The Iliad, Homer [librera reader .TXT] 📗

Pelides rush’d.

As when a falcon, bird of swiftest flight, From some high mountain-top, on tim’rous dove Swoops fiercely down; she, from beneath, in fear, Evades the stroke; he, dashing through the brake, Shrill-shrieking, pounces on his destin’d prey; So, wing’d with desp’rate hate, Achilles flew, So Hector, flying from his keen pursuit, Beneath the walls his active sinews plied.

They by the watch-tow’r, and beneath the wall Where stood the wind-beat fig-tree, rac’d amain Along the public road, until they reach’d The fairly-flowing fount whence issu’d forth, From double source, Scamander’s eddying streams.

One with hot current flows, and from beneath, As from a furnace, clouds of steam arise; ‘Mid summer’s heat the other rises cold As hail, or snow, or water crystalliz’d; Beside the fountains stood the washing-troughs Of well-wrought stone, where erst the wives of Troy And daughters fair their choicest garments wash’d, In peaceful times, ere came the sons of Greece.

There rac’d they, one in flight, and one pursuing; Good he who fled, but better who pursu’d, With fiery speed; for on that race was stak’d No common victim, no ignoble ox:

The prize at stake was mighty Hector’s life.

As when the solid-footed horses fly

Around the course, contending for the prize, Tripod, or woman of her lord bereft;

So rac’d they thrice around the walls of Troy With active feet; and all the Gods beheld.

Then thus began the Sire of Gods and men: “A woful sight mine eyes behold; a man I love in flight around the walls! my heart For Hector grieves, who, now upon the crown Of deeply-furrow’d Ida, now again

On Ilium’s heights, with fat of choicest bulls Hath pil’d mine altar; whom around the walls, With flying speed Achilles now pursues.

Give me your counsel, Gods, and say, from death If we shall rescue him, or must he die, Brave as he is, beneath Pelides’ hand?”

 

To whom the blue-ey’d Goddess, Pallas, thus: “O Father, lightning-flashing, cloud-girt King, What words are these? wouldst thou a mortal man, Long doom’d by fate, again from death preserve?

Do as thou wilt, but not with our consent.”

 

To whom the Cloud-compeller thus replied: “Be of good cheer, my child! unwillingly I speak, yet both thy wishes to oppose: Have then thy will, and draw not back thy hand.”

 

His words fresh impulse gave to Pallas’ zeal, And from Olympus’ heights in haste she sped.

 

Meanwhile on Hector, with untiring hate.

The swift Achilles press’d: as when a hound, Through glen and tangled brake, pursues a fawn, Rous’d from its lair upon the mountain side; And if awhile it should evade pursuit, Low crouching in the copse, yet quests he back, Searching unwearied, till he find the trace; So Hector sought to baffle, but in vain, The keen pursuit of Peleus’ active son.

Oft as he sought the shelter of the gates Beneath the well-built tow’rs, if haply thence His comrades’ weapons might some aid afford; So oft his foeman, with superior speed, Would cut him off, and turn him to the plain.

He tow’rd the city still essay’d his flight; And as in dreams, when one pursues in vain, One seeks in vain to fly, the other seeks As vainly to pursue; so could not now

Achilles reach, nor Hector quit, his foe.

Yet how should Hector now the doom of death Have ‘scap’d, had not Apollo once again, And for the last time, to his rescue come, And giv’n him strength and suppleness of limb?

 

Then to the crowd Achilles with his head Made sign that none at Hector should presume To cast a spear, lest one might wound, and so The greater glory obtain, while he himself Must be contented with the second place.

But when the fourth time in their rapid course The founts were reach’d, th’ Eternal Father hung His golden scales aloft, and plac’d in each The lots of doom, for great Achilles one, For Hector one, and held them by the midst: Down sank the scale, weighted with Hector’s death, Down to the shades, and Phoebus left his side.

 

Then to Pelides came the blue-ey’d Maid, And stood beside him, and bespoke him thus: “Achilles, lov’d of Heav’n, I trust that now To thee and me great glory shall accrue In Hector’s fall, insatiate of the fight.

Escape he cannot now, though at the feet Of aegis-bearing Jove, on his behalf,

With earnest pray’r Apollo prostrate fall.

But stay thou here and take thy breath, while I Persuade him to return and dare the fight.”

 

So Pallas spoke; and he with joy obeying, Stood leaning on his brass-barb’d ashen spear.

The Goddess left him there, and went (the form And voice assuming of Deiphobus)

In search of godlike Hector; him she found, And standing near, with winged words address’d: “Sorely, good brother, hast thou been bested By fierce Achilles, who around the walls Hath chas’d thee with swift foot; now stand we both For mutual succour, and his onset wait.”

 

To whom great Hector of the glancing helm: “Deiphobus, of all my brothers, sons

Of Hecuba and Priam, thou hast been

Still dearest to my heart; and now the more I honour thee who dar’st on my behalf, Seeing my peril, from within the walls To sally forth, while others skulk behind.”

 

To whom the blue-ey’d Goddess thus replied: “With many pray’rs, good brother, both our sire And honour’d mother, and our comrades all Successively implored me to remain;

Such fear is fall’n on all; but in my soul On thine account too deep a grief I felt.

Now, forward boldly! spare we not our spears; Make trial if Achilles to the ships

From both of us our bloody spoils can bear, Or by thine arm himself may be subdued.”

 

Thus Pallas lur’d him on with treach’rous wile; But when the two were met, and close at hand, First spoke great Hector of the glancing helm: “No more before thee, Peleus’ son, I fly: Thrice have I fled around the walls, nor dar’d Await thine onset; now my spirit is rous’d To stand before thee, to be slain, or slay.

But let us first th’ immortal Gods invoke; The surest witnesses and guardians they Of compacts: at my hand no foul disgrace Shalt thou sustain, if Jove with victory Shall crown my firm endurance, and thy life To me be forfeit; of thine armour stripp’d I promise thee, Achilles, to the Greeks Thy body to restore; do thou the like.”

 

With fierce regard Achilles answer’d thus: “Hector, thou object of my deadly hate, Talk not to me of compacts; as ‘tween men And lions no firm concord can exist,

Nor wolves and lambs in harmony unite, But ceaseless enmity between them dwells: So not in friendly terms, nor compact firm, Can thou and I unite, till one of us

Glut with his blood the mail-clad warrior Mars.

Mind thee of all thy fence; behoves thee now To prove a spearman skill’d, and warrior brave.

For thee escape is none; now, by my spear, Hath Pallas doom’d thy death; my comrades’ blood, Which thou hast shed, shall all be now aveng’d.”

 

He said, and poising, hurl’d his weighty spear; But Hector saw, and shunn’d the blow; he stoop’d, And o’er his shoulder flew the brass-tipp’d spear, And in the ground was fix’d; but Pallas drew The weapon forth, and to Achilles’ hand, All unobserv’d of Hector, gave it back.

Then Hector thus to Peleus’ matchless son: “Thine aim has fail’d; nor truly has my fate, Thou godlike son of Peleus, been to thee From Heav’n reveal’d; such was indeed thy boast; But flippant was thy speech, and subtly fram’d To scare me with big words, and make me prove False to my wonted prowess and renown.

Not in my back will I receive thy spear, But through my breast, confronting thee, if Jove Have to thine arm indeed such triumph giv’n.

Now, if thou canst, my spear in turn elude; May it be deeply buried in thy flesh!

For lighter were to Troy the load of war, If thou, the greatest of her foes, wert slain.”

 

He said, and poising, hurl’d his pond’rous spear; Nor miss’d his aim; full in the midst he struck Pelides’ shield; but glancing from the shield The weapon bounded off. Hector was griev’d, That thus his spear had bootless left his hand.

He stood aghast; no second spear was nigh: And loudly on Deiphobus he call’d

A spear to bring; but he was far away.

Then Hector knew that he was dup’d, and cried, “Oh Heav’n! the Gods above have doom’d my death!

I deem’d indeed that brave Deiphobus

Was near at hand; but he within the walls Is safe, and I by Pallas am betray’d.

Now is my death at hand, nor far away: Escape is none; since so hath Jove decreed, And Jove’s far-darting son, who heretofore Have been my guards; my fate hath found me now.

Yet not without a struggle let me die, Nor all inglorious; but let some great act, Which future days may hear of, mark my fall.”

 

Thus as he spoke, his sharp-edged sword he drew, Pond’rous and vast, suspended at his side; Collected for the spring, and forward dash’d: As when an eagle, bird of loftiest flight, Through the dark clouds swoops downward on the plain, To seize some tender lamb, or cow’ring hare; So Hector rush’d, and wav’d his sharp-edg’d sword.

Achilles’ wrath was rous’d: with fury wild His soul was fill’d: before his breast he bore His well-wrought shield; and fiercely on his brow Nodded the four-plum’d helm, as on the breeze Floated the golden hairs, with which the crest By Vulcan’s hand was thickly interlac’d; And as amid the stars’ unnumber’d host, When twilight yields to night, one star appears, Hesper, the brightest star that shines in Heav’n, Gleam’d the sharp-pointed lance, which in his right Achilles pois’d, on godlike Hector’s doom Intent, and scanning eagerly to see

Where from attack his body least was fenc’d.

All else the glitt’ring armour guarded well, Which Hector from Patroclus’ corpse had stripp’d; One chink appear’d, just where the collar-bone The neck and shoulder parts, beside the throat, Where lies expos’d the swiftest road of death.

There levell’d he, as Hector onward rush’d; Right through the yielding neck the lance was driv’n, But sever’d not the windpipe, nor destroy’d His pow’r of speech; prone in the dust he fell; And o’er him, vaunting, thus Achilles spoke: “Hector, Patroclus stripping of his arms, Thy hope was that thyself wast safe; and I, Not present, brought no terror to thy soul: Fool! in the hollow ships I yet remain’d, I, his avenger, mightier far than he;

I, who am now thy conqu’ror. By the dogs And vultures shall thy corpse be foully torn, While him the Greeks with fun’ral rites shall grace.”

 

Whom answer’d Hector of the glancing helm, Prostrate and helpless: “By thy soul, thy knees, Thy parents’ heads, Achilles, I beseech, Let not my corpse by Grecian dogs be torn.

Accept the ample stores of brass and gold, Which as my ransom by my honour’d sire And mother shall be paid thee; but my corpse Restore, that so the men and wives of Troy May deck with honours due my fun’ral pyre.”

 

To whom, with fierce aspect, Achilles thus: “Knee me no knees, vile hound! nor prate to me Of parents! such my hatred, that almost I could persuade myself to tear and eat Thy mangled flesh; such wrongs I have to avenge, He lives not, who can save thee from the dogs; Not though with ransom ten and twenty fold He here should stand, and yet should promise more; No, not though Priam’s royal self should sue To be allow’d for gold to ransom thee; No, not e’en so, thy mother shall obtain To lay thee