The Iliad, Homer [librera reader .TXT] 📗

at home, of all his sons At once the youngest and the best-belov’d; Among them all for speed of foot unmatch’d; Whose youthful folly, in the foremost ranks His speed displaying, cost him now his life.

Him, as he darted by, Achilles’ spear

Struck through the centre of the back, where met The golden clasps that held the glitt’ring belt, And where the breastplate form’d a double guard: Right through his body pass’d the weapon’s point; Groaning, he fell upon his knees; dark clouds O’erspread his eyes; supporting with his hand His wounded bowels, on the ground he writh’d.

When Hector saw his brother Polydore

Writhing in death, a mist o’erspread his eyes Nor longer could he bear to stand aloof, But sprang to meet Achilles, flashing fire, His keen spear brandishing; at sight of him Up leap’d Achilles, and exulting cried: “Lo, here the man who most hath wrung my soul, Who slew my lov’d companion: now, methinks, Upon the pass of war not long shall we Stand separate, nor each the other shun.”

 

Then, with stern glance, to godlike Hector thus: “Draw near, and quickly meet thy doom of death.”

 

To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm, Unterrified: “Achilles, think not me,

As though a fool and ignorant of war,

To daunt with lofty speech; I too could well With cutting words and insult answer thee.

I know thee strong and valiant; and I know Myself to thee inferior; but th’ event Is with the Gods; and I, if such their will, The weaker, with my spear may reach thy life: My point too hath, ere now, its sharpness prov’d.”

 

He said, and, poising, hurl’d his pond’rous spear, Which from Achilles Pallas turn’d aside With lightest breath; and back to Hector sent, And laid before his feet; intent to slay, Onward Achilles rush’d, with fearful shout; But Phoebus Hector from the field convey’d, (As Gods can only,) veil’d in thickest cloud.

Thrice Peleus’ godlike son, with brazen spear, His onset made; thrice struck the misty cloud; But when, with pow’r as of a God, he made His fourth essay, in fury thus he cried: “Yet once again, vile hound, hast thou escap’d; Thy doom was nigh, but thee thy God hath sav’d, Phoebus, to whom, amid the clash of spears, Well mayst thou pray! We yet shall meet again; When I shall end thee, if a guardian God I too may claim; meanwhile, from thee I turn, And others seek on whom my hap may light.”

 

He said, and drove through Dryops’ neck his spear, And stretch’d him at his feet, and pass’d him by.

Next with his spear he struck below the knee Philetor’s son, Demuchus, stout and tall, And check’d his forward course; then rushing on Dealt with his mighty sword the mortal blow.

The sons of Bias next, Laogonus

And Dardanus, he hurl’d from off their car, One with the spear, and one by sword-stroke slain.

Tros too he slew, Alastor’s son, who came To meet him, and embrace his knees, and pray To spare his life, in pity of his youth: Little he knew how vain would be his pray’r; For not of temper soft, nor mild of mood Was he, but sternly fierce; and as he knelt And clasp’d his knees, and would his pray’r prefer, Achilles clove him with his mighty sword, Gash’d through the liver; as from out the wound His liver dropp’d, the dark blood gushing forth His bosom fill’d, and darkness clos’d his eyes, As ebb’d his life away. Then through the ear Mulius he thrust; at th’ other ear came forth The brazen point. Echeclus next he met, Son of Agenor, and his hilted sword

Full on the centre of his head let fall.

The hot blood dy’d the blade; the darkling shades Of death, and rig’rous fate, his eyes o’erspread.

Next, where the tendons bind the elbow-joint, The brazen spear transfix’d Deucalion’s arm; With death in prospect, and disabled arm He stood, till on his neck Achilles’ sword Descending, shar’d, and flung afar, both head And helmet; from the spine’s dissever’d joints The marrow flow’d, as stretch’d in dust he lay.

The noble son of Peireus next he slew, Rigmus, who came from Thracia’s fertile plains; Him through the waist he struck, the brazen spear Plung’d in his bowels; from the car he fell; And as Areithous, his charioteer,

His horses turn’d, Achilles through the neck His sharp spear thrusting, hurl’d him to the ground, The startled steeds in wild confusion thrown.

 

As rage the fires amid the wooded glen Of some parch’d mountain’s side, and fiercely burns The copse-wood dry, while eddying here and there The flames are whirl’d before the gusty wind; So fierce Achilles raged, on ev’ry side Pursuing, slaught’ring; reek’d the earth with blood.

As when upon a well-roll’d threshing-floor, Two sturdy-fronted steers, together yok’d, Tread the white barley out; beneath their feet Fast flies the grain out-trodden from the husk; So by Achilles driv’n, his flying steeds His chariot bore, o’er bodies of the slain And broken bucklers trampling; all beneath Was plash’d with blood the axle, and the rails Around the car, as from the horses’ feet And from the felloes of the wheels were thrown The bloody gouts; and onward still he press’d, Panting for added triumphs, deeply dyed With gore and carnage his unconquer’d hands.

 

ARGUMENT.

 

THE BATTLE IN THE RIVER SCAMANDER.

 

The Trojans fly before Achilles, some towards the town, others to the river Scamander; he falls upon the latter with great slaughter, takes twelve captives alive, to sacrifice to the shade of Patroclus; and kills Lycaon and Asteropaeus. Scamander attacks him with all his waves; Neptune and Pallas assist the hero; Simois joins Scamander; at length Vulcan, by the instigation of Juno, almost dries up the river. This combat ended, the other gods engage each other. Meanwhile Achilles continues the slaughter, and drives the rest into Troy; Agenor only makes a stand, and is conveyed away in a cloud by Apollo: who (to delude Achilles) takes upon him Agenor’s shape, and while he pursues him in that disguise, gives the Trojans an opportunity of retiring into their city.

 

The same day continues. The scene is on the banks and in the stream of Scamander.

 

BOOK XXI.

 

But when they came to eddying Xanthus’ ford, Fair-flowing stream, born of immortal Jove, Achilles cut in twain the flying host; Part driving tow’rd the city, o’er the plain, Where on the former day the routed Greeks, When Hector rag’d victorious, fled amain.

On, terror-struck, they rush’d; but Juno spread, To baffle their retreat, before their path, Clouds and thick darkness: half the fugitives In the deep river’s silv’ry eddies plung’d: With clamour loud they fell: the torrent roar’d; The banks around re-echoed; here and there, They, with the eddies wildly struggling, swam.

As when, pursued by fire, a hov’ring swarm Of locusts riverward direct their flight, And, as th’ insatiate flames advance, they cow’r Amid the waters; so a mingled mass

Of men and horses, by Achilles driv’n, The deeply-whirling stream, of Xanthus chok’d.

His spear amid the tamarisks on the bank The hero left; on savage deeds intent, Arm’d with his sword alone, a God in pow’r, He sprang amid the torrent; right and left He smote; then fearful rose the groans of men Slain with the sword; the stream ran red with blood.

As fishes, flying from a dolphin, crowd The shoal recesses of some open bay,

In fear, for whom he catches he devours; So crouch’d the Trojans in the mighty stream Beneath the banks; and when at length his hand Wearied of slaughter, from the stream, alive, He dragg’d twelve youths, whose forfeit lives should be The bloody fine for slain Patroclus paid.

Helpless from fear, as fawns, he brought them forth; Their hands secur’d behind them with the belts Which o’er their shirts of twisted mail they wore, And bade his comrades lead them to the ships.

Then on again he dash’d, athirst for blood; And first encounter’d, flying from the stream, Lycaon, Priam’s son; him once before

He by a nightly onslaught had surpris’d, And from his father’s vineyard captive borne: Where, as he cut, to form his chariot rail, A fig-tree’s tender shoots, unlook’d-for ill O’ertook him in the form of Peleus’ son.

Thence in his ship to Lemnos’ thriving isle He bore him, ransom’d there by Jason’s son.

His Imbrian host, Eetion, set him free With lib’ral gifts, and to Arisba sent: Escaping thence, he reach’d his native home.

Twelve days save one, rejoicing, with his friends He spent, return’d from Lemnos: fate, the twelfth, Again consign’d him to Achilles’ hands, From him, reluctant, to receive his death.

Him when Achilles, swift of foot, beheld, No spear in hand, of helm and shield bereft, All flung in haste away, as from the stream, Reeking with sweat, and faint with toil, he fled, He commun’d, wrathful, with his mighty heart: “Ye Gods, what marvel do mine eyes behold!

Methinks the valiant Trojans slain by me Ere long will from the realms of darkness rise; Since, death escaping, but to slav’ry sold In Lemnos’ isle, this fellow hath return’d, Despite the hoary sea’s impediment,

Which many a man against his will hath stay’d: Now shall he taste my spear, that I may see If thence too he return, or if the earth May keep him safe, which e’en the strongest holds.”

 

Thus, as he stood, he mus’d; but all aghast Approach’d Lycaon; and would fain have clasp’d The Hero’s knees; for longingly he sought Escape from bitter death and evil fate.

Achilles rais’d his spear, in act to strike; He, stooping, ran beneath, and clasp’d his knees; Above his back the murd’rous weapon pass’d, And in the earth was fix’d: one suppliant hand Achilles’ knees embrac’d; the other held, With unrelaxing grasp, the pointed spear; As he with winged words, imploring, spoke: “I clasp thy knees, Achilles! look then down With pity on my woes; and recognize,

Illustrious chief, a suppliant’s sacred claim: For in thy tent I first broke bread, that day, When, in my father’s fruitful vineyard seiz’d, Thy captive I became, to slav’ry sold, Far from my sire and friends, in Lemnos’ isle.

A hundred oxen were my ransom then;

At thrice so much I now would buy my life.

This day is but the twelfth, since, sorely tried By lengthen’d suffering, back to Troy I came.

Now to thy hands once more my cruel fate Consigns me; surely by the wrath of Jove Pursued, who gives me to thy pow’r again.

Me, doom’d to early death, my mother bore, Old Altes’ daughter, fair Laothoe;

Altes, who rul’d the warlike Leleges,

In lofty Pedasus, by Satnois’ stream.

His child of Priam’s many wives was one; Two sons she bore, and both by thee must die.

Already one, the godlike Polydore,

Amid the foremost ranks thy spear hath slain; And now my doom hath found me; for from thee, Since evil fate hath plac’d me in thy hands, I may not hope to fly; yet hear but this, And weigh it in thy mind, to spare my life: I come not of that womb which Hector bore, Who slew thy comrade, gentle, kind, and brave.”

 

Thus Priam’s noble son, imploring, spoke; But stern the answer fell upon his ear: “Thou fool! no more to me of ransom prate!

Before Patroclus met the doom of death, To spare the Trojans still my soul inclin’d; And many captives, ta’en alive, I sold; But from henceforth, before the walls of Troy, Not one of all the Trojans, whom the Gods May to my hands deliver, least of all

A son of Priam, shall escape the death.

Thou too, my friend, must die: why vainly wail?

Dead is Patroclus too, thy better far.

Me too thou see’st, how stalwart, tall, and fair,