The Iliad, Homer [librera reader .TXT] 📗

ev’ry side, Like to an eagle, fam’d of sharpest sight Of all that fly beneath the vault of Heav’n; Whom, soaring in the clouds, the crouching hare Eludes not, though in leafiest covert hid; But swooping down, he rends her life away: So, Menelaus, through the ranks of war Thy piercing glances ev’ry way were turn’d, If Nestor’s son, alive, thou mightst descry; Him on the field’s extremest left he found, Cheering his friends, and urging to the fight; He stood beside him, and address’d him thus: “Antilochus, come hither, godlike friend, And woful tidings hear, which would to Heav’n I had not to impart; thyself thou seest How Jove hath heap’d disaster on the Greeks, And vict’ry giv’n to Troy; but one has fallen, Our bravest, best! Patroclus lies in death; And deeply must the Greeks his loss deplore.

But haste thee to the ships, to Peleus’ son The tidings bear, if haply he may save The body of Patroclus from the foe;

His naked body, for his arms are now

The prize of Hector of the glancing helm.”

 

He said; and at his words Antilochus

Astounded stood; long time his tongue in vain For utt’rance strove; his eyes were fill’d with tears, His cheerful voice was mute; yet not the less To Menelaus’ bidding gave his care:

Swiftly he sped; but to Laodocus,

His comrade brave, who waited with his car In close attendance, first consign’d his arms; Then from the field with active limbs he flew, Weeping, with mournful news, to Peleus’ son.

Nor, noble Menelaus, did thy heart

Incline thee to remain, and aid thy friends, Where from their war-worn ranks the Pylian troops Deplor’d the absence of Antilochus;

But these in godlike Thrasymedes’ charge He left; and to Patroclus hast’ning back, Beside th’ Ajaces stood, as thus he spoke: “Him to Achilles, to the ships, in haste I have despatch’d; yet fiercely as his wrath May burn tow’rd Hector, I can scarce expect His presence here; for how could he, unarm’d, With Trojans fight? But take we counsel now How from the field to bear away our dead, And ‘scape ourselves from death by Trojan hands.”

 

Whom answer’d thus great Ajax Telamon: “Illustrious Menelaus, all thy words

Are just and true; then from amid the press, Thou and Meriones, take up in haste,

And bear away the body; while behind

We two, in heart united, as in name,

Who side by side have still been wont to fight, Will Hector and his Trojans hold at bay.”

 

He said; they, lifting in their arms the corpse, Uprais’d it high in air; then from behind Loud yell’d the Trojans, as they saw the Greeks Retiring with their dead; and on they rush’d, As dogs that in advance of hunter youths Pursue a wounded boar; awhile they run, Eager for blood; but when, in pride of strength, He turns upon them, backward they recoil, This way and that in fear of death dispers’d: So onward press’d awhile the Trojan crowd, With thrust of swords, and double-pointed spears; But ever as th’ Ajaces turn’d to bay,

Their colour chang’d to pale, not one so bold As, dashing on, to battle for the corpse.

Thus they, with anxious care, from off the field Bore tow’rd the ships their dead; but on their track Came sweeping on the storm of battle, fierce, As, on a sudden breaking forth, the fire Seizes some populous city, and devours House after house amid the glare and blaze, While roar the flames before the gusty wind; So fiercely pressed upon the Greeks’ retreat The clatt’ring tramp of steeds and armed men.

But as the mules, with stubborn strength endued, That down the mountain through the trackless waste Drag some huge log, or timber for the ships; And spent with toil and sweat, still labour on Unflinching; so the Greeks with patient toil Bore on their dead; th’ Ajaces in their rear Stemming the war, as stems the torrent’s force Some wooded cliff, far stretching o’er the plain; Checking the mighty river’s rushing stream, And flinging it aside upon the plain,

Itself unbroken by the strength of flood: So firmly, in the rear, th’ Ajaces stemm’d The Trojan force; yet these still onward press’d, And, ‘mid their comrades proudly eminent, Two chiefs, AEneas, old Anchises’ son, And glorious Hector, in the van were seen.

Then, as a cloud of starlings or of daws Fly screaming, as they see the hawk approach, To lesser birds the messenger of death; So before Hector and AEneas fled,

Screaming, forgetful of their warlike fame, The sons of Greece; and scatter’d here and there Around the ditch lay store of goodly arms, By Greeks abandon’d in their hasty flight.

Yet still, unintermitted, rag’d the war.

 

ARGUMENT.

 

THE GRIEF OF ACHILLES, AND NEW ARMOUR MADE HIM BY VULCAN.

 

The news of the death of Patroclus is brought to Achilles by Antilochus. Thetis hearing his lamentations, comes with all her sea-nymphs to comfort him. The speeches of the mother and son on this occasion. Iris appears to Achilles by command of Juno, and orders him to show himself at the head of the intrenchments. The sight of him turns the fortune of the day, and the body of Patroclus is carried off by the Greeks. The Trojans call a council, where Hector and Polydamas disagree in their opinions; but the advice of the former prevails, to remain encamped in the field. The grief of Achilles over the body of Patroclus.

 

Thetis goes to the palace of Vulcan, to obtain new arms for her son.

The description of the wonderful works of Vulcan; and, lastly, that noble one of the shield of Achilles.

 

The latter part of the nine-and-twentieth day, and the night ensuing, take up this book. The scene is at Achilles’ tent on the seashore, from whence it changes to the palace of Vulcan.

 

BOOK XVIII.

 

Thus, furious as the rage of fire, they fought.

Meantime Antilochus to Peleus’ son,

Swift-footed messenger, his tidings bore.

Him by the high-beak’d ships he found, his mind Th’ event presaging, fill’d with anxious thoughts, As thus he commun’d with his mighty heart: “Alas! what means it, that the long-hair’d Greeks, Chas’d from the plain, are thronging round the ships?

Let me not now, ye Gods, endure the grief My mother once foretold, that I should live To see the bravest of the Myrmidons

Cut off by Trojans from the light of day.

Menoetius’ noble son has surely fall’n; Foolhardy! yet I warn’d him, and besought, Soon as the ships from hostile fires were safe, Back to return, nor Hector’s onset meet.”

 

While in his mind and spirit thus he mus’d, Beside him stood the noble Nestor’s son, And weeping, thus his mournful message gave: “Alas! great son of Peleus, woful news, Which would to Heav’n I had not to impart, To thee I bring; Patroclus lies in death; And o’er his body now the war is wag’d; His naked body, for his arms are now

The prize of Hector of the glancing helm.”

 

He said; and darkest clouds of grief o’erspread Achilles’ brow; with both his hands he seiz’d And pour’d upon his head the grimy dust, Marring his graceful visage; and defil’d With black’ning ashes all his costly robes.

Stretch’d in the dust his lofty stature lay, As with his hands his flowing locks he tore; Loud was the wailing of the female band, Achilles’ and Patroclus’ prize of war, As round Achilles, rushing out of doors, Beating their breasts, with tott’ring limbs they press’d.

In tears beside him stood Antilochus,

And in his own Achilles’ hand he held, Groaning in spirit, fearful lest for grief In his own bosom he should sheathe his sword.

Loud were his moans; his Goddess-mother heard, Beside her aged father where she sat

In the deep ocean caves; she heard, and wept: The Nereids all, in ocean’s depths who dwell, Encircled her around; Cymodoce, [5]

Nesaee, Spio, and Cymothoe,

The stag-ey’d Halia, and Amphithoe,

Actaea, Limnorea, Melite,

Doris, and Galatea, Panope;

There too were Oreithyia, Clymene,

And Amathea with the golden hair,

And all the denizens of ocean’s depths.

Fill’d was the glassy cave; in unison

They beat their breasts, as Thetis led the wail: “Give ear, my sister Nereids all, and learn How deep the grief that in my breast I bear.

Me miserable! me, of noblest son

Unhappiest mother! me, a son who bore, My brave, my beautiful, of heroes chief!

Like a young tree he throve: I tended him, In a rich vineyard as the choicest plant; Till in the beaked ships I sent him forth To war with Troy; him ne’er shall I behold, Returning home, in aged Peleus’ house.

E’en while he lives, and sees the light of day, He lives in sorrow; nor, to soothe his grief, My presence can avail; yet will I go,

That I may see my dearest child, and learn What grief hath reach’d him, from the war withdrawn.”

 

She said, and left the cave; with her they went, Weeping; before them parted th’ ocean wave.

But when they reach’d the fertile shore of Troy, In order due they landed on the beach, Where frequent, round Achilles swift of foot, Were moor’d the vessels of the Myrmidons.

There, as he groan’d aloud, beside him stood His Goddess-mother; weeping, in her hands She held his head, while pitying thus she spoke: “Why weeps my son? and what his cause of grief?

Speak out, and nought conceal; for all thy pray’r Which with uplifted hands thou mad’st to Jove, He hath fulfill’d, that, flying to their ships, The routed sons of Greece should feel how much They need thine aid, and mourn their insult past.”

 

To whom Achilles, deeply groaning, thus: “Mother, all this indeed hath Jove fulfill’d; Yet what avails it, since my dearest friend Is slain, Patroclus? whom I honour’d most Of all my comrades, lov’d him as my soul.

Him have I lost: and Hector from his corpse Hath stripp’d those arms, those weighty, beauteous arms, A marvel to behold, which from the Gods Peleus receiv’d, a glorious gift, that day When they consign’d thee to a mortal’s bed.

How better were it, if thy lot had been Still ‘mid the Ocean deities to dwell, And Peleus had espous’d a mortal bride!

For now is bitter grief for thee in store, Mourning thy son; whom to his home return’d Thou never more shalt see; nor would I wish To live, and move amid my fellow-men,

Unless that Hector, vanquish’d by my spear, May lose his forfeit life, and pay the price Of foul dishonour to Patroclus done.”

 

To whom, her tears o’erflowing, Thetis thus: “E’en as thou sayst, my son, thy term is short; Nor long shall Hector’s fate precede thine own.”

 

Achilles, answ’ring, spoke in passionate grief: “Would I might die this hour, who fail’d to save My comrade slain! far from his native land He died, sore needing my protecting arm; And I, who ne’er again must see my home, Nor to Patroclus, nor the many Greeks

Whom Hector’s hand hath slain, have render’d aid; But idly here I sit, cumb’ring the ground: I, who amid the Greeks no equal own

In fight; to others, in debate, I yield.

Accurs’d of Gods and men be hateful strife And anger, which to violence provokes

E’en temp’rate souls: though sweeter be its taste Than dropping honey, in the heart of man Swelling, like smoke; such anger in my soul Hath Agamemnon kindled, King of men.

But pass we that; though still my heart be sore, Yet will I school my angry spirit down.

In search of Hector now, of him who slew My friend, I go; prepar’d to meet my death, When Jove shall will it, and th’ Immortals all.

From death not e’en the might of Hercules, Though best belov’d