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

height, His sword deforms the beauteous ranks of fight.

The spouse of Helen, dealing darts around, Had pierced Machaon with a distant wound: In his right shoulder the broad shaft appear’d, And trembling Greece for her physician fear’d.

To Nestor then Idomeneus begun:

“Glory of Greece, old Neleus’ valiant son!

Ascend thy chariot, haste with speed away, And great Machaon to the ships convey;

A wise physician skill’d our wounds to heal, Is more than armies to the public weal.”

Old Nestor mounts the seat; beside him rode The wounded offspring of the healing god.

He lends the lash; the steeds with sounding feet Shake the dry field, and thunder toward the fleet.

 

But now Cebriones, from Hector’s car,

Survey’d the various fortune of the war: “While here (he cried) the flying Greeks are slain, Trojans on Trojans yonder load the plain.

Before great Ajax see the mingled throng Of men and chariots driven in heaps along!

I know him well, distinguish’d o’er the field By the broad glittering of the sevenfold shield.

Thither, O Hector, thither urge thy steeds, There danger calls, and there the combat bleeds; There horse and foot in mingled deaths unite, And groans of slaughter mix with shouts of fight.”

 

Thus having spoke, the driver’s lash resounds; Swift through the ranks the rapid chariot bounds; Stung by the stroke, the coursers scour the fields, O’er heaps of carcases, and hills of shields.

The horses’ hoofs are bathed in heroes’ gore, And, dashing, purple all the car before; The groaning axle sable drops distils,

And mangled carnage clogs the rapid wheels.

Here Hector, plunging through the thickest fight, Broke the dark phalanx, and let in the light: (By the long lance, the sword, or ponderous stone.

The ranks he scatter’d and the troops o’erthrown:) Ajax he shuns, through all the dire debate, And fears that arm whose force he felt so late.

But partial Jove, espousing Hector’s part, Shot heaven-bred horror through the Grecian’s heart; Confused, unnerved in Hector’s presence grown, Amazed he stood, with terrors not his own.

O’er his broad back his moony shield he threw, And, glaring round, by tardy steps withdrew.

Thus the grim lion his retreat maintains, Beset with watchful dogs, and shouting swains; Repulsed by numbers from the nightly stalls, Though rage impels him, and though hunger calls, Long stands the showering darts, and missile fires; Then sourly slow the indignant beast retires: So turn’d stern Ajax, by whole hosts repell’d, While his swoln heart at every step rebell’d.

 

As the slow beast, with heavy strength endued, In some wide field by troops of boys pursued, Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain, Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain; Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound, The patient animal maintains his ground, Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased, And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last: On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung,

The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung; Confiding now in bulky strength he stands, Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands; Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly, And threats his followers with retorted eye.

Fix’d as the bar between two warring powers, While hissing darts descend in iron showers: In his broad buckler many a weapon stood, Its surface bristled with a quivering wood; And many a javelin, guiltless on the plain, Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain.

But bold Eurypylus his aid imparts,

And dauntless springs beneath a cloud of darts; Whose eager javelin launch’d against the foe, Great Apisaon felt the fatal blow;

From his torn liver the red current flow’d, And his slack knees desert their dying load.

The victor rushing to despoil the dead, From Paris’ bow a vengeful arrow fled;

Fix’d in his nervous thigh the weapon stood, Fix’d was the point, but broken was the wood.

Back to the lines the wounded Greek retired, Yet thus retreating, his associates fired: “What god, O Grecians! has your hearts dismay’d?

Oh, turn to arms; ‘tis Ajax claims your aid.

This hour he stands the mark of hostile rage, And this the last brave battle he shall wage: Haste, join your forces; from the gloomy grave The warrior rescue, and your country save.”

Thus urged the chief: a generous troop appears, Who spread their bucklers, and advance their spears, To guard their wounded friend: while thus they stand With pious care, great Ajax joins the band: Each takes new courage at the hero’s sight; The hero rallies, and renews the fight.

 

Thus raged both armies like conflicting fires, While Nestor’s chariot far from fight retires: His coursers steep’d in sweat, and stain’d with gore, The Greeks’ preserver, great Machaon, bore.

That hour Achilles, from the topmost height Of his proud fleet, o’erlook’d the fields of fight; His feasted eyes beheld around the plain The Grecian rout, the slaying, and the slain.

His friend Machaon singled from the rest, A transient pity touch’d his vengeful breast.

Straight to Menoetius’ much-loved son he sent: Graceful as Mars, Patroclus quits his tent; In evil hour! Then fate decreed his doom, And fix’d the date of all his woes to come.

 

“Why calls my friend? thy loved injunctions lay; Whate’er thy will, Patroclus shall obey.”

 

“O first of friends! (Pelides thus replied) Still at my heart, and ever at my side!

The time is come, when yon despairing host Shall learn the value of the man they lost: Now at my knees the Greeks shall pour their moan, And proud Atrides tremble on his throne.

Go now to Nestor, and from him be taught What wounded warrior late his chariot brought: For, seen at distance, and but seen behind, His form recall’d Machaon to my mind;

Nor could I, through yon cloud, discern his face, The coursers pass’d me with so swift a pace.”

 

The hero said. His friend obey’d with haste, Through intermingled ships and tents he pass’d; The chiefs descending from their car he found: The panting steeds Eurymedon unbound.

The warriors standing on the breezy shore, To dry their sweat, and wash away the gore, Here paused a moment, while the gentle gale Convey’d that freshness the cool seas exhale; Then to consult on farther methods went, And took their seats beneath the shady tent.

The draught prescribed, fair Hecamede prepares, Arsinous’ daughter, graced with golden hairs: (Whom to his aged arms, a royal slave,

Greece, as the prize of Nestor’s wisdom gave:) A table first with azure feet she placed; Whose ample orb a brazen charger graced; Honey new-press’d, the sacred flour of wheat, And wholesome garlic, crown’d the savoury treat, Next her white hand an antique goblet brings, A goblet sacred to the Pylian kings

From eldest times: emboss’d with studs of gold, Two feet support it, and four handles hold; On each bright handle, bending o’er the brink, In sculptured gold, two turtles seem to drink: A massy weight, yet heaved with ease by him, When the brisk nectar overlook’d the brim.

Temper’d in this, the nymph of form divine Pours a large portion of the Pramnian wine; With goat’s-milk cheese a flavourous taste bestows, And last with flour the smiling surface strows: This for the wounded prince the dame prepares: The cordial beverage reverend Nestor shares: Salubrious draughts the warriors’ thirst allay, And pleasing conference beguiles the day.

 

Meantime Patroclus, by Achilles sent,

Unheard approached, and stood before the tent.

Old Nestor, rising then, the hero led

To his high seat: the chief refused and said: “‘Tis now no season for these kind delays; The great Achilles with impatience stays.

To great Achilles this respect I owe;

Who asks, what hero, wounded by the foe, Was borne from combat by thy foaming steeds?

With grief I see the great Machaon bleeds.

This to report, my hasty course I bend; Thou know’st the fiery temper of my friend.”

“Can then the sons of Greece (the sage rejoin’d) Excite compassion in Achilles’ mind?

Seeks he the sorrows of our host to know?

This is not half the story of our woe.

Tell him, not great Machaon bleeds alone, Our bravest heroes in the navy groan,

Ulysses, Agamemnon, Diomed,

And stern Eurypylus, already bleed.

But, ah! what flattering hopes I entertain!

Achilles heeds not, but derides our pain: Even till the flames consume our fleet he stays, And waits the rising of the fatal blaze.

Chief after chief the raging foe destroys; Calm he looks on, and every death enjoys.

Now the slow course of all-impairing time Unstrings my nerves, and ends my manly prime; Oh! had I still that strength my youth possess’d, When this bold arm the Epeian powers oppress’d, The bulls of Elis in glad triumph led,

And stretch’d the great Itymonaeus dead!

Then from my fury fled the trembling swains, And ours was all the plunder of the plains: Fifty white flocks, full fifty herds of swine, As many goats, as many lowing kine:

And thrice the number of unrivall’d steeds, All teeming females, and of generous breeds.

These, as my first essay of arms, I won; Old Neleus gloried in his conquering son.

Thus Elis forced, her long arrears restored, And shares were parted to each Pylian lord.

The state of Pyle was sunk to last despair, When the proud Elians first commenced the war: For Neleus’ sons Alcides’ rage had slain; Of twelve bold brothers, I alone remain!

Oppress’d, we arm’d; and now this conquest gain’d, My sire three hundred chosen sheep obtain’d.

(That large reprisal he might justly claim, For prize defrauded, and insulted fame, When Elis’ monarch, at the public course, Detain’d his chariot, and victorious horse.) The rest the people shared; myself survey’d The just partition, and due victims paid.

Three days were past, when Elis rose to war, With many a courser, and with many a car; The sons of Actor at their army’s head

(Young as they were) the vengeful squadrons led.

High on the rock fair Thryoessa stands, Our utmost frontier on the Pylian lands: Not far the streams of famed Alphaeus flow: The stream they pass’d, and pitch’d their tents below.

Pallas, descending in the shades of night, Alarms the Pylians and commands the fight.

Each burns for fame, and swells with martial pride, Myself the foremost; but my sire denied; Fear’d for my youth, exposed to stern alarms; And stopp’d my chariot, and detain’d my arms.

My sire denied in vain: on foot I fled

Amidst our chariots; for the goddess led.

 

“Along fair Arene’s delightful plain

Soft Minyas rolls his waters to the main: There, horse and foot, the Pylian troops unite, And sheathed in arms, expect the dawning light.

Thence, ere the sun advanced his noon-day flame, To great Alphaeus’ sacred source we came.

There first to Jove our solemn rites were paid; An untamed heifer pleased the blue-eyed maid; A bull, Alphaeus; and a bull was slain

To the blue monarch of the watery main.

In arms we slept, beside the winding flood, While round the town the fierce Epeians stood.

Soon as the sun, with all-revealing ray, Flamed in the front of Heaven, and gave the day.

Bright scenes of arms, and works of war appear; The nations meet; there Pylos, Elis here.

The first who fell, beneath my javelin bled; King Augias’ son, and spouse of Agamede: (She that all simples’ healing virtues knew, And every herb that drinks the morning dew:) I seized his car, the van of battle led; The Epeians saw, they trembled, and they fled.

The foe dispersed, their bravest warrior kill’d, Fierce as the whirlwind now I swept the field: Full fifty captive chariots graced my train; Two chiefs from each fell breathless to the plain.

Then Actor’s sons had died, but Neptune shrouds The youthful heroes in a veil of clouds.

O’er heapy shields, and o’er the prostrate throng, Collecting spoils, and slaughtering