Iliad on Healing

But Hector, from this scene of slaughter far, Raged on the left, and ruled the tide of war: Loud groans proclaim his progress through the plain, And deep Scamander swells with heaps of slain. There Nestor and Idomeneus oppose The warrior’s fury; there the battle glows; There fierce on foot, or from the chariot’s height, His sword deforms the beauteous ranks of fight. The spouse of Helen, dealing darts around, Had pierced Machaon with a distant wound: In his right shoulder the broad shaft appear’d, And trembling Greece for her physician fear’d. To Nestor then Idomeneus begun: “Glory of Greece, old Neleus’ valiant son! Ascend thy chariot, haste with speed away, And great Machaon to the ships convey; A wise physician skill’d our wounds to heal, Is more than armies to the public weal.” Old Nestor mounts the seat; beside him rode The wounded offspring of the healing god. He lends the lash; the steeds with sounding feet Shake the dry field, and thunder toward the fleet.

“All-seeing monarch! whether Lycia’s coast, Or sacred Ilion, thy bright presence boast, Powerful alike to ease the wretch’s smart; O hear me! god of every healing art! Lo! stiff with clotted blood, and pierced with pain, That thrills my arm, and shoots through every vein, I stand unable to sustain the spear, And sigh, at distance from the glorious war. Low in the dust is great Sarpedon laid, Nor Jove vouchsafed his hapless offspring aid; But thou, O god of health! thy succour lend, To guard the relics of my slaughter’d friend: For thou, though distant, canst restore my might, To head my Lycians, and support the fight.”

The Œchalian race, in those high towers contain’d Where once Eurytus in proud triumph reign’d, Or where her humbler turrets Tricca rears, Or where Ithome, rough with rocks, appears, In thirty sail the sparkling waves divide, Which Podalirius and Machaon guide. To these his skill their parent-god imparts, Divine professors of the healing arts.

“Ye kings and warriors! may your vows be crown’d, And Troy’s proud walls lie level with the ground. May Jove restore you when your toils are o’er Safe to the pleasures of your native shore. But, oh! relieve a wretched parent’s pain, And give Chryseïs to these arms again; If mercy fail, yet let my presents move, And dread avenging Phœbus, son of Jove.”

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!”

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

The senior spoke and sate. To whom replied The graceful husband of the Spartan bride: “Cold counsels, Trojan, may become thy years But sound ungrateful in a warrior’s ears: Old man, if void of fallacy or art, Thy words express the purpose of thy heart, Thou, in thy time, more sound advice hast given; But wisdom has its date, assign’d by heaven. Then hear me, princes of the Trojan name! Their treasures I’ll restore, but not the dame; My treasures too, for peace, I will resign; But be this bright possession ever mine.”

“How long, unhappy! shall thy sorrows flow, And thy heart waste with life-consuming woe: Mindless of food, or love, whose pleasing reign Soothes weary life, and softens human pain? O snatch the moments yet within thy power; Not long to live, indulge the amorous hour! Lo! Jove himself (for Jove’s command I bear) Forbids to tempt the wrath of heaven too far. No longer then (his fury if thou dread) Detain the relics of great Hector dead; Nor vent on senseless earth thy vengeance vain, But yield to ransom, and restore the slain.”

“Before thy presence, father, I appear, With conscious shame and reverential fear. Ah! had I died, ere to these walls I fled, False to my country, and my nuptial bed; My brothers, friends, and daughter left behind, False to them all, to Paris only kind! For this I mourn, till grief or dire disease Shall waste the form whose fault it was to please! The king of kings, Atrides, you survey, Great in the war, and great in arts of sway: My brother once, before my days of shame! And oh! that still he bore a brother’s name!”

“Take this, and pour to Jove; that safe from harms His grace restore thee to our roof and arms. Since victor of thy fears, and slighting mine, Heaven, or thy soul, inspires this bold design; Pray to that god, who high on Ida’s brow Surveys thy desolated realms below, His winged messenger to send from high, And lead thy way with heavenly augury: Let the strong sovereign of the plumy race Tower on the right of yon ethereal space. That sign beheld, and strengthen’d from above, Boldly pursue the journey mark’d by Jove: But if the god his augury denies, Suppress thy impulse, nor reject advice.”

Thus he who shakes Olympus with his nod; Then gave to Pæon’s care the bleeding god.[160] With gentle hand the balm he pour’d around, And heal’d the immortal flesh, and closed the wound. As when the fig’s press’d juice, infused in cream, To curds coagulates the liquid stream, Sudden the fluids fix the parts combined; Such, and so soon, the ethereal texture join’d. Cleansed from the dust and gore, fair Hebe dress’d His mighty limbs in an immortal vest. Glorious he sat, in majesty restored, Fast by the throne of heaven’s superior lord. Juno and Pallas mount the bless’d abodes, Their task perform’d, and mix among the gods.

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

To him the king: “Oh Ajax, oh my friend! Haste, and Patroclus’ loved remains defend: The body to Achilles to restore Demands our care; alas, we can no more! For naked now, despoiled of arms, he lies; And Hector glories in the dazzling prize.” He said, and touch’d his heart. The raging pair Pierced the thick battle, and provoke the war. Already had stern Hector seized his head, And doom’d to Trojan gods the unhappy dead; But soon as Ajax rear’d his tower-like shield, Sprung to his car, and measured back the field, His train to Troy the radiant armour bear, To stand a trophy of his fame in war.

“Ye sons of Atreus, and ye Greeks, give ear! The words of Troy, and Troy’s great monarch, hear. Pleased may ye hear (so heaven succeed my prayers) What Paris, author of the war, declares. The spoils and treasures he to Ilion bore (Oh had he perish’d ere they touch’d our shore!) He proffers injured Greece: with large increase Of added Trojan wealth to buy the peace. But to restore the beauteous bride again, This Greece demands, and Troy requests in vain. Next, O ye chiefs! we ask a truce to burn Our slaughter’d heroes, and their bones inurn. That done, once more the fate of war be tried, And whose the conquest, mighty Jove decide!”

Eurypylus replies: “No more, my friend; Greece is no more! this day her glories end; Even to the ships victorious Troy pursues, Her force increasing as her toil renews. Those chiefs, that used her utmost rage to meet, Lie pierced with wounds, and bleeding in the fleet. But, thou, Patroclus! act a friendly part, Lead to my ships, and draw this deadly dart; With lukewarm water wash the gore away; With healing balms the raging smart allay, Such as sage Chiron, sire of pharmacy, Once taught Achilles, and Achilles thee. Of two famed surgeons, Podalirius stands This hour surrounded by the Trojan bands; And great Machaon, wounded in his tent, Now wants that succour which so oft he lent.”

“Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view’d Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued. But now some god within me bids me try Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die. Yet on the verge of battle let us stay, And for a moment’s space suspend the day; Let Heaven’s high powers be call’d to arbitrate The just conditions of this stern debate, (Eternal witnesses of all below, And faithful guardians of the treasured vow!) To them I swear; if, victor in the strife, Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life, No vile dishonour shall thy corse pursue; Stripp’d of its arms alone (the conqueror’s due) The rest to Greece uninjured I’ll restore: Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more.”

While every Trojan thus, and every aid, The advice of wise Polydamas obey’d, Asius alone, confiding in his car, His vaunted coursers urged to meet the war. Unhappy hero! and advised in vain; Those wheels returning ne’er shall mark the plain; No more those coursers with triumphant joy Restore their master to the gates of Troy! Black death attends behind the Grecian wall, And great Idomeneus shall boast thy fall! Fierce to the left he drives, where from the plain The flying Grecians strove their ships to gain; Swift through the wall their horse and chariots pass’d, The gates half-open’d to receive the last. Thither, exulting in his force, he flies: His following host with clamours rend the skies: To plunge the Grecians headlong in the main, Such their proud hopes; but all their hopes were vain!

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.

While thus the thunder of the battle raged, And labouring armies round the works engaged, Still in the tent Patroclus sat to tend The good Eurypylus, his wounded friend. He sprinkles healing balms, to anguish kind, And adds discourse, the medicine of the mind. But when he saw, ascending up the fleet, Victorious Troy; then, starting from his seat, With bitter groans his sorrows he express’d, He wrings his hands, he beats his manly breast. “Though yet thy state require redress (he cries) Depart I must: what horrors strike my eyes! Charged with Achilles’ high command I go, A mournful witness of this scene of woe; I haste to urge him by his country’s care To rise in arms, and shine again in war. Perhaps some favouring god his soul may bend; The voice is powerful of a faithful friend.”

“Thou comest, fair Thetis, but with grief o’ercast; Maternal sorrows; long, ah, long to last! Suffice, we know and we partake thy cares; But yield to fate, and hear what Jove declares. Nine days are past since all the court above In Hector’s cause have moved the ear of Jove; ’Twas voted, Hermes from his godlike foe By stealth should bear him, but we will’d not so: We will, thy son himself the corse restore, And to his conquest add this glory more. Then hie thee to him, and our mandate bear: Tell him he tempts the wrath of heaven too far; Nor let him more (our anger if he dread) Vent his mad vengeance on the sacred dead; But yield to ransom and the father’s prayer; The mournful father, Iris shall prepare With gifts to sue; and offer to his hands Whate’er his honour asks, or heart demands.”

Diomed, assisted by Pallas, performs wonders in this day’s battle. Pandarus wounds him with an arrow, but the goddess cures him, enables him to discern gods from mortals, and prohibits him from contending with any of the former, excepting Venus. Æneas joins Pandarus to oppose him; Pandarus is killed, and Æneas in great danger but for the assistance of Venus; who, as she is removing her son from the fight, is wounded on the hand by Diomed. Apollo seconds her in his rescue, and at length carries off Æneas to Troy, where he is healed in the temple of Pergamus. Mars rallies the Trojans, and assists Hector to make a stand. In the meantime Æneas is restored to the field, and they overthrow several of the Greeks; among the rest Tlepolemus is slain by Sarpedon. Juno and Minerva descend to resist Mars; the latter incites Diomed to go against that god; he wounds him, and sends him groaning to heaven. The first battle continues through this book. The scene is the same as in the former.

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

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

“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!”

“In what vain promise, gods! did I engage, When to console Menoetius’ feeble age, I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore, Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia’s shore?[252] But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain, The long, long views of poor designing man! One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike, And Troy’s black sands must drink our blood alike: Me too a wretched mother shall deplore, An aged father never see me more! Yet, my Patroclus! yet a space I stay, Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way. Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid, Shall Hector’s head be offer’d to thy shade; That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine; And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line, Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire; Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre. Thus let me lie till then! thus, closely press’d, Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast! While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay, Weep all the night and murmur all the day: Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide, Our swords kept time, and conquer’d side by side.”

“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!”

Then thus the king: “Shall I my prize resign With tame content, and thou possess’d of thine? Great as thou art, and like a god in fight, Think not to rob me of a soldier’s right. At thy demand shall I restore the maid? First let the just equivalent be paid; Such as a king might ask; and let it be A treasure worthy her, and worthy me. Or grant me this, or with a monarch’s claim This hand shall seize some other captive dame. The mighty Ajax shall his prize resign;[55] Ulysses’ spoils, or even thy own, be mine. The man who suffers, loudly may complain; And rage he may, but he shall rage in vain. But this when time requires.—It now remains We launch a bark to plough the watery plains, And waft the sacrifice to Chrysa’s shores, With chosen pilots, and with labouring oars. Soon shall the fair the sable ship ascend, And some deputed prince the charge attend: This Creta’s king, or Ajax shall fulfil, Or wise Ulysses see perform’d our will; Or, if our royal pleasure shall ordain, Achilles’ self conduct her o’er the main; Let fierce Achilles, dreadful in his rage, The god propitiate, and the pest assuage.”

“Why comes Æneas through the ranks so far? Seeks he to meet Achilles’ arm in war, In hope the realms of Priam to enjoy, And prove his merits to the throne of Troy? Grant that beneath thy lance Achilles dies, The partial monarch may refuse the prize; Sons he has many; those thy pride may quell: And ’tis his fault to love those sons too well, Or, in reward of thy victorious hand, Has Troy proposed some spacious tract of land, An ample forest, or a fair domain, Of hills for vines, and arable for grain? Even this, perhaps, will hardly prove thy lot. But can Achilles be so soon forgot? Once (as I think) you saw this brandish’d spear, And then the great Æneas seem’d to fear: With hearty haste from Ida’s mount he fled, Nor, till he reach’d Lyrnessus, turn’d his head. Her lofty walls not long our progress stay’d; Those, Pallas, Jove, and we, in ruins laid: In Grecian chains her captive race were cast; ’Tis true, the great Æneas fled too fast. Defrauded of my conquest once before, What then I lost, the gods this day restore. Go; while thou may’st, avoid the threaten’d fate; Fools stay to feel it, and are wise too late.”

The third bold game Achilles next demands, And calls the wrestlers to the level sands: A massy tripod for the victor lies, Of twice six oxen its reputed price; And next, the loser’s spirits to restore, A female captive, valued but at four. Scarce did the chief the vigorous strife propose When tower-like Ajax and Ulysses rose. Amid the ring each nervous rival stands, Embracing rigid with implicit hands. Close lock’d above, their heads and arms are mix’d: Below, their planted feet at distance fix’d; Like two strong rafters which the builder forms, Proof to the wintry winds and howling storms, Their tops connected, but at wider space Fix’d on the centre stands their solid base. Now to the grasp each manly body bends; The humid sweat from every pore descends; Their bones resound with blows: sides, shoulders, thighs Swell to each gripe, and bloody tumours rise. Nor could Ulysses, for his art renown’d, O’erturn the strength of Ajax on the ground; Nor could the strength of Ajax overthrow The watchful caution of his artful foe. While the long strife even tired the lookers on, Thus to Ulysses spoke great Telamon: “Or let me lift thee, chief, or lift thou me: Prove we our force, and Jove the rest decree.”

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!”

The battle renewing with double ardour upon the return of Hector, Minerva is under apprehensions for the Greeks. Apollo, seeing her descend from Olympus, joins her near the Scæan gate. They agree to put off the general engagement for that day, and incite Hector to challenge the Greeks to a single combat. Nine of the princes accepting the challenge, the lot is cast and falls upon Ajax. These heroes, after several attacks, are parted by the night. The Trojans calling a council, Antenor purposes the delivery of Helen to the Greeks, to which Paris will not consent, but offers to restore them her riches. Priam sends a herald to make this offer, and to demand a truce for burning the dead, the last of which only is agreed to by Agamemnon. When the funerals are performed, the Greeks, pursuant to the advice of Nestor, erect a fortification to protect their fleet and camp, flanked with towers, and defended by a ditch and palisades. Neptune testifies his jealousy at this work, but is pacified by a promise from Jupiter. Both armies pass the night in feasting but Jupiter disheartens the Trojans with thunder, and other signs of his wrath. The three and twentieth day ends with the duel of Hector and Ajax, the next day the truce is agreed; another is taken up in the funeral rites of the slain and one more in building the fortification before the ships. So that somewhat about three days is employed in this book. The scene lies wholly in the field.

“Where lies my way? to enter in the wall? Honour and shame the ungenerous thought recall: Shall proud Polydamas before the gate Proclaim, his counsels are obey’d too late, Which timely follow’d but the former night, What numbers had been saved by Hector’s flight? That wise advice rejected with disdain, I feel my folly in my people slain. Methinks my suffering country’s voice I hear, But most her worthless sons insult my ear, On my rash courage charge the chance of war, And blame those virtues which they cannot share. No—if I e’er return, return I must Glorious, my country’s terror laid in dust: Or if I perish, let her see me fall In field at least, and fighting for her wall. And yet suppose these measures I forego, Approach unarm’d, and parley with the foe, The warrior-shield, the helm, and lance, lay down, And treat on terms of peace to save the town: The wife withheld, the treasure ill-detain’d (Cause of the war, and grievance of the land) With honourable justice to restore: And add half Ilion’s yet remaining store, Which Troy shall, sworn, produce; that injured Greece May share our wealth, and leave our walls in peace. But why this thought? Unarm’d if I should go, What hope of mercy from this vengeful foe, But woman-like to fall, and fall without a blow? We greet not here, as man conversing man, Met at an oak, or journeying o’er a plain; No season now for calm familiar talk, Like youths and maidens in an evening walk: War is our business, but to whom is given To die, or triumph, that, determine Heaven!”

“Health to Achilles! happy are thy guests! Not those more honour’d whom Atrides feasts: Though generous plenty crown thy loaded boards, That, Agamemnon’s regal tent affords; But greater cares sit heavy on our souls, Nor eased by banquets or by flowing bowls. What scenes of slaughter in yon fields appear! The dead we mourn, and for the living fear; Greece on the brink of fate all doubtful stands, And owns no help but from thy saving hands: Troy and her aids for ready vengeance call; Their threatening tents already shade our wall: Hear how with shouts their conquest they proclaim, And point at every ship their vengeful flame! For them the father of the gods declares, Theirs are his omens, and his thunder theirs. See, full of Jove, avenging Hector rise! See! heaven and earth the raging chief defies; What fury in his breast, what lightning in his eyes! He waits but for the morn, to sink in flame The ships, the Greeks, and all the Grecian name. Heavens! how my country’s woes distract my mind, Lest Fate accomplish all his rage design’d! And must we, gods! our heads inglorious lay In Trojan dust, and this the fatal day? Return, Achilles: oh return, though late, To save thy Greeks, and stop the course of Fate; If in that heart or grief or courage lies, Rise to redeem; ah, yet to conquer, rise! The day may come, when, all our warriors slain, That heart shall melt, that courage rise in vain: Regard in time, O prince divinely brave! Those wholesome counsels which thy father gave. When Peleus in his aged arms embraced His parting son, these accents were his last:

“Along fair Arene’s delightful plain Soft Minyas rolls his waters to the main: There, horse and foot, the Pylian troops unite, And sheathed in arms, expect the dawning light. Thence, ere the sun advanced his noon-day flame, To great Alphaeus’ sacred source we came. There first to Jove our solemn rites were paid; An untamed heifer pleased the blue-eyed maid; A bull, Alphaeus; and a bull was slain To the blue monarch of the watery main. In arms we slept, beside the winding flood, While round the town the fierce Epeians stood. Soon as the sun, with all-revealing ray, Flamed in the front of Heaven, and gave the day. Bright scenes of arms, and works of war appear; The nations meet; there Pylos, Elis here. The first who fell, beneath my javelin bled; King Augias’ son, and spouse of Agamede: (She that all simples’ healing virtues knew, And every herb that drinks the morning dew:) I seized his car, the van of battle led; The Epeians saw, they trembled, and they fled. The foe dispersed, their bravest warrior kill’d, Fierce as the whirlwind now I swept the field: Full fifty captive chariots graced my train; Two chiefs from each fell breathless to the plain. Then Actor’s sons had died, but Neptune shrouds The youthful heroes in a veil of clouds. O’er heapy shields, and o’er the prostrate throng, Collecting spoils, and slaughtering all along, Through wide Buprasian fields we forced the foes, Where o’er the vales the Olenian rocks arose; Till Pallas stopp’d us where Alisium flows. Even there the hindmost of the rear I slay, And the same arm that led concludes the day; Then back to Pyle triumphant take my way. There to high Jove were public thanks assign’d, As first of gods; to Nestor, of mankind. Such then I was, impell’d by youthful blood; So proved my valour for my country’s good.

Then tell him: loud, that all the Greeks may hear, And learn to scorn the wretch they basely fear; (For arm’d in impudence, mankind he braves, And meditates new cheats on all his slaves; Though shameless as he is, to face these eyes Is what he dares not: if he dares he dies;) Tell him, all terms, all commerce I decline, Nor share his council, nor his battle join; For once deceiv’d, was his; but twice were mine, No—let the stupid prince, whom Jove deprives Of sense and justice, run where frenzy drives; His gifts are hateful: kings of such a kind Stand but as slaves before a noble mind, Not though he proffer’d all himself possess’d, And all his rapine could from others wrest: Not all the golden tides of wealth that crown The many-peopled Orchomenian town;[209] Not all proud Thebes’ unrivall’d walls contain, The world’s great empress on the Egyptian plain (That spreads her conquests o’er a thousand states, And pours her heroes through a hundred gates, Two hundred horsemen and two hundred cars From each wide portal issuing to the wars);[210] Though bribes were heap’d on bribes, in number more Than dust in fields, or sands along the shore; Should all these offers for my friendship call, ’Tis he that offers, and I scorn them all. Atrides’ daughter never shall be led (An ill-match’d consort) to Achilles’ bed; Like golden Venus though she charm’d the heart, And vied with Pallas in the works of art; Some greater Greek let those high nuptials grace, I hate alliance with a tyrant’s race. If heaven restore me to my realms with life, The reverend Peleus shall elect my wife; Thessalian nymphs there are of form divine, And kings that sue to mix their blood with mine. Bless’d in kind love, my years shall glide away, Content with just hereditary sway; There, deaf for ever to the martial strife, Enjoy the dear prerogative of life. Life is not to be bought with heaps of gold.

“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.

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!

With that the chief the tender victims slew, And in the dust their bleeding bodies threw; The vital spirit issued at the wound, And left the members quivering on the ground. From the same urn they drink the mingled wine, And add libations to the powers divine. While thus their prayers united mount the sky, “Hear, mighty Jove! and hear, ye gods on high! And may their blood, who first the league confound, Shed like this wine, disdain the thirsty ground; May all their consorts serve promiscuous lust, And all their lust be scatter’d as the dust!” Thus either host their imprecations join’d, Which Jove refused, and mingled with the wind.

“Andromache! my soul’s far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. Fix’d is the term to all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth: No force can then resist, no flight can save, All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home, There guide the spindle, and direct the loom: Me glory summons to the martial scene, The field of combat is the sphere for men. Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger as the first in fame.”

Now from nocturnal sweat and sanguine stain They cleanse their bodies in the neighb’ring main: Then in the polished bath, refresh’d from toil, Their joints they supple with dissolving oil, In due repast indulge the genial hour, And first to Pallas the libations pour: They sit, rejoicing in her aid divine, And the crown’d goblet foams with floods of wine.

To him the chief: “What then remains to do? The event of things the gods alone can view. Charged by Achilles’ great command I fly, And bear with haste the Pylian king’s reply: But thy distress this instant claims relief.” He said, and in his arms upheld the chief. The slaves their master’s slow approach survey’d, And hides of oxen on the floor display’d: There stretch’d at length the wounded hero lay; Patroclus cut the forky steel away: Then in his hands a bitter root he bruised; The wound he wash’d, the styptic juice infused. The closing flesh that instant ceased to glow, The wound to torture, and the blood to flow.

This just rebuke inflamed the Lycian crew; They join, they thicken, and the assault renew: Unmoved the embodied Greeks their fury dare, And fix’d support the weight of all the war; Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian powers, Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian towers. As on the confines of adjoining grounds, Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds; They tug, they sweat; but neither gain, nor yield, One foot, one inch, of the contended field; Thus obstinate to death, they fight, they fall; Nor these can keep, nor those can win the wall. Their manly breasts are pierced with many a wound, Loud strokes are heard, and rattling arms resound; The copious slaughter covers all the shore, And the high ramparts drip with human gore.

“With equal ardour (Telamon returns) My soul is kindled, and my bosom burns; New rising spirits all my force alarm, Lift each impatient limb, and brace my arm. This ready arm, unthinking, shakes the dart; The blood pours back, and fortifies my heart: Singly, methinks, yon towering chief I meet, And stretch the dreadful Hector at my feet.”

Him, near his tent, Meriones attends; Whom thus he questions: “Ever best of friends! O say, in every art of battle skill’d, What holds thy courage from so brave a field? On some important message art thou bound, Or bleeds my friend by some unhappy wound? Inglorious here, my soul abhors to stay, And glows with prospects of th’ approaching day.”

He spoke, and bade the sad attendants round Cleanse the pale corse, and wash each honour’d wound. A massy caldron of stupendous frame They brought, and placed it o’er the rising flame: Then heap’d the lighted wood; the flame divides Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides: In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream; The boiling water bubbles to the brim. The body then they bathe with pious toil, Embalm the wounds, anoint the limbs with oil, High on a bed of state extended laid, And decent cover’d with a linen shade; Last o’er the dead the milk-white veil they threw; That done, their sorrows and their sighs renew.

“That unavailing care be laid aside, (The azure goddess to her son replied,) Whole years untouch’d, uninjured shall remain, Fresh as in life, the carcase of the slain. But go, Achilles, as affairs require, Before the Grecian peers renounce thine ire: Then uncontroll’d in boundless war engage, And heaven with strength supply the mighty rage!”

“For this (the stern Æacides replies) Some less important season may suffice, When the stern fury of the war is o’er, And wrath, extinguish’d, burns my breast no more. By Hector slain, their faces to the sky, All grim with gaping wounds, our heroes lie: Those call to war! and might my voice incite, Now, now, this instant, shall commence the fight: Then, when the day’s complete, let generous bowls, And copious banquets, glad your weary souls. Let not my palate know the taste of food, Till my insatiate rage be cloy’d with blood: Pale lies my friend, with wounds disfigured o’er, And his cold feet are pointed to the door. Revenge is all my soul! no meaner care, Interest, or thought, has room to harbour there; Destruction be my feast, and mortal wounds, And scenes of blood, and agonizing sounds.”

With that, his weapon deep inflicts the wound; The bleeding savage tumbles to the ground; The sacred herald rolls the victim slain (A feast for fish) into the foaming main.

“If yet Achilles have a friend, whose care Is bent to please him, this request forbear; Till yonder sun descend, ah, let me pay To grief and anguish one abstemious day.”