The Iliad, Homer [short books for teens TXT] 📗
- Author: Homer
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Greece, in close order, and collected might, Yet suffers least, and sways the wavering fight; Fierce as conflicting fires the combat burns, And now it rises, now it sinks by turns.
In one thick darkness all the fight was lost; The sun, the moon, and all the ethereal host Seem’d as extinct: day ravish’d from their eyes, And all heaven’s splendours blotted from the skies.
Such o’er Patroclus’ body hung the night, The rest in sunshine fought, and open light; Unclouded there, the aerial azure spread, No vapour rested on the mountain’s head, The golden sun pour’d forth a stronger ray, And all the broad expansion flamed with day.
Dispersed around the plain, by fits they fight, And here and there their scatter’d arrows light: But death and darkness o’er the carcase spread, There burn’d the war, and there the mighty bled.
Meanwhile the sons of Nestor, in the rear, (Their fellows routed,) toss the distant spear, And skirmish wide: so Nestor gave command, When from the ships he sent the Pylian band.
The youthful brothers thus for fame contend, Nor knew the fortune of Achilles’ friend; In thought they view’d him still, with martial joy, Glorious in arms, and dealing death to Troy.
But round the corse the heroes pant for breath, And thick and heavy grows the work of death: O’erlabour’d now, with dust, and sweat, and gore, Their knees, their legs, their feet, are covered o’er; Drops follow drops, the clouds on clouds arise, And carnage clogs their hands, and darkness fills their eyes.
As when a slaughter’d bull’s yet reeking hide, Strain’d with full force, and tugg’d from side to side, The brawny curriers stretch; and labour o’er The extended surface, drunk with fat and gore: So tugging round the corse both armies stood; The mangled body bathed in sweat and blood; While Greeks and Ilians equal strength employ, Now to the ships to force it, now to Troy.
Not Pallas’ self, her breast when fury warms, Nor he whose anger sets the world in arms, Could blame this scene; such rage, such horror reign’d; Such, Jove to honour the great dead ordain’d.
Achilles in his ships at distance lay,
Nor knew the fatal fortune of the day;
He, yet unconscious of Patroclus’ fall, In dust extended under Ilion’s wall,
Expects him glorious from the conquered plain, And for his wish’d return prepares in vain; Though well he knew, to make proud Ilion bend Was more than heaven had destined to his friend.
Perhaps to him: this Thetis had reveal’d; The rest, in pity to her son, conceal’d.
Still raged the conflict round the hero dead, And heaps on heaps by mutual wounds they bled.
“Cursed be the man (even private Greeks would say) Who dares desert this well-disputed day!
First may the cleaving earth before our eyes Gape wide, and drink our blood for sacrifice; First perish all, ere haughty Troy shall boast We lost Patroclus, and our glory lost!”
Thus they: while with one voice the Trojans said, “Grant this day, Jove! or heap us on the dead!”
Then clash their sounding arms; the clangours rise, And shake the brazen concave of the skies.
Meantime, at distance from the scene of blood, The pensive steeds of great Achilles stood: Their godlike master slain before their eyes, They wept, and shared in human miseries. [208]
In vain Automedon now shakes the rein,
Now plies the lash, and soothes and threats in vain; Nor to the fight nor Hellespont they go, Restive they stood, and obstinate in woe: Still as a tombstone, never to be moved, On some good man or woman unreproved
Lays its eternal weight; or fix’d, as stands A marble courser by the sculptor’s hands, Placed on the hero’s grave. Along their face The big round drops coursed down with silent pace, Conglobing on the dust. Their manes, that late Circled their arched necks, and waved in state, Trail’d on the dust beneath the yoke were spread, And prone to earth was hung their languid head: Nor Jove disdain’d to cast a pitying look, While thus relenting to the steeds he spoke: “Unhappy coursers of immortal strain,
Exempt from age, and deathless, now in vain; Did we your race on mortal man bestow,
Only, alas! to share in mortal woe?
For ah! what is there of inferior birth, That breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth; What wretched creature of what wretched kind, Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind?
A miserable race! but cease to mourn:
For not by you shall Priam’s son be borne High on the splendid car: one glorious prize He rashly boasts: the rest our will denies.
Ourself will swiftness to your nerves impart, Ourself with rising spirits swell your heart.
Automedon your rapid flight shall bear
Safe to the navy through the storm of war.
For yet ‘tis given to Troy to ravage o’er The field, and spread her slaughters to the shore; The sun shall see her conquer, till his fall With sacred darkness shades the face of all.”
He said; and breathing in the immortal horse Excessive spirit, urged them to the course; From their high manes they shake the dust, and bear The kindling chariot through the parted war: So flies a vulture through the clamorous train Of geese, that scream, and scatter round the plain.
From danger now with swiftest speed they flew, And now to conquest with like speed pursue; Sole in the seat the charioteer remains, Now plies the javelin, now directs the reins: Him brave Alcimedon beheld distress’d,
Approach’d the chariot, and the chief address’d: “What god provokes thee rashly thus to dare, Alone, unaided, in the thickest war?
Alas! thy friend is slain, and Hector wields Achilles’ arms triumphant in the fields.”
“In happy time (the charioteer replies) The bold Alcimedon now greets my eyes;
No Greek like him the heavenly steeds restrains, Or holds their fury in suspended reins: Patroclus, while he lived, their rage could tame, But now Patroclus is an empty name!
To thee I yield the seat, to thee resign The ruling charge: the task of fight be mine.”
He said. Alcimedon, with active heat,
Snatches the reins, and vaults into the seat.
His friend descends. The chief of Troy descried, And call’d AEneas fighting near his side.
“Lo, to my sight, beyond our hope restored, Achilles’ car, deserted of its lord!
The glorious steeds our ready arms invite, Scarce their weak drivers guide them through the fight.
Can such opponents stand when we assail?
Unite thy force, my friend, and we prevail.”
The son of Venus to the counsel yields; Then o’er their backs they spread their solid shields: With brass refulgent the broad surface shined, And thick bull-hides the spacious concave lined.
Them Chromius follows, Aretus succeeds; Each hopes the conquest of the lofty steeds: In vain, brave youths, with glorious hopes ye burn, In vain advance! not fated to return.
Unmov’d, Automedon attends the fight,
Implores the Eternal, and collects his might.
Then turning to his friend, with dauntless mind: “Oh keep the foaming coursers close behind!
Full on my shoulders let their nostrils blow, For hard the fight, determined is the foe; ‘Tis Hector comes: and when he seeks the prize, War knows no mean; he wins it or he dies.”
Then through the field he sends his voice aloud, And calls the Ajaces from the warring crowd, With great Atrides. “Hither turn, (he said,) Turn where distress demands immediate aid; The dead, encircled by his friends, forego, And save the living from a fiercer foe.
Unhelp’d we stand, unequal to engage
The force of Hector, and AEneas’ rage:
Yet mighty as they are, my force to prove Is only mine: the event belongs to Jove.”
He spoke, and high the sounding javelin flung, Which pass’d the shield of Aretus the young: It pierced his belt, emboss’d with curious art, Then in the lower belly struck the dart.
As when a ponderous axe, descending full, Cleaves the broad forehead of some brawny bull: [209]
Struck ‘twixt the horns, he springs with many a bound, Then tumbling rolls enormous on the ground: Thus fell the youth; the air his soul received, And the spear trembled as his entrails heaved.
Now at Automedon the Trojan foe
Discharged his lance; the meditated blow, Stooping, he shunn’d; the javelin idly fled, And hiss’d innoxious o’er the hero’s head; Deep rooted in the ground, the forceful spear In long vibrations spent its fury there.
With clashing falchions now the chiefs had closed, But each brave Ajax heard, and interposed; Nor longer Hector with his Trojans stood, But left their slain companion in his blood: His arms Automedon divests, and cries,
“Accept, Patroclus, this mean sacrifice: Thus have I soothed my griefs, and thus have paid, Poor as it is, some offering to thy shade.”
So looks the lion o’er a mangled boar,
All grim with rage, and horrible with gore; High on the chariot at one bound he sprung, And o’er his seat the bloody trophies hung.
And now Minerva from the realms of air
Descends impetuous, and renews the war; For, pleased at length the Grecian arms to aid, The lord of thunders sent the blue-eyed maid.
As when high Jove denouncing future woe, O’er the dark clouds extends his purple bow, (In sign of tempests from the troubled air, Or from the rage of man, destructive war,) The drooping cattle dread the impending skies, And from his half-till’d field the labourer flies: In such a form the goddess round her drew A livid cloud, and to the battle flew.
Assuming Phoenix’ shape on earth she falls, And in his well-known voice to Sparta calls: “And lies Achilles’ friend, beloved by all, A prey to dogs beneath the Trojan wall?
What shame ‘o Greece for future times to tell, To thee the greatest in whose cause he fell!”
“O chief, O father! (Atreus’ son replies) O full of days! by long experience wise!
What more desires my soul, than here unmoved To guard the body of the man I loved?
Ah, would Minerva send me strength to rear This wearied arm, and ward the storm of war!
But Hector, like the rage of fire, we dread, And Jove’s own glories blaze around his head!”
Pleased to be first of all the powers address’d, She breathes new vigour in her hero’s breast, And fills with keen revenge, with fell despite, Desire of blood, and rage, and lust of fight.
So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o’er), Repulsed in vain, and thirsty still of gore; (Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings Untamed, untired, he turns, attacks, and stings.
Fired with like ardour fierce Atrides flew, And sent his soul with every lance he threw.
There stood a Trojan, not unknown to fame, Aetion’s son, and Podes was his name:
With riches honour’d, and with courage bless’d, By Hector loved, his comrade, and his guest; Through his broad belt the spear a passage found, And, ponderous as he falls, his arms resound.
Sudden at Hector’s side Apollo stood,
Like Phaenops, Asius’ son, appear’d the god; (Asius the great, who held his wealthy reign In fair Abydos, by the rolling main.)
“Oh prince! (he cried) Oh foremost once in fame!
What Grecian now shall tremble at thy name?
Dost thou at length to Menelaus yield,
A chief once thought no terror of the field?
Yet singly, now, the long-disputed prize He bears victorious, while our army flies: By the same arm illustrious Podes bled; The friend of Hector, unrevenged, is dead!”
This heard, o’er Hector spreads a
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