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

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.”

 

The chief replied: “This time forbids to rest; The Trojan bands, by hostile fury press’d, Demand their Hector, and his arm require; The combat urges, and my soul’s on fire.

Urge thou thy knight to march where glory calls, And timely join me, ere I leave the walls.

Ere yet I mingle in the direful fray,

My wife, my infant, claim a moment’s stay; This day (perhaps the last that sees me here) Demands a parting word, a tender tear:

This day, some god who hates our Trojan land May vanquish Hector by a Grecian hand.”

 

He said, and pass’d with sad presaging heart To seek his spouse, his soul’s far dearer part; At home he sought her, but he sought in vain; She, with one maid of all her menial train, Had hence retired; and with her second joy, The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy,

Pensive she stood on Ilion’s towery height, Beheld the war, and sicken’d at the sight; There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.

 

But he who found not whom his soul desired, Whose virtue charm’d him as her beauty fired, Stood in the gates, and ask’d “what way she bent Her parting step? If to the fane she went, Where late the mourning matrons made resort; Or sought her sisters in the Trojan court?”

“Not to the court, (replied the attendant train,) Nor mix’d with matrons to Minerva’s fane: To Ilion’s steepy tower she bent her way, To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day.

Troy fled, she heard, before the Grecian sword; She heard, and trembled for her absent lord: Distracted with surprise, she seem’d to fly, Fear on her cheek, and sorrow m her eye.

The nurse attended with her infant boy, The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy.”

 

Hector this heard, return’d without delay; Swift through the town he trod his former way, Through streets of palaces, and walks of state; And met the mourner at the Scaean gate.

With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair.

His blameless wife, Aetion’s wealthy heir: (Cilician Thebe great Aetion sway’d,

And Hippoplacus’ wide extended shade:)

The nurse stood near, in whose embraces press’d, His only hope hung smiling at her breast, Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.

To this loved infant Hector gave the name Scamandrius, from Scamander’s honour’d stream; Astyanax the Trojans call’d the boy,

From his great father, the defence of Troy.

Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resign’d To tender passions all his mighty mind; His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke; Her bosom laboured with a boding sigh,

And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

 

{Illustration: THE MEETING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.}

 

“Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run?

Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son!

And think’st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he?

For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtue’s sacrifice.

Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain.

O grant me, gods, ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!

So shall my days in one sad tenor run,

And end with sorrows as they first begun.

No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father’s aid, no mother’s tender care.

The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire!

His fate compassion in the victor bred; Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, And laid him decent on the funeral pile; Then raised a mountain where his bones were burn’d, The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorn’d, Jove’s sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow A barren shade, and in his honour grow.

 

“By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell; In one sad day beheld the gates of hell; While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed, Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled!

My mother lived to wear the victor’s bands, The queen of Hippoplacia’s sylvan lands: Redeem’d too late, she scarce beheld again Her pleasing empire and her native plain, When ah! oppress’d by life-consuming woe, She fell a victim to Diana’s bow.

 

“Yet while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee: Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all Once more will perish, if my Hector fall, Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share: Oh, prove a husband’s and a father’s care!

That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy; Thou, from this tower defend the important post; There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.

Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven.

Let others in the field their arms employ, But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.”

 

The chief replied: “That post shall be my care, Not that alone, but all the works of war.

How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown’d, And Troy’s proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground Attaint the lustre of my former name,

Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?

My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to the embattled plains!

Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father’s glories, and my own.

 

“Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates!

(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.

And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother’s death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam’s hoary hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread: I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!

In Argive looms our battles to design,

And woes, of which so large a part was thine!

To bear the victor’s hard commands, or bring The weight of waters from Hyperia’s spring.

There while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry, ‘Behold the mighty Hector’s wife!’

Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Imbitters all thy woes, by naming me.

The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs shall waken at the name!

May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press’d with a load of monumental clay!

Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.”

 

Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy Stretch’d his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.

The babe clung crying to his nurse’s breast, Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest.

With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hasted to relieve his child, The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the beaming helmet on the ground; Then kiss’d the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferr’d a father’s prayer: “O thou! whose glory fills the ethereal throne, And all ye deathless powers! protect my son!

Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country’s foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age!

So when triumphant from successful toils Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, ‘This chief transcends his father’s fame:’

While pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother’s conscious heart o’erflows with joy.”

 

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hush’d to repose, and with a smile survey’d.

The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, She mingled with a smile a tender tear.

The soften’d chief with kind compassion view’d, And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: “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.”

 

Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes His towery helmet, black with shading plumes.

His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye That stream’d at every look; then, moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe.

There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, Through all her train the soft infection ran; The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn the living Hector, as the dead.

 

But now, no longer deaf to honour’s call, Forth issues Paris from the palace wall.

In brazen arms that cast a gleamy ray,

Swift through the town the warrior bends his way.

The wanton courser thus with reins unbound [136]

Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground; Pamper’d and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, And laves, in height of blood his shining sides; His head now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevell’d o’er his shoulders flies; He snuffs the females in the distant plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again.

With equal triumph, sprightly, bold, and gay, In arms refulgent as the god of day,

The son of Priam, glorying in his might, Rush’d forth with Hector to the fields of fight.

 

And now, the warriors passing on the way, The graceful Paris first excused his stay.

To whom the noble Hector thus replied:

“O chief! in blood, and now in arms, allied!

Thy power in war with justice none contest; Known is thy courage, and thy strength confess’d.

What pity sloth should seize a soul so brave, Or godlike Paris live a woman’s slave!

My heart weeps blood at what the Trojans say, And hopes thy deeds shall wipe the stain away.

Haste then, in all their glorious labours share, For much they suffer, for thy sake, in war.

These ills shall cease, whene’er by Jove’s decree We crown the bowl to heaven and liberty: While the proud foe his frustrate triumphs mourns, And Greece indignant through her seas returns.”

 

{Illustration: BOWS AND BOW CASE.}

 

{Illustration: IRIS.}

 

BOOK VII.

 

ARGUMENT

 

THE SINGLE COMBAT OF HECTOR AND AJAX.

 

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 Scaean 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