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

wounds.

But now (what time in some sequester’d vale The weary woodman spreads his sparing meal, When his tired arms refuse the axe to rear, And claim a respite from the sylvan war; But not till half the prostrate forests lay Stretch’d in long ruin, and exposed to day) Then, nor till then, the Greeks’ impulsive might Pierced the black phalanx, and let in the light.

Great Agamemnon then the slaughter led, And slew Bienor at his people’s head:

Whose squire Oileus, with a sudden spring, Leap’d from the chariot to revenge his king; But in his front he felt the fatal wound, Which pierced his brain, and stretch’d him on the ground.

Atrides spoil’d, and left them on the plain: Vain was their youth, their glittering armour vain: Now soil’d with dust, and naked to the sky, Their snowy limbs and beauteous bodies lie.

 

Two sons of Priam next to battle move,

The product, one of marriage, one of love: [182]

In the same car the brother-warriors ride; This took the charge to combat, that to guide: Far other task, than when they wont to keep, On Ida’s tops, their father’s fleecy sheep.

These on the mountains once Achilles found, And captive led, with pliant osiers bound; Then to their sire for ample sums restored; But now to perish by Atrides’ sword:

Pierced in the breast the base-born Isus bleeds: Cleft through the head his brother’s fate succeeds, Swift to the spoil the hasty victor falls, And, stript, their features to his mind recalls.

The Trojans see the youths untimely die, But helpless tremble for themselves, and fly.

So when a lion ranging o’er the lawns.

Finds, on some grassy lair, the couching fawns, Their bones he cracks, their reeking vitals draws, And grinds the quivering flesh with bloody jaws; The frighted hind beholds, and dares not stay, But swift through rustling thickets bursts her way; All drown’d in sweat, the panting mother flies, And the big tears roll trickling from her eyes.

 

Amidst the tumult of the routed train,

The sons of false Antimachus were slain; He who for bribes his faithless counsels sold, And voted Helen’s stay for Paris’ gold.

Atrides mark’d, as these their safety sought, And slew the children for the father’s fault; Their headstrong horse unable to restrain, They shook with fear, and dropp’d the silken rein; Then in the chariot on their knees they fall, And thus with lifted hands for mercy call: “O spare our youth, and for the life we owe, Antimachus shall copious gifts bestow:

Soon as he hears, that, not in battle slain, The Grecian ships his captive sons detain, Large heaps of brass in ransom shall be told, And steel well-tempered, and persuasive gold.”

 

These words, attended with the flood of tears, The youths address’d to unrelenting ears: The vengeful monarch gave this stern reply: “If from Antimachus ye spring, ye die;

The daring wretch who once in council stood To shed Ulysses’ and my brother’s blood, For proffer’d peace! and sues his seed for grace?

No, die, and pay the forfeit of your race.”

 

This said, Pisander from the car he cast, And pierced his breast: supine he breathed his last.

His brother leap’d to earth; but, as he lay, The trenchant falchion lopp’d his hands away; His sever’d head was toss’d among the throng, And, rolling, drew a bloody train along.

Then, where the thickest fought, the victor flew; The king’s example all his Greeks pursue.

Now by the foot the flying foot were slain, Horse trod by horse, lay foaming on the plain.

From the dry fields thick clouds of dust arise, Shade the black host, and intercept the skies.

The brass-hoof’d steeds tumultuous plunge and bound, And the thick thunder beats the labouring ground, Still slaughtering on, the king of men proceeds; The distanced army wonders at his deeds, As when the winds with raging flames conspire, And o’er the forests roll the flood of fire, In blazing heaps the grove’s old honours fall, And one refulgent ruin levels all:

Before Atrides’ rage so sinks the foe,

Whole squadrons vanish, and proud heads lie low.

The steeds fly trembling from his waving sword, And many a car, now lighted of its lord, Wide o’er the field with guideless fury rolls, Breaking their ranks, and crushing out their souls; While his keen falchion drinks the warriors’ lives; More grateful, now, to vultures than their wives!

 

Perhaps great Hector then had found his fate, But Jove and destiny prolong’d his date.

Safe from the darts, the care of heaven he stood, Amidst alarms, and death, and dust, and blood.

 

Now past the tomb where ancient Ilus lay, Through the mid field the routed urge their way: Where the wild figs the adjoining summit crown, The path they take, and speed to reach the town.

As swift, Atrides with loud shouts pursued, Hot with his toil, and bathed in hostile blood.

Now near the beech-tree, and the Scaean gates, The hero halts, and his associates waits.

Meanwhile on every side around the plain, Dispersed, disorder’d, fly the Trojan train.

So flies a herd of beeves, that hear dismay’d The lion’s roaring through the midnight shade; On heaps they tumble with successless haste; The savage seizes, draws, and rends the last.

Not with less fury stem Atrides flew,

Still press’d the rout, and still the hindmost slew; Hurl’d from their cars the bravest chiefs are kill’d, And rage, and death, and carnage load the field.

 

Now storms the victor at the Trojan wall; Surveys the towers, and meditates their fall.

But Jove descending shook the Idaean hills, And down their summits pour’d a hundred rills: The unkindled lightning in his hand he took, And thus the many-coloured maid bespoke: “Iris, with haste thy golden wings display, To godlike Hector this our word convey—

While Agamemnon wastes the ranks around, Fights in the front, and bathes with blood the ground, Bid him give way; but issue forth commands, And trust the war to less important hands: But when, or wounded by the spear or dart, That chief shall mount his chariot, and depart, Then Jove shall string his arm, and fire his breast, Then to her ships shall flying Greece be press’d, Till to the main the burning sun descend, And sacred night her awful shade extend.”

 

He spoke, and Iris at his word obey’d;

On wings of winds descends the various maid.

The chief she found amidst the ranks of war, Close to the bulwarks, on his glittering car.

The goddess then: “O son of Priam, hear!

From Jove I come, and his high mandate bear.

While Agamemnon wastes the ranks around, Fights in the front, and bathes with blood the ground, Abstain from fight; yet issue forth commands, And trust the war to less important hands: But when, or wounded by the spear or dart, The chief shall mount his chariot, and depart, Then Jove shall string thy arm, and fire thy breast, Then to her ships shall flying Greece be press’d, Till to the main the burning sun descend, And sacred night her awful shade extend.”

 

She said, and vanish’d. Hector, with a bound, Springs from his chariot on the trembling ground, In clanging arms: he grasps in either hand A pointed lance, and speeds from band to band; Revives their ardour, turns their steps from flight, And wakes anew the dying flames of fight.

They stand to arms: the Greeks their onset dare, Condense their powers, and wait the coming war.

New force, new spirit, to each breast returns; The fight renew’d with fiercer fury burns: The king leads on: all fix on him their eye, And learn from him to conquer, or to die.

 

Ye sacred nine! celestial Muses! tell,

Who faced him first, and by his prowess fell?

The great Iphidamas, the bold and young, From sage Antenor and Theano sprung;

Whom from his youth his grandsire Cisseus bred, And nursed in Thrace where snowy flocks are fed.

Scarce did the down his rosy cheeks invest, And early honour warm his generous breast, When the kind sire consign’d his daughter’s charms (Theano’s sister) to his youthful arms.

But call’d by glory to the wars of Troy, He leaves untasted the first fruits of joy; From his loved bride departs with melting eyes, And swift to aid his dearer country flies.

With twelve black ships he reach’d Percope’s strand, Thence took the long laborious march by land.

Now fierce for fame, before the ranks he springs, Towering in arms, and braves the king of kings.

Atrides first discharged the missive spear; The Trojan stoop’d, the javelin pass’d in air.

Then near the corslet, at the monarch’s heart, With all his strength, the youth directs his dart: But the broad belt, with plates of silver bound, The point rebated, and repell’d the wound.

Encumber’d with the dart, Atrides stands, Till, grasp’d with force, he wrench’d it from his hands; At once his weighty sword discharged a wound Full on his neck, that fell’d him to the ground.

Stretch’d in the dust the unhappy warrior lies, And sleep eternal seals his swimming eyes.

Oh worthy better fate! oh early slain!

Thy country’s friend; and virtuous, though in vain!

No more the youth shall join his consort’s side, At once a virgin, and at once a bride!

No more with presents her embraces meet, Or lay the spoils of conquest at her feet, On whom his passion, lavish of his store, Bestow’d so much, and vainly promised more!

Unwept, uncover’d, on the plain he lay, While the proud victor bore his arms away.

 

Coon, Antenor’s eldest hope, was nigh:

Tears, at the sight, came starting from his eye, While pierced with grief the much-loved youth he view’d, And the pale features now deform’d with blood.

Then, with his spear, unseen, his time he took, Aim’d at the king, and near his elbow strook.

The thrilling steel transpierced the brawny part, And through his arm stood forth the barbed dart.

Surprised the monarch feels, yet void of fear On Coon rushes with his lifted spear:

His brother’s corpse the pious Trojan draws, And calls his country to assert his cause; Defends him breathless on the sanguine field, And o’er the body spreads his ample shield.

Atrides, marking an unguarded part,

Transfix’d the warrior with his brazen dart; Prone on his brother’s bleeding breast he lay, The monarch’s falchion lopp’d his head away: The social shades the same dark journey go, And join each other in the realms below.

 

The vengeful victor rages round the fields, With every weapon art or fury yields:

By the long lance, the sword, or ponderous stone, Whole ranks are broken, and whole troops o’erthrown.

This, while yet warm distill’d the purple flood; But when the wound grew stiff with clotted blood, Then grinding tortures his strong bosom rend, Less keen those darts the fierce Ilythiae send: (The powers that cause the teeming matron’s throes, Sad mothers of unutterable woes!)

Stung with the smart, all-panting with the pain, He mounts the car, and gives his squire the rein; Then with a voice which fury made more strong, And pain augmented, thus exhorts the throng: “O friends! O Greeks! assert your honours won; Proceed, and finish what this arm begun: Lo! angry Jove forbids your chief to stay, And envies half the glories of the day.”

 

He said: the driver whirls his lengthful thong; The horses fly; the chariot smokes along.

Clouds from their nostrils the fierce coursers blow, And from their sides the foam descends in snow; Shot through the battle in a moment’s space, The wounded monarch at his tent they place.

 

No sooner Hector saw the king retired,

But thus his Trojans and his aids he fired: “Hear, all ye Dardan, all ye Lycian race!

Famed in close fight, and dreadful face to face: Now call to mind