Iliad on Service

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

At this, soft slumber from his eyelids fled; The warrior saw the hoary chief, and said: “Wondrous old man! whose soul no respite knows, Though years and honours bid thee seek repose, Let younger Greeks our sleeping warriors wake; Ill fits thy age these toils to undertake.” “My friend, (he answered,) generous is thy care; These toils, my subjects and my sons might bear; Their loyal thoughts and pious love conspire To ease a sovereign and relieve a sire: But now the last despair surrounds our host; No hour must pass, no moment must be lost; Each single Greek, in this conclusive strife, Stands on the sharpest edge of death or life: Yet, if my years thy kind regard engage, Employ thy youth as I employ my age; Succeed to these my cares, and rouse the rest; He serves me most, who serves his country best.”

“O Smintheus! sprung from fair Latona’s line,[47] Thou guardian power of Cilla the divine,[48] Thou source of light! whom Tenedos adores, And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa’s shores. If e’er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane,[49] Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain; God of the silver bow! thy shafts employ, Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy.”

He deeply sighing said: “To tell my woe Is but to mention what too well you know. From Thebé, sacred to Apollo’s name[62] (Aëtion’s realm), our conquering army came, With treasure loaded and triumphant spoils, Whose just division crown’d the soldier’s toils; But bright Chryseïs, heavenly prize! was led, By vote selected, to the general’s bed. The priest of Phœbus sought by gifts to gain His beauteous daughter from the victor’s chain; The fleet he reach’d, and, lowly bending down, Held forth the sceptre and the laurel crown, Intreating all; but chief implored for grace The brother-kings of Atreus’ royal race: The generous Greeks their joint consent declare, The priest to reverence, and release the fair; Not so Atrides: he, with wonted pride, The sire insulted, and his gifts denied: The insulted sire (his god’s peculiar care) To Phœbus pray’d, and Phœbus heard the prayer: A dreadful plague ensues: the avenging darts Incessant fly, and pierce the Grecian hearts. A prophet then, inspired by heaven, arose, And points the crime, and thence derives the woes: Myself the first the assembled chiefs incline To avert the vengeance of the power divine; Then rising in his wrath, the monarch storm’d; Incensed he threaten’d, and his threats perform’d: The fair Chryseïs to her sire was sent, With offer’d gifts to make the god relent; But now he seized Briseïs’ heavenly charms, And of my valour’s prize defrauds my arms, Defrauds the votes of all the Grecian train;[63] And service, faith, and justice, plead in vain. But, goddess! thou thy suppliant son attend. To high Olympus’ shining court ascend, Urge all the ties to former service owed, And sue for vengeance to the thundering god.

Thus having said, he vanish’d from his eyes, And in a moment shot into the skies: The king, confirm’d from heaven, alighted there, And left his aged herald on the car, With solemn pace through various rooms he went, And found Achilles in his inner tent: There sat the hero: Alcimus the brave, And great Automedon, attendance gave: These served his person at the royal feast; Around, at awful distance, stood the rest.

“Lie there, Patroclus! and with thee, the joy Thy pride once promised, of subverting Troy; The fancied scenes of Ilion wrapt in flames, And thy soft pleasures served with captive dames. Unthinking man! I fought those towers to free, And guard that beauteous race from lords like thee: But thou a prey to vultures shalt be made; Thy own Achilles cannot lend thee aid; Though much at parting that great chief might say, And much enjoin thee, this important day.

“What glorious man, for high attempts prepared, Dares greatly venture for a rich reward? Of yonder fleet a bold discovery make, What watch they keep, and what resolves they take? If now subdued they meditate their flight, And, spent with toil, neglect the watch of night? His be the chariot that shall please him most, Of all the plunder of the vanquish’d host; His the fair steeds that all the rest excel, And his the glory to have served so well.”

This said, his eager javelin sought the foe: But Ajax shunn’d the meditated blow. Not vainly yet the forceful lance was thrown; It stretch’d in dust unhappy Lycophron: An exile long, sustain’d at Ajax’ board, A faithful servant to a foreign lord; In peace, and war, for ever at his side, Near his loved master, as he lived, he died. From the high poop he tumbles on the sand, And lies a lifeless load along the land. With anguish Ajax views the piercing sight, And thus inflames his brother to the fight:

Here on the monarch’s speech Achilles broke, And furious, thus, and interrupting spoke: “Tyrant, I well deserved thy galling chain, To live thy slave, and still to serve in vain, Should I submit to each unjust decree:— Command thy vassals, but command not me. Seize on Briseïs, whom the Grecians doom’d My prize of war, yet tamely see resumed; And seize secure; no more Achilles draws His conquering sword in any woman’s cause. The gods command me to forgive the past: But let this first invasion be the last: For know, thy blood, when next thou darest invade, Shall stream in vengeance on my reeking blade.”

“Now, Xanthus, Æthon, Lampus, urge the chase, And thou, Podargus! prove thy generous race; Be fleet, be fearless, this important day, And all your master’s well-spent care repay. For this, high-fed, in plenteous stalls ye stand, Served with pure wheat, and by a princess’ hand; For this my spouse, of great Aëtion’s line, So oft has steep’d the strengthening grain in wine. Now swift pursue, now thunder uncontroll’d: Give me to seize rich Nestor’s shield of gold; From Tydeus’ shoulders strip the costly load, Vulcanian arms, the labour of a god: These if we gain, then victory, ye powers! This night, this glorious night, the fleet is ours!”

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.

“Great perils, father! wait the unequal fight; These younger champions will oppress thy might. Thy veins no more with ancient vigour glow, Weak is thy servant, and thy coursers slow. Then haste, ascend my seat, and from the car Observe the steeds of Tros, renown’d in war. Practised alike to turn, to stop, to chase, To dare the fight, or urge the rapid race: These late obey’d Æneas’ guiding rein; Leave thou thy chariot to our faithful train; With these against yon Trojans will we go, Nor shall great Hector want an equal foe; Fierce as he is, even he may learn to fear The thirsty fury of my flying spear.”

“Too late, O friend! my rashness I deplore; These shafts, once fatal, carry death no more. Tydeus’ and Atreus’ sons their points have found, And undissembled gore pursued the wound. In vain they bleed: this unavailing bow Serves, not to slaughter, but provoke the foe. In evil hour these bended horns I strung, And seized the quiver where it idly hung. Cursed be the fate that sent me to the field Without a warrior’s arms, the spear and shield! If e’er with life I quit the Trojan plain, If e’er I see my spouse and sire again, This bow, unfaithful to my glorious aims, Broke by my hand, shall feed the blazing flames.”

Great Ajax first to conquest led the way, Broke the thick ranks, and turn’d the doubtful day. The Thracian Acamas his falchion found, And hew’d the enormous giant to the ground; His thundering arm a deadly stroke impress’d Where the black horse-hair nodded o’er his crest; Fix’d in his front the brazen weapon lies, And seals in endless shades his swimming eyes. Next Teuthras’ son distain’d the sands with blood, Axylus, hospitable, rich, and good: In fair Arisbe’s walls (his native place)[161] He held his seat! a friend to human race. Fast by the road, his ever-open door Obliged the wealthy, and relieved the poor. To stern Tydides now he falls a prey, No friend to guard him in the dreadful day! Breathless the good man fell, and by his side His faithful servant, old Calesius died.

To this, Idomeneus: “The fields of fight Have proved thy valour, and unconquer’d might: And were some ambush for the foes design’d, Even there thy courage would not lag behind: In that sharp service, singled from the rest, The fear of each, or valour, stands confess’d. No force, no firmness, the pale coward shows; He shifts his place: his colour comes and goes: A dropping sweat creeps cold on every part; Against his bosom beats his quivering heart; Terror and death in his wild eye-balls stare; With chattering teeth he stands, and stiffening hair, And looks a bloodless image of despair! Not so the brave—still dauntless, still the same, Unchanged his colour, and unmoved his frame: Composed his thought, determined is his eye, And fix’d his soul, to conquer or to die: If aught disturb the tenour of his breast, ’Tis but the wish to strike before the rest.

High on a throne, with stars of silver graced, And various artifice, the queen she placed; A footstool at her feet: then calling, said, “Vulcan, draw near, ’tis Thetis asks your aid.” “Thetis (replied the god) our powers may claim, An ever-dear, an ever-honour’d name! When my proud mother hurl’d me from the sky, (My awkward form, it seems, displeased her eye,) She, and Eurynome, my griefs redress’d, And soft received me on their silver breast. Even then these arts employ’d my infant thought: Chains, bracelets, pendants, all their toys, I wrought. Nine years kept secret in the dark abode, Secure I lay, conceal’d from man and god: Deep in a cavern’d rock my days were led; The rushing ocean murmur’d o’er my head. Now, since her presence glads our mansion, say, For such desert what service can I pay? Vouchsafe, O Thetis! at our board to share The genial rites, and hospitable fare; While I the labours of the forge forego, And bid the roaring bellows cease to blow.”

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

“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?”

At this, Pelides, frowning stern, replied: “O tyrant, arm’d with insolence and pride! Inglorious slave to interest, ever join’d With fraud, unworthy of a royal mind! What generous Greek, obedient to thy word, Shall form an ambush, or shall lift the sword? What cause have I to war at thy decree? The distant Trojans never injured me; To Phthia’s realms no hostile troops they led: Safe in her vales my warlike coursers fed; Far hence removed, the hoarse-resounding main, And walls of rocks, secure my native reign, Whose fruitful soil luxuriant harvests grace, Rich in her fruits, and in her martial race. Hither we sail’d, a voluntary throng, To avenge a private, not a public wrong: What else to Troy the assembled nations draws, But thine, ungrateful, and thy brother’s cause? Is this the pay our blood and toils deserve; Disgraced and injured by the man we serve? And darest thou threat to snatch my prize away, Due to the deeds of many a dreadful day? A prize as small, O tyrant! match’d with thine, As thy own actions if compared to mine. Thine in each conquest is the wealthy prey, Though mine the sweat and danger of the day. Some trivial present to my ships I bear: Or barren praises pay the wounds of war. But know, proud monarch, I’m thy slave no more; My fleet shall waft me to Thessalia’s shore: Left by Achilles on the Trojan plain, What spoils, what conquests, shall Atrides gain?”

Troy’s great defender stands alone unawed, Arms his proud host, and dares oppose a god: And lo! the god, and wondrous man, appear: The sea’s stern ruler there, and Hector here. The roaring main, at her great master’s call, Rose in huge ranks, and form’d a watery wall Around the ships: seas hanging o’er the shores, Both armies join: earth thunders, ocean roars. Not half so loud the bellowing deeps resound, When stormy winds disclose the dark profound; Less loud the winds that from the Æolian hall Roar through the woods, and make whole forests fall; Less loud the woods, when flames in torrents pour, Catch the dry mountain, and its shades devour; With such a rage the meeting hosts are driven, And such a clamour shakes the sounding heaven. The first bold javelin, urged by Hector’s force, Direct at Ajax’ bosom winged its course; But there no pass the crossing belts afford, (One braced his shield, and one sustain’d his sword.) Then back the disappointed Trojan drew, And cursed the lance that unavailing flew: But ’scaped not Ajax; his tempestuous hand A ponderous stone upheaving from the sand, (Where heaps laid loose beneath the warrior’s feet, Or served to ballast, or to prop the fleet,) Toss’d round and round, the missive marble flings; On the razed shield the fallen ruin rings, Full on his breast and throat with force descends; Nor deaden’d there its giddy fury spends, But whirling on, with many a fiery round, Smokes in the dust, and ploughs into the ground. As when the bolt, red-hissing from above, Darts on the consecrated plant of Jove, The mountain-oak in flaming ruin lies, Black from the blow, and smokes of sulphur rise; Stiff with amaze the pale beholders stand, And own the terrors of the almighty hand!

Through Mulius’ head then drove the impetuous spear: The warrior falls, transfix’d from ear to ear. Thy life, Echeclus! next the sword bereaves, Deep though the front the ponderous falchion cleaves; Warm’d in the brain the smoking weapon lies, The purple death comes floating o’er his eyes. Then brave Deucalion died: the dart was flung Where the knit nerves the pliant elbow strung; He dropp’d his arm, an unassisting weight, And stood all impotent, expecting fate: Full on his neck the falling falchion sped, From his broad shoulders hew’d his crested head: Forth from the bone the spinal marrow flies, And, sunk in dust, the corpse extended lies. Rhigmas, whose race from fruitful Thracia came, (The son of Pierus, an illustrious name,) Succeeds to fate: the spear his belly rends; Prone from his car the thundering chief descends. The squire, who saw expiring on the ground His prostrate master, rein’d the steeds around; His back, scarce turn’d, the Pelian javelin gored, And stretch’d the servant o’er his dying lord. As when a flame the winding valley fills, And runs on crackling shrubs between the hills; Then o’er the stubble up the mountain flies, Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies, This way and that, the spreading torrent roars: So sweeps the hero through the wasted shores; Around him wide, immense destruction pours And earth is deluged with the sanguine showers, As with autumnal harvests cover’d o’er, And thick bestrewn, lies Ceres’ sacred floor; When round and round, with never-wearied pain, The trampling steers beat out the unnumber’d grain: So the fierce coursers, as the chariot rolls, Tread down whole ranks, and crush out heroes’ souls, Dash’d from their hoofs while o’er the dead they fly, Black, bloody drops the smoking chariot dye: The spiky wheels through heaps of carnage tore; And thick the groaning axles dropp’d with gore.

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

“Attend the mandate of the sire above! In me behold the messenger of Jove: He bids thee from forbidden wars repair To thine own deeps, or to the fields of air. This if refused, he bids thee timely weigh His elder birthright, and superior sway. How shall thy rashness stand the dire alarms If heaven’s omnipotence descend in arms? Striv’st thou with him by whom all power is given? And art thou equal to the lord of heaven?”

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