Iliad on Hope

“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!”

“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.”

“Now, Neptune! now, the important hour employ, To check a while the haughty hopes of Troy: While Jove yet rests, while yet my vapours shed The golden vision round his sacred head; For Juno’s love, and Somnus’ pleasing ties, Have closed those awful and eternal eyes.” Thus having said, the power of slumber flew, On human lids to drop the balmy dew. Neptune, with zeal increased, renews his care, And towering in the foremost ranks of war, Indignant thus—“Oh once of martial fame! O Greeks! if yet ye can deserve the name! This half-recover’d day shall Troy obtain? Shall Hector thunder at your ships again? Lo! still he vaunts, and threats the fleet with fires, While stern Achilles in his wrath retires. One hero’s loss too tamely you deplore, Be still yourselves, and ye shall need no more. Oh yet, if glory any bosom warms, Brace on your firmest helms, and stand to arms: His strongest spear each valiant Grecian wield, Each valiant Grecian seize his broadest shield; Let to the weak the lighter arms belong, The ponderous targe be wielded by the strong. Thus arm’d, not Hector shall our presence stay; Myself, ye Greeks! myself will lead the way.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Long since had Hector stain’d these fields with gore, Stretch’d by some Argive on his native shore: But he above, the sire of heaven, withstands, Mocks our attempts, and slights our just demands; The stubborn god, inflexible and hard, Forgets my service and deserved reward: Saved I, for this, his favourite son distress’d, By stern Eurystheus with long labours press’d? He begg’d, with tears he begg’d, in deep dismay; I shot from heaven, and gave his arm the day. Oh had my wisdom known this dire event, When to grim Pluto’s gloomy gates he went; The triple dog had never felt his chain, Nor Styx been cross’d, nor hell explored in vain. Averse to me of all his heaven of gods, At Thetis’ suit the partial Thunderer nods; To grace her gloomy, fierce, resenting son, My hopes are frustrate, and my Greeks undone. Some future day, perhaps, he may be moved To call his blue-eyed maid his best beloved. Haste, launch thy chariot, through yon ranks to ride; Myself will arm, and thunder at thy side. Then, goddess! say, shall Hector glory then? (That terror of the Greeks, that man of men) When Juno’s self, and Pallas shall appear, All dreadful in the crimson walks of war! What mighty Trojan then, on yonder shore, Expiring, pale, and terrible no more, Shall feast the fowls, and glut the dogs with gore?”

“Ye generous chiefs! on whom the immortals lay The cares and glories of this doubtful day; On whom your aids, your country’s hopes depend; Wise to consult, and active to defend! Here, at our gates, your brave efforts unite, Turn back the routed, and forbid the flight, Ere yet their wives’ soft arms the cowards gain, The sport and insult of the hostile train. When your commands have hearten’d every band, Ourselves, here fix’d, will make the dangerous stand; Press’d as we are, and sore of former fight, These straits demand our last remains of might. Meanwhile thou, Hector, to the town retire, And teach our mother what the gods require: Direct the queen to lead the assembled train Of Troy’s chief matrons to Minerva’s fane;[166] Unbar the sacred gates, and seek the power, With offer’d vows, in Ilion’s topmost tower. The largest mantle her rich wardrobes hold, Most prized for art, and labour’d o’er with gold, Before the goddess’ honour’d knees be spread, And twelve young heifers to her altars led: If so the power, atoned by fervent prayer, Our wives, our infants, and our city spare, And far avert Tydides’ wasteful ire, That mows whole troops, and makes all Troy retire; Not thus Achilles taught our hosts to dread, Sprung though he was from more than mortal bed; Not thus resistless ruled the stream of fight, In rage unbounded, and unmatch’d in might.”

Jupiter, in pursuance of the request of Thetis, sends a deceitful vision to Agamemnon, persuading him to lead the army to battle, in order to make the Greeks sensible of their want of Achilles. The general, who is deluded with the hopes of taking Troy without his assistance, but fears the army was discouraged by his absence, and the late plague, as well as by the length of time, contrives to make trial of their disposition by a stratagem. He first communicates his design to the princes in council, that he would propose a return to the soldiers, and that they should put a stop to them if the proposal was embraced. Then he assembles the whole host, and upon moving for a return to Greece, they unanimously agree to it, and run to prepare the ships. They are detained by the management of Ulysses, who chastises the insolence of Thersites. The assembly is recalled, several speeches made on the occasion, and at length the advice of Nestor followed, which was to make a general muster of the troops, and to divide them into their several nations, before they proceeded to battle. This gives occasion to the poet to enumerate all the forces of the Greeks and Trojans, and in a large catalogue. The time employed in this book consists not entirely of one day. The scene lies in the Grecian camp, and upon the sea-shore; towards the end it removes to Troy.

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.”

The giant spoke; and in a stupid gaze The host beheld him, silent with amaze! ’Twas thou, Euryalus! who durst aspire To meet his might, and emulate thy sire, The great Mecistheus; who in days of yore In Theban games the noblest trophy bore, (The games ordain’d dead OEdipus to grace,) And singly vanquish the Cadmean race. Him great Tydides urges to contend, Warm with the hopes of conquest for his friend; Officious with the cincture girds him round; And to his wrist the gloves of death are bound. Amid the circle now each champion stands, And poises high in air his iron hands; With clashing gauntlets now they fiercely close, Their crackling jaws re-echo to the blows, And painful sweat from all their members flows. At length Epeus dealt a weighty blow Full on the cheek of his unwary foe; Beneath that ponderous arm’s resistless sway Down dropp’d he, nerveless, and extended lay. As a large fish, when winds and waters roar, By some huge billow dash’d against the shore, Lies panting; not less batter’d with his wound, The bleeding hero pants upon the ground. To rear his fallen foe, the victor lends, Scornful, his hand; and gives him to his friends; Whose arms support him, reeling through the throng, And dragging his disabled legs along; Nodding, his head hangs down his shoulder o’er; His mouth and nostrils pour the clotted gore;[292] Wrapp’d round in mists he lies, and lost to thought; His friends receive the bowl, too dearly bought.

“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!”

On this bright sceptre now the king reclined, And artful thus pronounced the speech design’d: “Ye sons of Mars, partake your leader’s care, Heroes of Greece, and brothers of the war! Of partial Jove with justice I complain, And heavenly oracles believed in vain A safe return was promised to our toils, Renown’d, triumphant, and enrich’d with spoils. Now shameful flight alone can save the host, Our blood, our treasure, and our glory lost. So Jove decrees, resistless lord of all! At whose command whole empires rise or fall: He shakes the feeble props of human trust, And towns and armies humbles to the dust. What shame to Greece a fruitful war to wage, Oh, lasting shame in every future age! Once great in arms, the common scorn we grow, Repulsed and baffled by a feeble foe. So small their number, that if wars were ceased, And Greece triumphant held a general feast, All rank’d by tens, whole decades when they dine Must want a Trojan slave to pour the wine.[84] But other forces have our hopes o’erthrown, And Troy prevails by armies not her own. Now nine long years of mighty Jove are run, Since first the labours of this war begun: Our cordage torn, decay’d our vessels lie, And scarce insure the wretched power to fly. Haste, then, for ever leave the Trojan wall! Our weeping wives, our tender children call: Love, duty, safety, summon us away, ’Tis nature’s voice, and nature we obey. Our shatter’d barks may yet transport us o’er, Safe and inglorious, to our native shore. Fly, Grecians, fly, your sails and oars employ, And dream no more of heaven-defended Troy.”

“In free debate, my friends, your sentence speak; For me, I move, before the morning break, To raise our camp: too dangerous here our post, Far from Troy walls, and on a naked coast. I deem’d not Greece so dreadful, while engaged In mutual feuds her king and hero raged; Then, while we hoped our armies might prevail We boldly camp’d beside a thousand sail. I dread Pelides now: his rage of mind Not long continues to the shores confined, Nor to the fields, where long in equal fray Contending nations won and lost the day; For Troy, for Troy, shall henceforth be the strife, And the hard contest not for fame, but life. Haste then to Ilion, while the favouring night Detains these terrors, keeps that arm from fight. If but the morrow’s sun behold us here, That arm, those terrors, we shall feel, not fear; And hearts that now disdain, shall leap with joy, If heaven permit them then to enter Troy. Let not my fatal prophecy be true, Nor what I tremble but to think, ensue. Whatever be our fate, yet let us try What force of thought and reason can supply; Let us on counsel for our guard depend; The town her gates and bulwarks shall defend. When morning dawns, our well-appointed powers, Array’d in arms, shall line the lofty towers. Let the fierce hero, then, when fury calls, Vent his mad vengeance on our rocky walls, Or fetch a thousand circles round the plain, Till his spent coursers seek the fleet again: So may his rage be tired, and labour’d down! And dogs shall tear him ere he sack the town.”

Demoleon next, Antenor’s offspring, laid Breathless in dust, the price of rashness paid. The impatient steel with full-descending sway Forced through his brazen helm its furious way, Resistless drove the batter’d skull before, And dash’d and mingled all the brains with gore. This sees Hippodamas, and seized with fright, Deserts his chariot for a swifter flight: The lance arrests him: an ignoble wound The panting Trojan rivets to the ground. He groans away his soul: not louder roars, At Neptune’s shrine on Helicè’s high shores, The victim bull; the rocks re-bellow round, And ocean listens to the grateful sound. Then fell on Polydore his vengeful rage,[268] The youngest hope of Priam’s stooping age: (Whose feet for swiftness in the race surpass’d:) Of all his sons, the dearest, and the last. To the forbidden field he takes his flight, In the first folly of a youthful knight, To vaunt his swiftness wheels around the plain, But vaunts not long, with all his swiftness slain: Struck where the crossing belts unite behind, And golden rings the double back-plate join’d Forth through the navel burst the thrilling steel; And on his knees with piercing shrieks he fell; The rushing entrails pour’d upon the ground His hands collect; and darkness wraps him round. When Hector view’d, all ghastly in his gore, Thus sadly slain the unhappy Polydore, A cloud of sorrow overcast his sight, His soul no longer brook’d the distant fight: Full in Achilles’ dreadful front he came, And shook his javelin like a waving flame. The son of Peleus sees, with joy possess’d, His heart high-bounding in his rising breast. “And, lo! the man on whom black fates attend; The man, that slew Achilles, is his friend! No more shall Hector’s and Pelides’ spear Turn from each other in the walks of war.”— Then with revengeful eyes he scann’d him o’er: “Come, and receive thy fate!” He spake no more.

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

“Ye valiant Trojans, with attention hear! Ye Dardan bands, and generous aids, give ear! This day, we hoped, would wrap in conquering flame Greece with her ships, and crown our toils with fame. But darkness now, to save the cowards, falls, And guards them trembling in their wooden walls. Obey the night, and use her peaceful hours Our steeds to forage, and refresh our powers. Straight from the town be sheep and oxen sought, And strengthening bread and generous wine be brought. Wide o’er the field, high blazing to the sky, Let numerous fires the absent sun supply, The flaming piles with plenteous fuel raise, Till the bright morn her purple beam displays; Lest, in the silence and the shades of night, Greece on her sable ships attempt her flight. Not unmolested let the wretches gain Their lofty decks, or safely cleave the main; Some hostile wound let every dart bestow, Some lasting token of the Phrygian foe, Wounds, that long hence may ask their spouses’ care. And warn their children from a Trojan war. Now through the circuit of our Ilion wall, Let sacred heralds sound the solemn call; To bid the sires with hoary honours crown’d, And beardless youths, our battlements surround. Firm be the guard, while distant lie our powers, And let the matrons hang with lights the towers; Lest, under covert of the midnight shade, The insidious foe the naked town invade. Suffice, to-night, these orders to obey; A nobler charge shall rouse the dawning day. The gods, I trust, shall give to Hector’s hand From these detested foes to free the land, Who plough’d, with fates averse, the watery way: For Trojan vultures a predestined prey. Our common safety must be now the care; But soon as morning paints the fields of air, Sheathed in bright arms let every troop engage, And the fired fleet behold the battle rage. Then, then shall Hector and Tydides prove Whose fates are heaviest in the scales of Jove. To-morrow’s light (O haste the glorious morn!)

“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.”

“What art thou, speak, that on designs unknown, While others sleep, thus range the camp alone; Seek’st thou some friend or nightly sentinel? Stand off, approach not, but thy purpose tell.”

To this Tydides, with a gloomy frown: “Think not to live, though all the truth be shown: Shall we dismiss thee, in some future strife To risk more bravely thy now forfeit life? Or that again our camps thou may’st explore? No—once a traitor, thou betray’st no more.”

“He bleeds! (he cries) some god has sped my dart! Would the same god had fix’d it in his heart! So Troy, relieved from that wide-wasting hand, Should breathe from slaughter and in combat stand: Whose sons now tremble at his darted spear, As scatter’d lambs the rushing lion fear.”

“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.”

“For that (said Jove) suffice another day! But eager love denies the least delay. Let softer cares the present hour employ, And be these moments sacred all to joy. Ne’er did my soul so strong a passion prove, Or for an earthly, or a heavenly love: Not when I press’d Ixion’s matchless dame, Whence rose Pirithous like the gods in fame: Not when fair Danae felt the shower of gold Stream into life, whence Perseus brave and bold. Not thus I burn’d for either Theban dame: (Bacchus from this, from that Alcides came:) Nor Phœnix’ daughter, beautiful and young, Whence godlike Rhadamanth and Minos sprung.[236] Not thus I burn’d for fair Latona’s face, Nor comelier Ceres’ more majestic grace. Not thus even for thyself I felt desire, As now my veins receive the pleasing fire.”

“Unhappy coursers of immortal strain, Exempt from age, and deathless, now in vain; Did we your race on mortal man bestow, Only, alas! to share in mortal woe? For ah! what is there of inferior birth, That breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth; What wretched creature of what wretched kind, Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind? A miserable race! but cease to mourn: For not by you shall Priam’s son be borne High on the splendid car: one glorious prize He rashly boasts: the rest our will denies. Ourself will swiftness to your nerves impart, Ourself with rising spirits swell your heart. Automedon your rapid flight shall bear Safe to the navy through the storm of war. For yet ’tis given to Troy to ravage o’er The field, and spread her slaughters to the shore; The sun shall see her conquer, till his fall With sacred darkness shades the face of all.”

“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.”

“Go then (return’d the sire) without delay, Exert thy will: I give the Fates their way.” Swift at the mandate pleased Tritonia flies, And stoops impetuous from the cleaving skies.

Then thus the chief his dying accents drew: “Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew: The Furies that relentless breast have steel’d, And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield. Yet think, a day will come, when fate’s decree And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on thee; Phœbus and Paris shall avenge my fate, And stretch thee here before the Scæan gate.”[278]

So spake the mournful dame: her matrons hear, Sigh back her sighs, and answer tear with tear.

“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.”

“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.”

The afflicted monarch shiver’d with despair; Pale grew his face, and upright stood his hair; Sunk was his heart; his colour went and came; A sudden trembling shook his aged frame: When Hermes, greeting, touch’d his royal hand, And, gentle, thus accosts with kind demand: