The Iliad, Homer [librera reader .TXT] 📗

“What words, dread son of Saturn, dost thou speak?

How wouldst thou render vain, and void of fruit, My weary labour and my horses’ toil,

To stir the people, and on Priam’s self, And Priam’s offspring, bring disastrous fate?

Do as thou wilt! yet not with our consent.”

 

To whom, in wrath, the Cloud-compeller thus: “Revengeful! how have Priam and his sons So deeply injur’d thee, that thus thou seek’st With unabated anger to pursue,

Till thou o’erthrow, the strong-built walls of Troy?

Couldst thou but force the gates, and entering in On Priam’s mangled flesh, and Priam’s sons, And Trojans all, a bloody banquet make.

Perchance thy fury might at length be stayed.

But have thy will, lest this in future times ‘Twixt me and thee be cause of strife renew’d.

Yet hear my words, and ponder what I say: If e’er, in times to come, my will should be Some city to destroy, inhabited

By men beloved of thee, seek not to turn My wrath aside, but yield, as I do now, Consenting, but with heart that ill consents; For of all cities fair, beneath the sun And starry Heaven, the abode of mortal men, None to my soul was dear as sacred Troy, And Priam’s self, and Priam’s warrior race.

For with drink-off’rings due, and fat of lambs, My altar still hath at their hands been fed; Such honour hath to us been ever paid.”

 

To whom the stag-ey’d Juno thus replied: “Three cities are there, dearest to my heart; Argos, and Sparta, and the ample streets Of rich Mycenae; work on them thy will; Destroy them, if thine anger they incur; I will not interpose, nor hinder thee; Mourn them I shall; reluctant see their fall, But not resist; for sovereign is thy will.

Yet should my labours not be fruitless all; For I too am a God; my blood is thine; Worthy of honour, as the eldest born

Of deep-designing Saturn, and thy wife; Thine, who o’er all th’ Immortals reign’st supreme.

But yield we each to other, I to thee, And thou to me; the other Gods will all By us be rul’d. On Pallas then enjoin

That to the battle-field of Greece and Troy She haste, and so contrive that Trojans first May break the treaty, and the Greeks assail.”

 

She said: the Sire of Gods and men complied, And thus with winged words to Pallas spoke: “Go to the battle-field of Greece and Troy In haste, and so contrive that Trojans first May break the treaty, and the Greeks assail.”

 

His words fresh impulse gave to Pallas’ zeal, And from Olympus’ heights in haste she sped; Like to a meteor, that, of grave portent To warring armies or sea-faring men,

The son of deep-designing Saturn sends, Bright-flashing, scatt’ring fiery sparks around, The blue-ey’d Goddess darted down to earth, And lighted in the midst; amazement held The Trojan warriors and the well-greav’d Greeks; And one to other look’d and said, “What means This sign? Must fearful battle rage again, Or may we hope for gentle peace from Jove, Who to mankind dispenses peace and war?”

Such was the converse Greeks and Trojans held.

Pallas meanwhile, amid the Trojan host, Clad in the likeness of Antenor’s son, Laodocus, a spearman stout and brave,

Search’d here and there, if haply she might find The godlike Pandarus; Lycaon’s son

She found, of noble birth and stalwart form, Standing, encircled by his sturdy band Of bucklered followers from AEsepus’ stream, She stood beside him, and address’d him thus: “Wilt thou by me be ruled, Lycaon’s son?

For durst thou but at Menelaus shoot

Thy winged arrow, great would be thy fame, And great thy favour with the men of Troy, And most of all with Paris; at his hand Thou shalt receive rich guerdon, when he hears That warlike Menelaus, by thy shaft

Subdued, is laid upon the fun’ral pyre.

Bend then thy bow at Atreus’ glorious son, Vowing to Phoebus, Lycia’s guardian God, The Archer-King, to pay of firstling lambs An ample hecatomb, when home return’d

In safety to Zeleia’s sacred town.”

Thus she; and, fool, he listen’d to her words.

Straight he uncas’d his polish’d bow, his spoil Won from a mountain ibex, which himself, In ambush lurking, through the breast had shot, True to his aim, as from behind a crag He came in sight; prone on the rock he fell; With horns of sixteen palms his head was crown’d; These deftly wrought a skilful workman’s hand, And polish’d smooth, and tipp’d the ends with gold.

He bent, and resting on the ground his bow, Strung it anew; his faithful comrades held Their shields before him, lest the sons of Greece Should make their onset ere his shaft could reach The warlike Menelaus, Atreus’ son.

His quiver then withdrawing from its case, With care a shaft he chose, ne’er shot before, Well-feather’d, messenger of pangs and death; The stinging arrow fitted to the string, And vow’d to Phoebus, Lycia’s guardian God, The Archer-King, to pay of firstling lambs An ample hecatomb, when home return’d

In safety to Zeleia’s sacred town.

At once the sinew and the notch he drew; The sinew to his breast, and to the bow The iron head; then, when the mighty bow Was to a circle strain’d, sharp rang the horn, And loud the sinew twang’d, as tow’rd the crowd With deadly speed the eager arrow sprang.

 

Nor, Menelaus, was thy safety then

Uncar’d for of the Gods; Jove’s daughter first, Pallas, before thee stood, and turn’d aside The pointed arrow; turn’d it so aside

As when a mother from her infant’s cheek, Wrapt in sweet slumbers, brushes off a fly; Its course she so directed that it struck Just where the golden clasps the belt restrain’d, And where the breastplate, doubled, check’d its force.

On the close-fitting belt the arrow struck; Right through the belt of curious workmanship It drove, and through the breastplate richly wrought, And through the coat of mail he wore beneath, His inmost guard and best defence to check The hostile weapons’ force; yet onward still The arrow drove, and graz’d the hero’s flesh.

Forth issued from the wound the crimson blood.

As when some Carian or Maeonian maid,

With crimson dye the ivory stains, designed To be the cheek-piece of a warrior’s steed, By many a valiant horseman coveted,

As in the house it lies, a monarch’s boast, The horse adorning, and the horseman’s pride: So, Menelaus, then thy graceful thighs, And knees, and ancles, with thy blood were dy’d.

 

Great Agamemnon shudder’d as he saw

The crimson drops out-welling from the wound; Shudder’d the warlike Menelaus’ self;

But when not buried in his flesh he saw The barb and sinew, back his spirit came.

 

Then deeply groaning, Agamemnon spoke, As Menelaus by the hand he held,

And with him groan’d his comrades: “Brother dear, I wrought thy death when late, on compact sworn, I sent thee forth alone for Greece to fight; Wounded by Trojans, who their plighted faith Have trodden under foot; but not in vain Are solemn cov’nants and the blood of lambs, The treaty wine outpoured, and hand-plight given, Wherein men place their trust; if not at once, Yet soon or late will Jove assert their claim; And heavy penalties the perjured pay

With their own blood, their children’s, and their wives’.

So in my inmost soul full well I know

The day shall come when this imperial Troy, And Priam’s race, and Priam’s royal self, Shall in one common ruin be o’erthrown; And Saturn’s son himself, high-throned Jove, Who dwells in Heav’n, shall in their faces flash His aegis dark and dread, this treach’rous deed Avenging; this shall surely come to pass.

But, Menelaus, deep will be my grief,

If thou shouldst perish, meeting thus thy fate.

To thirsty Argos should I then return

By foul disgrace o’erwhelm’d; for, with thy fall, The Greeks will mind them of their native land; And as a trophy to the sons of Troy

The Argive Helen leave; thy bones meanwhile Shall moulder here beneath a foreign soil.

Thy work undone; and with insulting scorn Some vaunting Trojan, leaping on the tomb Of noble Menelaus, thus shall say:

‘On all his foes may Agamemnon so

His wrath accomplish, who hath hither led Of Greeks a mighty army, all in vain;

And bootless home with empty ships hath gone, And valiant Menelaus left behind;’

Thus when men speak, gape, earth, and hide my shame.”

 

To whom the fair-hair’d Menelaus thus

With, cheering words: “Fear not thyself, nor cause The troops to fear: the arrow hath not touch’d A vital part: the sparkling belt hath first Turn’d it aside, the doublet next beneath, And coat of mail, the work of arm’rer’s hands.”

 

To whom the monarch Agamemnon thus:

“Dear Menelaus, may thy words be true!

The leech shall tend thy wound, and spread it o’er With healing ointments to assuage the pain.”

 

He said, and to the sacred herald call’d: “Haste thee, Talthybius! summon with all speed The son of AEsculapius, peerless leech, Machaon; bid him hither haste to see

The warlike Menelaus, chief of Greeks, Who by an arrow from some practis’d hand, Trojan or Lycian, hath receiv’d a wound; A cause of boast to them, to us of grief.”

 

He said, nor did the herald not obey,

But through the brass-clad ranks of Greece he pass’d, In search of brave Machaon; him he found Standing, by buckler’d warriors bold begirt, Who follow’d him from Trica’s grassy plains.

He stood beside him, and address’d him thus: “Up, son of AEsculapius! Atreus’ son,

The mighty monarch, summons thee to see The warlike Menelaus, chief of Greeks, Who by an arrow from some practis’d hand, Trojan or Lycian, hath receiv’d a wound; A cause of boast to them, to us of grief.”

 

Thus he; and not unmov’d Machaon heard: They thro’ the crowd, and thro’ the wide-spread host, Together took their way; but when they came Where fair-hair’d Menelaus, wounded, stood, Around him in a ring the best of Greece, And in the midst the godlike chief himself, From the close-fitting belt the shaft he drew, Breaking the pointed barbs; the sparkling belt He loosen’d, and the doublet underneath, And coat of mail, the work of arm’rer’s hand.

But when the wound appear’d in sight, where struck The stinging arrow, from the clotted blood He cleans’d it, and applied with skilful hand The herbs of healing power, which Chiron erst In friendly guise upon his sire bestowed.

 

While round the valiant Menelaus they

Were thus engag’d, advanc’d the Trojan hosts: They donn’d their arms, and for the fight prepar’d.

In Agamemnon then no trace was seen

Of laggard sloth, no shrinking from the fight, But full of ardour to the field he rush’d.

He left his horses and brass-mounted car (The champing horses by Eurymedon,

The son of Ptolemy, Peiraeus’ son,

Were held aloof), but with repeated charge Still to be near at hand, when faint with toil His limbs should fail him marshalling his host.

Himself on foot the warrior ranks array’d; With cheering words addressing whom he found With zeal preparing for the battle-field: “Relax not, valiant friends, your warlike toil; For Jove to falsehood ne’er will give his aid; And they who first, regardless of their oaths, Have broken truce, shall with their flesh themselves The vultures feed, while we, their city raz’d, Their wives and helpless children bear away.”

 

But whom remiss and shrinking from the war He found, with keen rebuke lie thus assail’d; “Ye wretched Greeks, your country’s foul reproach, Have ye no sense of shame? Why stand ye thus Like timid fawns, that in the chase run down, Stand all bewildered, spiritless and tame?

So stand ye now, nor dare to face the fight.

What! will ye wait the Trojans’ near approach, Where on the