The Iliad, Homer [librera reader .TXT] 📗

the warm milk is frothing in the pail; So swarm’d they round the dead; nor Jove the while Turn’d from the stubborn fight his piercing glance; But still look’d down with gaze intent, and mus’d Upon Patroclus’ coming fate, in doubt, If he too there beside Sarpedon slain, Should perish by illustrious Hector’s hand, Spoil’d of his arms; or yet be spared awhile To swell the labours of the battle-field.

He judg’d it best at length, that once again The gallant follower of Peleus’ son

Should tow’rd the town with fearful slaughter drive The Trojans, and their brazen-helmed chief.

First Hector’s soul with panic fear he fill’d; Mounting his car, he fled, and urg’d to flight The Trojans; for he saw the scales of Jove.

Then nor the valiant Lycians held their ground; All fled in terror, as they saw their King Pierc’d through the heart, amid a pile of dead; For o’er his body many a warrior fell, When Saturn’s son the conflict fierce inflam’d.

Then from Sarpedon’s breast they stripp’d his arms, Of brass refulgent; these Menoetius’ son Sent by his comrades to the ships of Greece.

 

To Phoebus then the Cloud-compeller thus: “Hie thee, good Phoebus, from amid the spears Withdraw Sarpedon, and from all his wounds Cleanse the dark gore; then bear him far away, And lave his body in the flowing stream; Then with divine ambrosia all his limbs Anointing, clothe him in immortal robes.

To two swift bearers give him then in charge, To Sleep and Death, twin brothers, in their arms To bear him safe to Lycia’s wide-spread plains: There shall his brethren and his friends perform His fun’ral rites, and mound and column raise, The fitting tribute to the mighty dead.”

 

He said; obedient to his father’s words, Down to the battle-field Apollo sped

From Ida’s height; and from amid the spears Withdrawn, he bore Sarpedon far away,

And lav’d his body in the flowing stream; Then with divine ambrosia all his limbs Anointing, cloth’d him in immortal robes; To two swift bearers gave him then in charge, To Sleep and Death, twin brothers; in their arms They bore him safe to Lycia’s wide-spread plains.

 

Then to Automedon Patroclus gave

His orders, and the flying foe pursued.

Oh much deceiv’d, insensate! had he now But borne in mind the words of Peleus’ son, He might have ‘scap’d the bitter doom of death.

But still Jove’s will the will of man o’errules: Who strikes with panic, and of vict’ry robs The bravest; and anon excites to war;

Who now Patroclus’ breast with fury fill’d.

Whom then, Patroclus, first, whom slew’st thou last, When summon’d by the Gods to meet thy doom?

Adrastus, and Autonous, Perimus

The son of Meges, and Echeclus next;

Epistor, Melanippus, Elasus,

And Mulius, and Pylartes; these he slew; The others all in flight their safety found.

 

Then had the Greeks the lofty-gated town Of Priam captur’d by Patroclus’ hand,

So forward and so fierce he bore his spear; But on the well-built tow’r Apollo stood, On his destruction bent, and Troy’s defence The jutting angle of the lofty wall

Patroclus thrice assail’d; his onset thrice Apollo, with his own immortal hands

Repelling, backward thrust his glitt’ring shield.

But when again, with more than mortal force He made his fourth attempt, with awful mien And threat’ning voice the Far-destroyer spoke: “Back, Heav’n-born chief, Patroclus! not to thee Hath fate decreed the triumph to destroy The warlike Trojans’ city; no, nor yet To great Achilles, mightier far than thou.”

 

Thus as he spoke, Patroclus backward stepp’d, Shrinking before the Far-destroyer’s wrath.

Still Hector kept before the Scaean gates His coursers; doubtful, if again to dare The battle-throng, or summon all the host To seek the friendly shelter of the wall.

Thus as he mus’d, beside him Phoebus stood, In likeness of a warrior stout and brave, Brother of Hecuba, the uncle thence

Of noble Hector, Asius, Dymas’ son;

Who dwelt in Phrygia, by Saugarius’ stream; His form assuming, thus Apollo spoke:

“Hector, why shrink’st thou from the battle thus?

It ill beseems thee! Would to Heav’n that I So far thy greater were, as thou art mine; Then sorely shouldst thou rue this abstinence.

But, forward thou! against Patroclus urge Thy fiery steeds, so haply by his death Apollo thee with endless fame may crown.”

 

This said, the God rejoin’d the strife of men; And noble Hector bade Cebriones

Drive ‘mid the fight his car; before him mov’d Apollo, scatt’ring terror ‘mid the Greeks, And lustre adding to the arms of Troy.

All others Hector pass’d unnotic’d by, Nor stay’d to slay; Patroclus was the mark At which his coursers’ clatt’ring hoofs he drove.

On th’ other side, Patroclus from his car Leap’d to the ground: his left hand held his spear; And in the right a pond’rous mass he bore Of rugged stone, that fill’d his ample grasp: The stone he hurl’d; not far it miss’d its mark, Nor bootless flew; but Hector’s charioteer It struck, Cebriones, a bastard son

Of royal Priam, as the reins he held.

Full on his temples fell the jagged mass, Drove both his eyebrows in, and crush’d the bone; Before him in the dust his eyeballs fell; And, like a diver, from the well-wrought car Headlong he plung’d; and life forsook his limbs.

O’er whom Patroclus thus with bitter jest: “Heav’n! what agility! how deftly thrown That somersault! if only in the sea

Such feats he wrought, with him might few compete, Diving for oysters, if with such a plunge He left his boat, how rough soe’er the waves, As from his car he plunges to the ground: Troy can, it seems, accomplish’d tumblers boast.”

 

Thus saying, on Cebriones he sprang,

As springs a lion, through the breast transfix’d, In act the sheepfold to despoil, and dies The victim of his courage; so didst thou Upon Cebriones, Patroclus, spring.

Down from his car too Hector leap’d to earth.

So, o’er Cebriones, oppos’d they stood; As on the mountain, o’er a slaughter’d stag, Both hunger-pinch’d, two lions fiercely fight, So o’er Cebriones two mighty chiefs,

Menoetius’ son and noble Hector, strove, Each in the other bent to plunge his spear.

The head, with grasp unyielding, Hector held; Patroclus seiz’d the foot; and, crowding round, Trojans and Greeks in stubborn conflict clos’d.

As when, encount’ring in some mountain-glen, Eurus and Notus shake the forest deep, Of oak, or ash, or slender cornel-tree, Whose tap’ring branches are together thrown, With fearful din, and crash of broke a boughs; So mix’d confus’dly, Greeks and Trojans fought, No thought of flight by either entertain’d.

Thick o’er Cebriones the jav’lins flew, And feather’d arrows, bounding from the string; And pond’rous stones that on the bucklers rang, As round the dead they fought; amid the dust That eddying rose, his art forgotten all, A mighty warrior, mightily he lay.

While in mid Heav’n the sun pursued his course, Thick flew the shafts, and fast the people fell On either side; but when declining day Brought on the hour that sees the loosen’d steers, The Greeks were stronger far; and from the darts And Trojan battle-cry Cebriones

They drew, and from his breast his armour stripp’d.

Fiercely Patroclus on the Trojans fell: Thrice he assail’d them, terrible as Mars, With fearful shouts; and thrice nine foes he slew: But when again, with more than mortal force His fourth assault he made, thy term of life, Patroclus, then approach’d its final close; For Phoebus’ awful self encounter’d thee, Amid the battle-throng, of thee unseen, For thickest darkness shrouded all his form: He stood behind, and with extended palm Dealt on Patroclus’ neck and shoulders broad A mighty buffet; dizzy swam his eyes,

And from his head Apollo snatch’d the helm; Clank’d, as it roll’d beneath the horses’ feet, The visor’d helm; the horsehair plume with blood And dust polluted; never till that day Was that proud helmet so with dust defil’d, That wont to deck a godlike chief, and guard Achilles’ noble head, and graceful brow: Now by the will of Jove to Hector giv’n.

Now death was near at hand; and in his grasp His spear was shiver’d, pond’rous, long, and tough, Brass-pointed; with its belt, the ample shield Fell from his shoulders; and Apollo’s hand, The royal son of Jove, his corslet loos’d.

Then was his mind bewilder’d; and his limbs Gave way beneath him; all aghast he stood: Him, from behind, a Dardan, Panthous’ son, Euphorbus, peerless ‘mid the Trojan youth, To hurl the spear, to run, to drive the car, Approaching close, between the shoulders stabb’d; He, train’d to warfare, from his car, ere this A score of Greeks had from their chariots hurl’d: Such was the man who thee, Patroclus, first Wounded, but not subdued; the ashen spear He, in all haste, withdrew; nor dar’d confront Patroclus, though disarm’d, in deadly strife.

 

Back to his comrades’ shelt’ring ranks retir’d, From certain death, Patroclus: by the stroke Of Phoebus vanquish’d, and Euphorbus’ spear: But Hector, when Patroclus from the fight He saw retreating, wounded, through the ranks Advancing, smote him through the flank; right through The brazen spear was driv’n; thund’ring he fell; And deeply mourn’d his fall the Grecian host.

 

As when a lion hath in fight o’erborne A tusked boar, when on the mountain top They two have met, in all their pride of strength, Both parch’d with thirst, around a scanty spring; And vanquish’d by the lion’s force, the boar Hath yielded, gasping; so Menoetius’ son, Great deeds achiev’d, at length beneath the spear Of noble Hector yielded up his life;

Who o’er the vanquish’d, thus exulting, spoke: “Patroclus, but of late thou mad’st thy boast To raze our city walls, and in your ships To bear away to your far-distant land, Their days of freedom lost, our Trojan dames: Fool that thou wast! nor knew’st, in their defence, That Hector’s flying coursers scour’d the plain; From them, the bravest of the Trojans, I Avert the day of doom; while on our shores Thy flesh shall glut the carrion birds of Troy.

Poor wretch! though brave he be, yet Peleus’ son Avail’d thee nought, when, hanging back himself, With sage advice he sent thee forth to fight: ‘Come not to me, Patroclus, car-borne chief, Nor to the ships return, until thou bear The warrior-slayer Hector’s bloody spoils, Torn from his body;’ such were, I suppose, His counsels; thou, poor fool, becam’st his dupe.”

To whom Patroclus thus in accents faint: “Hector, thou boastest loudly now, that Jove, With Phoebus join’d, hath thee with vict’ry crown’d: They wrought my death, who stripp’d me of my arms.

Had I to deal with twenty such as thee, They all should perish, vanquish’d by my spear: Me fate hath slain, and Phoebus; and, of men, Euphorbus; thou wast but the third to strike.

This too I say, and bear it in thy mind; Not long shalt thou survive me; death e’en now And final doom hangs o’er thee, by the hand Of great Achilles, Peleus’ matchless son.”

 

Thus as he spoke, the gloom of death his eyes O’erspread, and to the shades his spirit fled, Mourning his fate, his youth and strength cut off.

To whom, though dead, the noble Hector thus: “Patroclus, why predict my coming fate?

Or who can say but fair-hair’d Thetis’ son, Achilles, by my spear may first be slain?”

 

He said, and planting firm his foot, withdrew The brazen spear, and backward drove the dead From off the weapon’s point; then, spear in hand, Intent to slay, Automedon pursued,

The godlike follower of AEacides:

But him in safety bore th’ immortal steeds, The noble prize the Gods to Peleus gave.

 

ARGUMENT.

 

THE SEVENTH BATTLE, FOR THE BODY OF PATROCLUS.—THE ACTS OF MENELAUS.

 

Menelaus, upon the death of Patroclus, defends his body from the enemy; Euphorbus, who attempts it, is slain.