The Iliad, Homer [short books for teens TXT] 📗

this speech address’d: “Stern power of war! by whom the mighty fall, Who bathe in blood, and shake the lofty wall!

Let the brave chiefs their glorious toils divide; And whose the conquest, mighty Jove decide: While we from interdicted fields retire, Nor tempt the wrath of heaven’s avenging sire.”

 

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

 

Meantime, the Greeks the Trojan race pursue, And some bold chieftain every leader slew: First Odius falls, and bites the bloody sand, His death ennobled by Atrides’ hand:

 

As he to flight his wheeling car address’d, The speedy javelin drove from back to breast.

In dust the mighty Halizonian lay,

His arms resound, the spirit wings its way.

 

Thy fate was next, O Phaestus! doom’d to feel The great Idomeneus’ protended steel;

Whom Borus sent (his son and only joy)

From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.

The Cretan javelin reach’d him from afar, And pierced his shoulder as he mounts his car; Back from the car he tumbles to the ground, And everlasting shades his eyes surround.

 

Then died Scamandrius, expert in the chase, In woods and wilds to wound the savage race; Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,

To bend the bow, and aim unerring darts: But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,

The fatal lance arrests him as he flies; From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,

Through his broad back and heaving bosom went: Down sinks the warrior with a thundering sound, His brazen armour rings against the ground.

 

Next artful Phereclus untimely fell;

Bold Merion sent him to the realms of hell.

Thy father’s skill, O Phereclus! was thine, The graceful fabric and the fair design; For loved by Pallas, Pallas did impart

To him the shipwright’s and the builder’s art.

Beneath his hand the fleet of Paris rose, The fatal cause of all his country’s woes; But he, the mystic will of heaven unknown, Nor saw his country’s peril, nor his own.

The hapless artist, while confused he fled, The spear of Merion mingled with the dead.

Through his right hip, with forceful fury cast, Between the bladder and the bone it pass’d; Prone on his knees he falls with fruitless cries, And death in lasting slumber seals his eyes.

 

From Meges’ force the swift Pedaeus fled, Antenor’s offspring from a foreign bed, Whose generous spouse, Theanor, heavenly fair, Nursed the young stranger with a mother’s care.

How vain those cares! when Meges in the rear Full in his nape infix’d the fatal spear; Swift through his crackling jaws the weapon glides, And the cold tongue and grinning teeth divides.

 

Then died Hypsenor, generous and divine, Sprung from the brave Dolopion’s mighty line, Who near adored Scamander made abode,

Priest of the stream, and honoured as a god.

On him, amidst the flying numbers found, Eurypylus inflicts a deadly wound;

On his broad shoulders fell the forceful brand, Thence glancing downwards, lopp’d his holy hand, Which stain’d with sacred blood the blushing sand.

Down sunk the priest: the purple hand of death Closed his dim eye, and fate suppress’d his breath.

 

Thus toil’d the chiefs, in different parts engaged.

In every quarter fierce Tydides raged;

Amid the Greek, amid the Trojan train,

Rapt through the ranks he thunders o’er the plain; Now here, now there, he darts from place to place, Pours on the rear, or lightens in their face.

Thus from high hills the torrents swift and strong Deluge whole fields, and sweep the trees along, Through ruin’d moles the rushing wave resounds, O’erwhelm’s the bridge, and bursts the lofty bounds; The yellow harvests of the ripen’d year, And flatted vineyards, one sad waste appear! [104]

While Jove descends in sluicy sheets of rain, And all the labours of mankind are vain.

 

So raged Tydides, boundless in his ire, Drove armies back, and made all Troy retire.

With grief the leader of the Lycian band Saw the wide waste of his destructive hand: His bended bow against the chief he drew; Swift to the mark the thirsty arrow flew, Whose forky point the hollow breastplate tore, Deep in his shoulder pierced, and drank the gore: The rushing stream his brazen armour dyed, While the proud archer thus exulting cried: “Hither, ye Trojans, hither drive your steeds!

Lo! by our hand the bravest Grecian bleeds, Not long the deathful dart he can sustain; Or Phoebus urged me to these fields in vain.”

So spoke he, boastful: but the winged dart Stopp’d short of life, and mock’d the shooter’s art.

The wounded chief, behind his car retired, The helping hand of Sthenelus required; Swift from his seat he leap’d upon the ground, And tugg’d the weapon from the gushing wound; When thus the king his guardian power address’d, The purple current wandering o’er his vest: “O progeny of Jove! unconquer’d maid!

If e’er my godlike sire deserved thy aid, If e’er I felt thee in the fighting field; Now, goddess, now, thy sacred succour yield.

O give my lance to reach the Trojan knight, Whose arrow wounds the chief thou guard’st in fight; And lay the boaster grovelling on the shore, That vaunts these eyes shall view the light no more.”

 

Thus pray’d Tydides, and Minerva heard, His nerves confirm’d, his languid spirits cheer’d; He feels each limb with wonted vigour light; His beating bosom claim’d the promised fight.

“Be bold, (she cried), in every combat shine, War be thy province, thy protection mine; Rush to the fight, and every foe control; Wake each paternal virtue in thy soul:

Strength swells thy boiling breast, infused by me, And all thy godlike father breathes in thee; Yet more, from mortal mists I purge thy eyes, [105]

And set to view the warring deities.

These see thou shun, through all the embattled plain; Nor rashly strive where human force is vain.

If Venus mingle in the martial band,

Her shalt thou wound: so Pallas gives command.”

 

With that, the blue-eyed virgin wing’d her flight; The hero rush’d impetuous to the fight; With tenfold ardour now invades the plain, Wild with delay, and more enraged by pain.

As on the fleecy flocks when hunger calls, Amidst the field a brindled lion falls; If chance some shepherd with a distant dart The savage wound, he rouses at the smart, He foams, he roars; the shepherd dares not stay, But trembling leaves the scattering flocks a prey; Heaps fall on heaps; he bathes with blood the ground, Then leaps victorious o’er the lofty mound.

Not with less fury stern Tydides flew;

And two brave leaders at an instant slew; Astynous breathless fell, and by his side, His people’s pastor, good Hypenor, died; Astynous’ breast the deadly lance receives, Hypenor’s shoulder his broad falchion cleaves.

Those slain he left, and sprung with noble rage Abas and Polyidus to engage;

Sons of Eurydamus, who, wise and old,

Could fate foresee, and mystic dreams unfold; The youths return’d not from the doubtful plain, And the sad father tried his arts in vain; No mystic dream could make their fates appear, Though now determined by Tydides’ spear.

 

Young Xanthus next, and Thoon felt his rage; The joy and hope of Phaenops’ feeble age: Vast was his wealth, and these the only heirs Of all his labours and a life of cares.

Cold death o’ertakes them in their blooming years, And leaves the father unavailing tears: To strangers now descends his heapy store, The race forgotten, and the name no more.

 

Two sons of Priam in one chariot ride,

Glittering in arms, and combat side by side.

As when the lordly lion seeks his food

Where grazing heifers range the lonely wood, He leaps amidst them with a furious bound, Bends their strong necks, and tears them to the ground: So from their seats the brother chiefs are torn, Their steeds and chariot to the navy borne.

 

With deep concern divine AEneas view’d

The foe prevailing, and his friends pursued; Through the thick storm of singing spears he flies, Exploring Pandarus with careful eyes.

At length he found Lycaon’s mighty son; To whom the chief of Venus’ race begun: “Where, Pandarus, are all thy honours now, Thy winged arrows and unerring bow,

Thy matchless skill, thy yet unrivall’d fame, And boasted glory of the Lycian name?

O pierce that mortal! if we mortal call That wondrous force by which whole armies fall; Or god incensed, who quits the distant skies To punish Troy for slighted sacrifice;

(Which, oh avert from our unhappy state!

For what so dreadful as celestial hate)?

Whoe’er he be, propitiate Jove with prayer; If man, destroy; if god, entreat to spare.”

 

To him the Lycian: “Whom your eyes behold, If right I judge, is Diomed the bold:

Such coursers whirl him o’er the dusty field, So towers his helmet, and so flames his shield.

If ‘tis a god, he wears that chief’s disguise: Or if that chief, some guardian of the skies, Involved in clouds, protects him in the fray, And turns unseen the frustrate dart away.

I wing’d an arrow, which not idly fell, The stroke had fix’d him to the gates of hell; And, but some god, some angry god withstands, His fate was due to these unerring hands.

Skill’d in the bow, on foot I sought the war, Nor join’d swift horses to the rapid car.

Ten polish’d chariots I possess’d at home, And still they grace Lycaon’s princely dome: There veil’d in spacious coverlets they stand; And twice ten coursers wait their lord’s command.

The good old warrior bade me trust to these, When first for Troy I sail’d the sacred seas; In fields, aloft, the whirling car to guide, And through the ranks of death triumphant ride.

But vain with youth, and yet to thrift inclined, I heard his counsels with unheedful mind, And thought the steeds (your large supplies unknown) Might fail of forage in the straiten’d town; So took my bow and pointed darts in hand And left the chariots in my native land.

 

“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.”

 

To whom the leader of the Dardan race:

“Be calm, nor Phoebus’ honour’d gift disgrace.

The distant dart be praised, though here we need The rushing chariot and the bounding steed.

Against yon hero let us bend our course, And, hand to hand, encounter force with force.

Now mount my seat, and from the chariot’s height Observe my father’s steeds, renown’d in fight; Practised alike to turn, to stop, to chase, To dare the shock, or urge the rapid race; Secure with these, through fighting fields we go; Or safe to Troy, if Jove assist the foe.

Haste, seize the whip, and snatch the guiding rein; The warrior’s fury let this arm sustain; Or, if to combat thy bold heart incline, Take thou the spear, the chariot’s care be mine.”

 

“O prince! (Lycaon’s valiant son replied) As thine the steeds, be thine the task to guide.

The horses, practised to their lord’s command, Shall bear the rein, and answer to thy hand; But, if, unhappy, we desert the fight,

Thy voice alone can animate their flight; Else