my steady soul to bend: To yield thy Hector I myself intend: For know, from Jove my goddess-mother came, (Old Ocean’s daughter, silver-footed dame,) Nor comest thou but by heaven; nor comest alone, Some god impels with courage not thy own: No human hand the weighty gates unbarr’d, Nor could the boldest of our youth have dared To pass our outworks, or elude the guard. Cease; lest, neglectful of high Jove’s command, I show thee, king! thou tread’st on hostile land; Release my knees, thy suppliant arts give o’er, And shake the purpose of my soul no more.”

He said, and, entering, took his seat of state; Where full before him reverend Priam sate; To whom, composed, the godlike chief begun: “Lo! to thy prayer restored, thy breathless son; Extended on the funeral couch he lies; And soon as morning paints the eastern skies, The sight is granted to thy longing eyes: But now the peaceful hours of sacred night Demand reflection, and to rest invite: Nor thou, O father! thus consumed with woe, The common cares that nourish life forego. Not thus did Niobe, of form divine, A parent once, whose sorrows equall’d thine: Six youthful sons, as many blooming maids, In one sad day beheld the Stygian shades; Those by Apollo’s silver bow were slain, These, Cynthia’s arrows stretch’d upon the plain: So was her pride chastised by wrath divine, Who match’d her own with bright Latona’s line; But two the goddess, twelve the queen enjoy’d; Those boasted twelve, the avenging two destroy’d. Steep’d in their blood, and in the dust outspread, Nine days, neglected, lay exposed the dead; None by to weep them, to inhume them none; (For Jove had turn’d the nation all to stone.) The gods themselves, at length relenting gave The unhappy race the honours of a grave. Herself a rock (for such was heaven’s high will) Through deserts wild now pours a weeping rill; Where round the bed whence Achelous springs, The watery fairies dance in mazy rings; There high on Sipylus’s shaggy brow, She stands, her own sad monument of woe; The rock for ever lasts, the tears for ever flow.

“No drop shall touch me, by almighty Jove! The first and greatest of the gods above! Till on the pyre I place thee; till I rear The grassy mound, and clip thy sacred hair. Some ease at least those pious rites may give, And soothe my sorrows, while I bear to live. Howe’er, reluctant as I am, I stay And share your feast; but with the dawn of day, (O king of men!) it claims thy royal care, That Greece the warrior’s funeral pile prepare, And bid the forests fall: (such rites are paid To heroes slumbering in eternal shade:) Then, when his earthly part shall mount in fire, Let the leagued squadrons to their posts retire.”

The thunderer spoke, nor durst the queen reply; A reverent horror silenced all the sky. The feast disturb’d, with sorrow Vulcan saw His mother menaced, and the gods in awe; Peace at his heart, and pleasure his design, Thus interposed the architect divine: “The wretched quarrels of the mortal state Are far unworthy, gods! of your debate: Let men their days in senseless strife employ, We, in eternal peace and constant joy. Thou, goddess-mother, with our sire comply, Nor break the sacred union of the sky: Lest, roused to rage, he shake the bless’d abodes, Launch the red lightning, and dethrone the gods. If you submit, the thunderer stands appeased; The gracious power is willing to be pleased.”

“Say thou, whose praises all our host proclaim, Thou living glory of the Grecian name! Say whence these coursers? by what chance bestow’d, The spoil of foes, or present of a god? Not those fair steeds, so radiant and so gay, That draw the burning chariot of the day. Old as I am, to age I scorn to yield, And daily mingle in the martial field; But sure till now no coursers struck my sight Like these, conspicuous through the ranks of fight. Some god, I deem, conferred the glorious prize, Bless’d as ye are, and favourites of the skies; The care of him who bids the thunder roar, And her, whose fury bathes the world with gore.”

Her words allay the impetuous warrior’s heat, The god of arms and martial maid retreat; Removed from fight, on Xanthus’ flowery bounds They sat, and listen’d to the dying sounds.

He said; Saturnia, ardent to obey, Lash’d her white steeds along the aerial way. Swift down the steep of heaven the chariot rolls, Between the expanded earth and starry poles. Far as a shepherd, from some point on high,[157] O’er the wide main extends his boundless eye, Through such a space of air, with thundering sound, At every leap the immortal coursers bound Troy now they reach’d and touch’d those banks divine, Where silver Simois and Scamander join. There Juno stopp’d, and (her fair steeds unloosed) Of air condensed a vapour circumfused: For these, impregnate with celestial dew, On Simois’ brink ambrosial herbage grew. Thence to relieve the fainting Argive throng, Smooth as the sailing doves they glide along.

Now to the navy borne on silent wings, To Neptune’s ear soft Sleep his message brings; Beside him sudden, unperceived, he stood, And thus with gentle words address’d the god:

Not Ajax less the will of heaven descried, And conquest shifting to the Trojan side, Turn’d by the hand of Jove. Then thus begun, To Atreus’s seed, the godlike Telamon:

But not as yet the fatal news had spread To fair Andromache, of Hector dead; As yet no messenger had told his fate, Not e’en his stay without the Scæan gate. Far in the close recesses of the dome, Pensive she plied the melancholy loom; A growing work employ’d her secret hours, Confusedly gay with intermingled flowers. Her fair-haired handmaids heat the brazen urn, The bath preparing for her lord’s return In vain; alas! her lord returns no more; Unbathed he lies, and bleeds along the shore! Now from the walls the clamours reach her ear, And all her members shake with sudden fear: Forth from her ivory hand the shuttle falls, And thus, astonish’d, to her maids she calls:

While these to love’s delicious rapture yield, The stern Atrides rages round the field: So some fell lion whom the woods obey, Roars through the desert, and demands his prey. Paris he seeks, impatient to destroy, But seeks in vain along the troops of Troy; Even those had yielded to a foe so brave The recreant warrior, hateful as the grave. Then speaking thus, the king of kings arose, “Ye Trojans, Dardans, all our generous foes! Hear and attest! from Heaven with conquest crown’d, Our brother’s arms the just success have found: Be therefore now the Spartan wealth restor’d, Let Argive Helen own her lawful lord; The appointed fine let Ilion justly pay, And age to age record this signal day.”

Then from his anvil the lame artist rose; Wide with distorted legs oblique he goes, And stills the bellows, and (in order laid) Locks in their chests his instruments of trade. Then with a sponge the sooty workman dress’d His brawny arms embrown’d, and hairy breast. With his huge sceptre graced, and red attire, Came halting forth the sovereign of the fire: The monarch’s steps two female forms uphold, That moved and breathed in animated gold; To whom was voice, and sense, and science given Of works divine (such wonders are in heaven!) On these supported, with unequal gait, He reach’d the throne where pensive Thetis sate; There placed beside her on the shining frame, He thus address’d the silver-footed dame:

“Oh, dear as life! did I for this agree The solemn truce, a fatal truce to thee! Wert thou exposed to all the hostile train, To fight for Greece, and conquer, to be slain! The race of Trojans in thy ruin join, And faith is scorn’d by all the perjured line. Not thus our vows, confirm’d with wine and gore, Those hands we plighted, and those oaths we swore, Shall all be vain: when Heaven’s revenge is slow, Jove but prepares to strike the fiercer blow. The day shall come, that great avenging day, When Troy’s proud glories in the dust shall lay, When Priam’s powers and Priam’s self shall fall, And one prodigious ruin swallow all. I see the god, already, from the pole Bare his red arm, and bid the thunder roll; I see the Eternal all his fury shed, And shake his ægis o’er their guilty head. Such mighty woes on perjured princes wait; But thou, alas! deserv’st a happier fate. Still must I mourn the period of thy days, And only mourn, without my share of praise? Deprived of thee, the heartless Greeks no more Shall dream of conquests on the hostile shore; Troy seized of Helen, and our glory lost, Thy bones shall moulder on a foreign coast; While some proud Trojan thus insulting cries, (And spurns the dust where Menelaus lies,) ‘Such are the trophies Greece from Ilion brings, And such the conquest of her king of kings! Lo his proud vessels scatter’d o’er the main, And unrevenged, his mighty brother slain.’ Oh! ere that dire disgrace shall blast my fame, O’erwhelm me, earth! and hide a monarch’s shame.”

Full of the god that urged their burning breast, The heroes thus their mutual warmth express’d. Neptune meanwhile the routed Greeks inspired; Who, breathless, pale, with length of labours tired, Pant in the ships; while Troy to conquest calls, And swarms victorious o’er their yielding walls: Trembling before the impending storm they lie, While tears of rage stand burning in their eye. Greece sunk they thought, and this their fatal hour; But breathe new courage as they feel the power. Teucer and Leitus first his words excite; Then stern Peneleus rises to the fight; Thoas, Deipyrus, in arms renown’d, And Merion next, the impulsive fury found; Last Nestor’s son the same bold ardour takes, While thus the god the martial fire awakes:

The god of battle issues on the plain, Stirs all the ranks, and fires the Trojan train; In form like Acamas, the Thracian guide, Enraged to Troy’s retiring chiefs he cried:

“Ye sons of Greece! partake your leader’s care; Fellows in arms and princes of the war! Of partial Jove too justly we complain, And heavenly oracles believed in vain. A safe return was promised to our toils, With conquest honour’d and enrich’d with spoils: Now shameful flight alone can save the host; Our wealth, our people, and our glory lost. So Jove decrees, almighty lord of all! Jove, at whose nod whole empires rise or fall, Who shakes the feeble props of human trust, And towers and armies humbles to the dust. Haste then, for ever quit these fatal fields, Haste to the joys our native country yields; Spread all your canvas, all your oars employ, Nor hope the fall of heaven-defended Troy.”

The god of ocean, fired with stern disdain, And pierced with sorrow for his grandson slain, Inspires the Grecian hearts, confirms their hands, And breathes destruction on the Trojan bands. Swift as a whirlwind rushing to the fleet, He finds the lance-famed Idomen of Crete, His pensive brow the generous care express’d With which a wounded soldier touch’d his breast, Whom in the chance of war a javelin tore, And his sad comrades from the battle bore; Him to the surgeons of the camp he sent: That office paid, he issued from his tent Fierce for the fight: to whom the god begun, In Thoas’ voice, Andræmon’s valiant son, Who ruled where Calydon’s white rocks arise, And Pleuron’s chalky cliffs emblaze the skies:

Now Ajax braced his dazzling armour on; Sheathed in bright steel the giant-warrior shone: He moves to combat with majestic pace; So stalks in arms the grisly god of Thrace,[182] When Jove to punish faithless men prepares, And gives whole nations to the waste of wars, Thus march’d the chief, tremendous as a god; Grimly he smiled; earth trembled as he strode:[183] His massy javelin quivering in his hand, He stood, the bulwark of the Grecian band. Through every Argive heart new transport ran; All Troy stood trembling at the mighty man: Even Hector paused; and with new doubt oppress’d, Felt his great heart suspended in his breast: ’Twas vain to seek retreat, and vain to fear; Himself had challenged, and the foe drew near.

Now flaming from the zenith, Sol had driven His fervid orb through half the vault of heaven; While on each host with equal tempests fell The showering darts, and numbers sank to hell. But when his evening wheels o’erhung the main, Glad conquest rested on the Grecian train. Then from amidst the tumult and alarms, They draw the conquer’d corse and radiant arms. Then rash Patroclus with new fury glows, And breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes. Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew, And thrice three heroes at each onset slew. There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine The last, black remnant of so bright a line: Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way; Death calls, and heaven allows no longer day!

Struck with amaze and shame, the Trojan crew, Or slain, or fled, the sons of Dares view; When by the blood-stain’d hand Minerva press’d The god of battles, and this speech address’d:

The lots produced, each hero signs his own: Then in the general’s helm the fates are thrown,[181] The people pray, with lifted eyes and hands, And vows like these ascend from all the bands: “Grant, thou Almighty! in whose hand is fate, A worthy champion for the Grecian state: This task let Ajax or Tydides prove, Or he, the king of kings, beloved by Jove.” Old Nestor shook the casque. By heaven inspired, Leap’d forth the lot, of every Greek desired. This from the right to left the herald bears, Held out in order to the Grecian peers; Each to his rival yields the mark unknown, Till godlike Ajax finds the lot his own; Surveys the inscription with rejoicing eyes, Then casts before him, and with transport cries:

Thus speaking, furious from the field he strode, And plunged into the bosom of the flood. The lord of thunders, from his lofty height Beheld, and thus bespoke the source of light:

“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!”

“Is there no god Achilles to befriend, No power to avert his miserable end? Prevent, O Jove! this ignominious date,[271] And make my future life the sport of fate. Of all heaven’s oracles believed in vain, But most of Thetis must her son complain; By Phœbus’ darts she prophesied my fall, In glorious arms before the Trojan wall. Oh! had I died in fields of battle warm, Stretch’d like a hero, by a hero’s arm! Might Hector’s spear this dauntless bosom rend, And my swift soul o’ertake my slaughter’d friend. Ah no! Achilles meets a shameful fate, Oh how unworthy of the brave and great! Like some vile swain, whom on a rainy day, Crossing a ford, the torrent sweeps away, An unregarded carcase to the sea.”

The good old Priam welcomed her, and cried, “Approach, my child, and grace thy father’s side. See on the plain thy Grecian spouse appears, The friends and kindred of thy former years. No crime of thine our present sufferings draws, Not thou, but Heaven’s disposing will, the cause The gods these armies and this force employ, The hostile gods conspire the fate of Troy. But lift thy eyes, and say, what Greek is he (Far as from hence these aged orbs can see) Around whose brow such martial graces shine, So tall, so awful, and almost divine! Though some of larger stature tread the green, None match his grandeur and exalted mien: He seems a monarch, and his country’s pride.” Thus ceased the king, and thus the fair replied:

“Now bid thy heralds sound the loud alarms, And call the squadrons sheathed in brazen arms; Now seize the occasion, now the troops survey, And lead to war when heaven directs the way.”

“Lest thirst of glory your brave souls divide, What chief shall combat, let the gods decide. Whom heaven shall choose, be his the chance to raise His country’s fame, his own immortal praise.”

Perhaps great Hector then had found his fate, But Jove and destiny prolong’d his date. Safe from the darts, the care of heaven he stood, Amidst alarms, and death, and dust, and blood.

“Then grant me (said the queen) those conquering charms, That power, which mortals and immortals warms, That love, which melts mankind in fierce desires, And burns the sons of heaven with sacred fires!

“From whence this boding speech, the stern decree Of death denounced, or why denounced to me? Why not as well Achilles’ fate be given To Hector’s lance? Who knows the will of heaven?”

“Why mourns my son? thy late preferr’d request The god has granted, and the Greeks distress’d: Why mourns my son? thy anguish let me share, Reveal the cause, and trust a parent’s care.”

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:

To this Anchises’ son: “Such words employ To one that fears thee, some unwarlike boy; Such we disdain; the best may be defied With mean reproaches, and unmanly pride; Unworthy the high race from which we came Proclaim’d so loudly by the voice of fame: Each from illustrious fathers draws his line; Each goddess-born; half human, half divine. Thetis’ this day, or Venus’ offspring dies, And tears shall trickle from celestial eyes: For when two heroes, thus derived, contend, ’Tis not in words the glorious strife can end. If yet thou further seek to learn my birth (A tale resounded through the spacious earth) Hear how the glorious origin we prove From ancient Dardanus, the first from Jove: Dardania’s walls he raised; for Ilion, then, (The city since of many-languaged men,) Was not. The natives were content to till The shady foot of Ida’s fountful hill.[264] From Dardanus great Erichthonius springs, The richest, once, of Asia’s wealthy kings; Three thousand mares his spacious pastures bred, Three thousand foals beside their mothers fed. Boreas, enamour’d of the sprightly train, Conceal’d his godhead in a flowing mane, With voice dissembled to his loves he neigh’d, And coursed the dappled beauties o’er the mead: Hence sprung twelve others of unrivall’d kind, Swift as their mother mares, and father wind. These lightly skimming, when they swept the plain, Nor plied the grass, nor bent the tender grain; And when along the level seas they flew,[265] Scarce on the surface curl’d the briny dew. Such Erichthonius was: from him there came The sacred Tros, of whom the Trojan name. Three sons renown’d adorn’d his nuptial bed, Ilus, Assaracus, and Ganymed: The matchless Ganymed, divinely fair, Whom heaven, enamour’d, snatch’d to upper air, To bear the cup of Jove (ethereal guest, The grace and glory of the ambrosial feast).

“What means the haughty sovereign of the skies? (The king of ocean thus, incensed, replies;) Rule as he will his portion’d realms on high; No vassal god, nor of his train, am I. Three brother deities from Saturn came, And ancient Rhea, earth’s immortal dame: Assign’d by lot, our triple rule we know; Infernal Pluto sways the shades below; O’er the wide clouds, and o’er the starry plain, Ethereal Jove extends his high domain; My court beneath the hoary waves I keep, And hush the roarings of the sacred deep; Olympus, and this earth, in common lie: What claim has here the tyrant of the sky? Far in the distant clouds let him control, And awe the younger brothers of the pole; There to his children his commands be given, The trembling, servile, second race of heaven.”

As the young olive, in some sylvan scene, Crown’d by fresh fountains with eternal green, Lifts the gay head, in snowy flowerets fair, And plays and dances to the gentle air; When lo! a whirlwind from high heaven invades The tender plant, and withers all its shades; It lies uprooted from its genial bed, A lovely ruin now defaced and dead: Thus young, thus beautiful, Euphorbus lay, While the fierce Spartan tore his arms away. Proud of his deed, and glorious in the prize, Affrighted Troy the towering victor flies: Flies, as before some mountain lion’s ire The village curs and trembling swains retire, When o’er the slaughter’d bull they hear him roar, And see his jaws distil with smoking gore: All pale with fear, at distance scatter’d round, They shout incessant, and the vales resound.

From his ambrosial head, where perch’d she sate, He snatch’d the fury-goddess of debate, The dread, the irrevocable oath he swore, The immortal seats should ne’er behold her more; And whirl’d her headlong down, for ever driven From bright Olympus and the starry heaven: Thence on the nether world the fury fell; Ordain’d with man’s contentious race to dwell. Full oft the god his son’s hard toils bemoan’d, Cursed the dire fury, and in secret groan’d.[258] Even thus, like Jove himself, was I misled, While raging Hector heap’d our camps with dead. What can the errors of my rage atone? My martial troops, my treasures are thy own: This instant from the navy shall be sent Whate’er Ulysses promised at thy tent: But thou! appeased, propitious to our prayer, Resume thy arms, and shine again in war.”

These words the Grecians’ fainting hearts inspire, And listening armies catch the godlike fire. Fix’d at his post was each bold Ajax found, With well-ranged squadrons strongly circled round: So close their order, so disposed their fight, As Pallas’ self might view with fix’d delight; Or had the god of war inclined his eyes, The god of war had own’d a just surprise. A chosen phalanx, firm, resolved as fate, Descending Hector and his battle wait. An iron scene gleams dreadful o’er the fields, Armour in armour lock’d, and shields in shields, Spears lean on spears, on targets targets throng, Helms stuck to helms, and man drove man along. The floating plumes unnumber’d wave above, As when an earthquake stirs the nodding grove; And levell’d at the skies with pointing rays, Their brandish’d lances at each motion blaze.

He said: and Merion to th’ appointed place, Fierce as the god of battles, urged his pace. Soon as the foe the shining chiefs beheld Rush like a fiery torrent o’er the field, Their force embodied in a tide they pour; The rising combat sounds along the shore. As warring winds, in Sirius’ sultry reign, From different quarters sweep the sandy plain; On every side the dusty whirlwinds rise, And the dry fields are lifted to the skies: Thus by despair, hope, rage, together driven, Met the black hosts, and, meeting, darken’d heaven. All dreadful glared the iron face of war, Bristled with upright spears, that flash’d afar; Dire was the gleam of breastplates, helms, and shields, And polish’d arms emblazed the flaming fields: Tremendous scene! that general horror gave, But touch’d with joy the bosoms of the brave.

So spoke the inspiring god; then took his flight, And plunged amidst the tumult of the fight. He bids Cebrion drive the rapid car; The lash resounds, the coursers rush to war. The god the Grecians’ sinking souls depress’d, And pour’d swift spirits through each Trojan breast. Patroclus lights, impatient for the fight; A spear his left, a stone employs his right: With all his nerves he drives it at the foe. Pointed above, and rough and gross below: The falling ruin crush’d Cebrion’s head, The lawless offspring of king Priam’s bed; His front, brows, eyes, one undistinguish’d wound: The bursting balls drop sightless to the ground. The charioteer, while yet he held the rein, Struck from the car, falls headlong on the plain. To the dark shades the soul unwilling glides, While the proud victor thus his fall derides.

On adverse parts the warring gods engage: Heaven’s awful queen; and he whose azure round Girds the vast globe; the maid in arms renown’d; Hermes, of profitable arts the sire; And Vulcan, the black sovereign of the fire: These to the fleet repair with instant flight; The vessels tremble as the gods alight. In aid of Troy, Latona, Phœbus came, Mars fiery-helm’d, the laughter-loving dame, Xanthus, whose streams in golden currents flow, And the chaste huntress of the silver bow. Ere yet the gods their various aid employ, Each Argive bosom swell’d with manly joy, While great Achilles (terror of the plain), Long lost to battle, shone in arms again. Dreadful he stood in front of all his host; Pale Troy beheld, and seem’d already lost; Her bravest heroes pant with inward fear, And trembling see another god of war.

Thus pray’d the king, and heaven’s great father heard His vows, in bitterness of soul preferr’d: The wrath appeased, by happy signs declares, And gives the people to their monarch’s prayers. His eagle, sacred bird of heaven! he sent, A fawn his talons truss’d, (divine portent!) High o’er the wondering hosts he soar’d above, Who paid their vows to Panomphaean Jove; Then let the prey before his altar fall; The Greeks beheld, and transport seized on all: Encouraged by the sign, the troops revive, And fierce on Troy with doubled fury drive. Tydides first, of all the Grecian force, O’er the broad ditch impell’d his foaming horse, Pierced the deep ranks, their strongest battle tore, And dyed his javelin red with Trojan gore. Young Agelaus (Phradmon was his sire) With flying coursers shunn’d his dreadful ire; Struck through the back, the Phrygian fell oppress’d; The dart drove on, and issued at his breast: Headlong he quits the car: his arms resound; His ponderous buckler thunders on the ground. Forth rush a tide of Greeks, the passage freed; The Atridae first, the Ajaces next succeed: Meriones, like Mars in arms renown’d, And godlike Idomen, now passed the mound; Evaemon’s son next issues to the foe, And last young Teucer with his bended bow. Secure behind the Telamonian shield The skilful archer wide survey’d the field, With every shaft some hostile victim slew, Then close beneath the sevenfold orb withdrew: The conscious infant so, when fear alarms, Retires for safety to the mother’s arms. Thus Ajax guards his brother in the field, Moves as he moves, and turns the shining shield. Who first by Teucer’s mortal arrows bled? Orsilochus; then fell Ormenus dead: The godlike Lycophon next press’d the plain, With Chromius, Daetor, Ophelestes slain: Bold Hamopaon breathless sunk to ground; The bloody pile great Melanippus crown’d. Heaps fell on heaps, sad trophies of his art, A Trojan ghost attending every dart.

Near Ilus’ tomb, in order ranged around, The Trojan lines possess’d the rising ground: There wise Polydamas and Hector stood; Æneas, honour’d as a guardian god; Bold Polybus, Agenor the divine; The brother-warriors of Antenor’s line: With youthful Acamas, whose beauteous face And fair proportion match’d the ethereal race. Great Hector, cover’d with his spacious shield, Plies all the troops, and orders all the field. As the red star now shows his sanguine fires Through the dark clouds, and now in night retires, Thus through the ranks appear’d the godlike man, Plunged in the rear, or blazing in the van; While streamy sparkles, restless as he flies, Flash from his arms, as lightning from the skies. As sweating reapers in some wealthy field, Ranged in two bands, their crooked weapons wield, Bear down the furrows, till their labours meet; Thick fall the heapy harvests at their feet: So Greece and Troy the field of war divide, And falling ranks are strow’d on every side. None stoop’d a thought to base inglorious flight;[221] But horse to horse, and man to man they fight, Not rabid wolves more fierce contest their prey; Each wounds, each bleeds, but none resign the day. Discord with joy the scene of death descries, And drinks large slaughter at her sanguine eyes: Discord alone, of all the immortal train, Swells the red horrors of this direful plain: The gods in peace their golden mansions fill, Ranged in bright order on the Olympian hill: But general murmurs told their griefs above, And each accused the partial will of Jove. Meanwhile apart, superior, and alone, The eternal Monarch, on his awful throne, Wrapt in the blaze of boundless glory sate; And fix’d, fulfill’d the just decrees of fate. On earth he turn’d his all-considering eyes, And mark’d the spot where Ilion’s towers arise; The sea with ships, the fields with armies spread, The victor’s rage, the dying, and the dead.

Once more bold Teucer, in his country’s cause, At Hector’s breast a chosen arrow draws: And had the weapon found the destined way, Thy fall, great Trojan! had renown’d that day. But Hector was not doom’d to perish then: The all-wise disposer of the fates of men (Imperial Jove) his present death withstands; Nor was such glory due to Teucer’s hands. At its full stretch as the tough string he drew, Struck by an arm unseen, it burst in two; Down dropp’d the bow: the shaft with brazen head Fell innocent, and on the dust lay dead. The astonish’d archer to great Ajax cries; “Some god prevents our destined enterprise: Some god, propitious to the Trojan foe, Has, from my arm unfailing, struck the bow, And broke the nerve my hands had twined with art, Strong to impel the flight of many a dart.”

No camps, no bulwarks now the Trojans fear, Those are not dreadful, no Achilles there; No longer flames the lance of Tydeus’ son; No more your general calls his heroes on: Hector, alone, I hear; his dreadful breath Commands your slaughter, or proclaims your death. Yet now, Patroclus, issue to the plain: Now save the ships, the rising fires restrain, And give the Greeks to visit Greece again. But heed my words, and mark a friend’s command, Who trusts his fame and honours in thy hand, And from thy deeds expects the Achaian host Shall render back the beauteous maid he lost: Rage uncontroll’d through all the hostile crew, But touch not Hector, Hector is my due. Though Jove in thunder should command the war, Be just, consult my glory, and forbear. The fleet once saved, desist from further chase, Nor lead to Ilion’s walls the Grecian race; Some adverse god thy rashness may destroy; Some god, like Phœbus, ever kind to Troy. Let Greece, redeem’d from this destructive strait, Do her own work; and leave the rest to fate. O! would to all the immortal powers above, Apollo, Pallas, and almighty Jove! That not one Trojan might be left alive, And not a Greek of all the race survive: Might only we the vast destruction shun, And only we destroy the accursed town!” Such conference held the chiefs; while on the strand Great Jove with conquest crown’d the Trojan band. Ajax no more the sounding storm sustain’d, So thick the darts an iron tempest rain’d: On his tired arm the weighty buckler hung; His hollow helm with falling javelins rung; His breath, in quick short pantings, comes and goes; And painful sweat from all his members flows. Spent and o’erpower’d, he barely breathes at most; Yet scarce an army stirs him from his post; Dangers on dangers all around him glow, And toil to toil, and woe succeeds to woe.

“Oh, generous brother! (if the guilty dame That caused these woes deserve a sister’s name!) Would heaven, ere all these dreadful deeds were done, The day that show’d me to the golden sun Had seen my death! why did not whirlwinds bear The fatal infant to the fowls of air? Why sunk I not beneath the whelming tide, And midst the roarings of the waters died? Heaven fill’d up all my ills, and I accursed Bore all, and Paris of those ills the worst. Helen at least a braver spouse might claim, Warm’d with some virtue, some regard of fame! Now tired with toils, thy fainting limbs recline, With toils, sustain’d for Paris’ sake and mine The gods have link’d our miserable doom, Our present woe, and infamy to come: Wide shall it spread, and last through ages long, Example sad! and theme of future song.”

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!”

Fired at his word the rival racers rise; But far the first Eumelus hopes the prize, Famed though Pieria for the fleetest breed, And skill’d to manage the high-bounding steed. With equal ardour bold Tydides swell’d, The steeds of Tros beneath his yoke compell’d (Which late obey’d the Dardan chief’s command, When scarce a god redeem’d him from his hand). Then Menelaus his Podargus brings, And the famed courser of the king of kings: Whom rich Echepolus (more rich than brave), To ’scape the wars, to Agamemnon gave, (Æthe her name) at home to end his days; Base wealth preferring to eternal praise. Next him Antilochus demands the course With beating heart, and cheers his Pylian horse. Experienced Nestor gives his son the reins, Directs his judgment, and his heat restrains; Nor idly warns the hoary sire, nor hears The prudent son with unattending ears.

“Cursed by Althaea, to his wrath he yields, And in his wife’s embrace forgets the fields. (She from Marpessa sprung, divinely fair, And matchless Idas, more than man in war: The god of day adored the mother’s charms; Against the god the father bent his arms: The afflicted pair, their sorrows to proclaim, From Cleopatra changed their daughter’s name, And call’d Alcyone; a name to show The father’s grief, the mourning mother’s woe.) To her the chief retired from stern debate, But found no peace from fierce Althaea’s hate: Althaea’s hate the unhappy warrior drew, Whose luckless hand his royal uncle slew; She beat the ground, and call’d the powers beneath On her own son to wreak her brother’s death; Hell heard her curses from the realms profound, And the red fiends that walk the nightly round. In vain Ætolia her deliverer waits, War shakes her walls, and thunders at her gates. She sent ambassadors, a chosen band, Priests of the gods, and elders of the land; Besought the chief to save the sinking state: Their prayers were urgent, and their proffers great: (Full fifty acres of the richest ground, Half pasture green, and half with vineyards crown’d:) His suppliant father, aged Œneus, came; His sisters follow’d; even the vengeful dame, Althaea, sues; his friends before him fall: He stands relentless, and rejects them all. Meanwhile the victor’s shouts ascend the skies; The walls are scaled; the rolling flames arise; At length his wife (a form divine) appears, With piercing cries, and supplicating tears; She paints the horrors of a conquer’d town, The heroes slain, the palaces o’erthrown, The matrons ravish’d, the whole race enslaved: The warrior heard, he vanquish’d, and he saved. The Ætolians, long disdain’d, now took their turn, And left the chief their broken faith to mourn. Learn hence, betimes to curb pernicious ire, Nor stay till yonder fleets ascend in fire; Accept the presents; draw thy conquering sword; And be amongst our guardian gods adored.”

“Unhappy monarch! whom the Grecian race With shame deserting, heap with vile disgrace. Not such at Argos was their generous vow: Once all their voice, but ah! forgotten now: Ne’er to return, was then the common cry, Till Troy’s proud structures should in ashes lie. Behold them weeping for their native shore; What could their wives or helpless children more? What heart but melts to leave the tender train, And, one short month, endure the wintry main? Few leagues removed, we wish our peaceful seat, When the ship tosses, and the tempests beat: Then well may this long stay provoke their tears, The tedious length of nine revolving years. Not for their grief the Grecian host I blame; But vanquish’d! baffled! oh, eternal shame! Expect the time to Troy’s destruction given. And try the faith of Chalcas and of heaven. What pass’d at Aulis, Greece can witness bear,[89] And all who live to breathe this Phrygian air. Beside a fountain’s sacred brink we raised Our verdant altars, and the victims blazed: ’Twas where the plane-tree spread its shades around, The altars heaved; and from the crumbling ground A mighty dragon shot, of dire portent; From Jove himself the dreadful sign was sent. Straight to the tree his sanguine spires he roll’d, And curl’d around in many a winding fold; The topmost branch a mother-bird possess’d; Eight callow infants fill’d the mossy nest; Herself the ninth; the serpent, as he hung, Stretch’d his black jaws and crush’d the crying young; While hovering near, with miserable moan, The drooping mother wail’d her children gone. The mother last, as round the nest she flew, Seized by the beating wing, the monster slew; Nor long survived: to marble turn’d, he stands A lasting prodigy on Aulis’ sands. Such was the will of Jove; and hence we dare Trust in his omen, and support the war. For while around we gazed with wondering eyes, And trembling sought the powers with sacrifice, Full of his god, the reverend Chalcas cried,[90] ‘Ye Grecian warriors!

The cloud-compelling god her suit approved, And smiled superior on his best beloved; Then call’d his coursers, and his chariot took; The stedfast firmament beneath them shook: Rapt by the ethereal steeds the chariot roll’d; Brass were their hoofs, their curling manes of gold: Of heaven’s undrossy gold the gods array, Refulgent, flash’d intolerable day. High on the throne he shines: his coursers fly Between the extended earth and starry sky. But when to Ida’s topmost height he came, (Fair nurse of fountains, and of savage game,) Where o’er her pointed summits proudly raised, His fane breathed odours, and his altar blazed: There, from his radiant car, the sacred sire Of gods and men released the steeds of fire: Blue ambient mists the immortal steeds embraced; High on the cloudy point his seat he placed; Thence his broad eye the subject world surveys, The town, and tents, and navigable seas.

“Divine Achilles! wilt thou then retire, And leave our hosts in blood, our fleets on fire? If wrath so dreadful fill thy ruthless mind, How shall thy friend, thy Phœnix, stay behind? The royal Peleus, when from Pythia’s coast He sent thee early to the Achaian host; Thy youth as then in sage debates unskill’d, And new to perils of the direful field: He bade me teach thee all the ways of war, To shine in councils, and in camps to dare. Never, ah, never let me leave thy side! No time shall part us, and no fate divide, Not though the god, that breathed my life, restore The bloom I boasted, and the port I bore, When Greece of old beheld my youthful flames (Delightful Greece, the land of lovely dames), My father faithless to my mother’s arms, Old as he was, adored a stranger’s charms. I tried what youth could do (at her desire) To win the damsel, and prevent my sire. My sire with curses loads my hated head, And cries, ‘Ye furies! barren be his bed.’ Infernal Jove, the vengeful fiends below, And ruthless Proserpine, confirm’d his vow. Despair and grief distract my labouring mind! Gods! what a crime my impious heart design’d! I thought (but some kind god that thought suppress’d) To plunge the poniard in my father’s breast; Then meditate my flight: my friends in vain With prayers entreat me, and with force detain. On fat of rams, black bulls, and brawny swine, They daily feast, with draughts of fragrant wine; Strong guards they placed, and watch’d nine nights entire; The roofs and porches flamed with constant fire. The tenth, I forced the gates, unseen of all: And, favour’d by the night, o’erleap’d the wall, My travels thence through spacious Greece extend; In Phthia’s court at last my labours end. Your sire received me, as his son caress’d, With gifts enrich’d, and with possessions bless’d. The strong Dolopians thenceforth own’d my reign, And all the coast that runs along the main.

The weapon flew, its course unerring held, Unerring, but the heavenly shield repell’d The mortal dart; resulting with a bound From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground. Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain, Nor other lance, nor other hope remain; He calls Deiphobus, demands a spear— In vain, for no Deiphobus was there. All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh; “’Tis so—Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh! I deem’d Deiphobus had heard my call, But he secure lies guarded in the wall. A god deceived me; Pallas, ’twas thy deed, Death and black fate approach! ’tis I must bleed. No refuge now, no succour from above, Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove, Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate! ’Tis true I perish, yet I perish great: Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire, Let future ages hear it, and admire!”

The hardy warriors whom Bœotia bred, Penelius, Leitus, Prothoënor, led: With these Arcesilaus and Clonius stand, Equal in arms, and equal in command. These head the troops that rocky Aulis yields, And Eteon’s hills, and Hyrie’s watery fields, And Schoenos, Scholos, Græa near the main, And Mycalessia’s ample piny plain; Those who in Peteon or Ilesion dwell, Or Harma where Apollo’s prophet fell; Heleon and Hylè, which the springs o’erflow; And Medeon lofty, and Ocalea low; Or in the meads of Haliartus stray, Or Thespia sacred to the god of day: Onchestus, Neptune’s celebrated groves; Copæ, and Thisbè, famed for silver doves; For flocks Erythræ, Glissa for the vine; Platea green, and Nysa the divine; And they whom Thebé’s well-built walls inclose, Where Mydè, Eutresis, Coronè, rose; And Arnè rich, with purple harvests crown’d; And Anthedon, Bœotia’s utmost bound. Full fifty ships they send, and each conveys Twice sixty warriors through the foaming seas.[102]

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.