The Iliad, Homer [short books for teens TXT] 📗

me, I move, before the morning break, To raise our camp: too dangerous here our post, Far from Troy walls, and on a naked coast.

I deem’d not Greece so dreadful, while engaged In mutual feuds her king and hero raged; Then, while we hoped our armies might prevail We boldly camp’d beside a thousand sail.

I dread Pelides now: his rage of mind

Not long continues to the shores confined, Nor to the fields, where long in equal fray Contending nations won and lost the day; For Troy, for Troy, shall henceforth be the strife, And the hard contest not for fame, but life.

Haste then to Ilion, while the favouring night Detains these terrors, keeps that arm from fight.

If but the morrow’s sun behold us here, That arm, those terrors, we shall feel, not fear; And hearts that now disdain, shall leap with joy, If heaven permit them then to enter Troy.

Let not my fatal prophecy be true,

Nor what I tremble but to think, ensue.

Whatever be our fate, yet let us try

What force of thought and reason can supply; Let us on counsel for our guard depend; The town her gates and bulwarks shall defend.

When morning dawns, our well-appointed powers, Array’d in arms, shall line the lofty towers.

Let the fierce hero, then, when fury calls, Vent his mad vengeance on our rocky walls, Or fetch a thousand circles round the plain, Till his spent coursers seek the fleet again: So may his rage be tired, and labour’d down!

And dogs shall tear him ere he sack the town.”

 

“Return! (said Hector, fired with stern disdain) What! coop whole armies in our walls again?

Was’t not enough, ye valiant warriors, say, Nine years imprison’d in those towers ye lay?

Wide o’er the world was Ilion famed of old For brass exhaustless, and for mines of gold: But while inglorious in her walls we stay’d, Sunk were her treasures, and her stores decay’d; The Phrygians now her scatter’d spoils enjoy, And proud Maeonia wastes the fruits of Troy.

Great Jove at length my arms to conquest calls, And shuts the Grecians in their wooden walls, Darest thou dispirit whom the gods incite?

Flies any Trojan? I shall stop his flight.

To better counsel then attention lend;

Take due refreshment, and the watch attend.

If there be one whose riches cost him care, Forth let him bring them for the troops to share; ‘Tis better generously bestow’d on those, Than left the plunder of our country’s foes.

Soon as the morn the purple orient warms, Fierce on yon navy will we pour our arms.

If great Achilles rise in all his might, His be the danger: I shall stand the fight.

Honour, ye gods! or let me gain or give; And live he glorious, whosoe’er shall live!

Mars is our common lord, alike to all;

And oft the victor triumphs, but to fall.”

 

The shouting host in loud applauses join’d; So Pallas robb’d the many of their mind; To their own sense condemn’d, and left to choose The worst advice, the better to refuse.

 

While the long night extends her sable reign, Around Patroclus mourn’d the Grecian train.

Stern in superior grief Pelides stood;

Those slaughtering arms, so used to bathe in blood, Now clasp his clay-cold limbs: then gushing start The tears, and sighs burst from his swelling heart.

The lion thus, with dreadful anguish stung, Roars through the desert, and demands his young; When the grim savage, to his rifled den Too late returning, snuffs the track of men, And o’er the vales and o’er the forest bounds; His clamorous grief the bellowing wood resounds.

So grieves Achilles; and, impetuous, vents To all his Myrmidons his loud laments.

 

“In what vain promise, gods! did I engage, When to console Menoetius’ feeble age,

I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore, Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia’s shore? [212]

But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain, The long, long views of poor designing man!

One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike, And Troy’s black sands must drink our blood alike: Me too a wretched mother shall deplore, An aged father never see me more!

Yet, my Patroclus! yet a space I stay,

Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way.

Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid, Shall Hector’s head be offer’d to thy shade; That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine; And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line, Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire; Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre.

Thus let me lie till then! thus, closely press’d, Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast!

While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay, Weep all the night and murmur all the day: Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide, Our swords kept time, and conquer’d side by side.”

 

He spoke, and bade the sad attendants round Cleanse the pale corse, and wash each honour’d wound.

A massy caldron of stupendous frame

They brought, and placed it o’er the rising flame: Then heap’d the lighted wood; the flame divides Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides: In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream; The boiling water bubbles to the brim.

The body then they bathe with pious toil, Embalm the wounds, anoint the limbs with oil, High on a bed of state extended laid,

And decent cover’d with a linen shade;

Last o’er the dead the milk-white veil they threw; That done, their sorrows and their sighs renew.

 

Meanwhile to Juno, in the realms above, (His wife and sister,) spoke almighty Jove.

“At last thy will prevails: great Peleus’ son Rises in arms: such grace thy Greeks have won.

Say (for I know not), is their race divine, And thou the mother of that martial line?”

 

“What words are these? (the imperial dame replies, While anger flash’d from her majestic eyes) Succour like this a mortal arm might lend, And such success mere human wit attend: And shall not I, the second power above, Heaven’s queen, and consort of the thundering Jove, Say, shall not I one nation’s fate command, Not wreak my vengeance on one guilty land?”

 

{Illustration: TRIPOD.}

 

So they. Meanwhile the silver-footed dame Reach’d the Vulcanian dome, eternal frame!

High-eminent amid the works divine,

Where heaven’s far-beaming brazen mansions shine.

There the lame architect the goddess found, Obscure in smoke, his forges flaming round, While bathed in sweat from fire to fire he flew; And puffing loud, the roaring billows blew.

That day no common task his labour claim’d: Full twenty tripods for his hall he framed, That placed on living wheels of massy gold, (Wondrous to tell,) instinct with spirit roll’d From place to place, around the bless’d abodes Self-moved, obedient to the beck of gods: For their fair handles now, o’erwrought with flowers, In moulds prepared, the glowing ore he pours.

Just as responsive to his thought the frame Stood prompt to move, the azure goddess came: Charis, his spouse, a grace divinely fair, (With purple fillets round her braided hair,) Observed her entering; her soft hand she press’d, And, smiling, thus the watery queen address’d: “What, goddess! this unusual favour draws?

All hail, and welcome! whatsoe’er the cause; Till now a stranger, in a happy hour

Approach, and taste the dainties of the bower.”

 

{Illustration: THETIS AND EURYNOME RECEIVING THE INFANT VULCAN.}

 

High on a throne, with stars of silver graced, And various artifice, the queen she placed; A footstool at her feet: then calling, said, “Vulcan, draw near, ‘tis Thetis asks your aid.”

“Thetis (replied the god) our powers may claim, An ever-dear, an ever-honour’d name!

When my proud mother hurl’d me from the sky, (My awkward form, it seems, displeased her eye,) She, and Eurynome, my griefs redress’d, And soft received me on their silver breast.

Even then these arts employ’d my infant thought: Chains, bracelets, pendants, all their toys, I wrought.

Nine years kept secret in the dark abode, Secure I lay, conceal’d from man and god: Deep in a cavern’d rock my days were led; The rushing ocean murmur’d o’er my head.

Now, since her presence glads our mansion, say, For such desert what service can I pay?

Vouchsafe, O Thetis! at our board to share The genial rites, and hospitable fare;

While I the labours of the forge forego, And bid the roaring bellows cease to blow.”

 

Then from his anvil the lame artist rose; Wide with distorted legs oblique he goes, And stills the bellows, and (in order laid) Locks in their chests his instruments of trade.

Then with a sponge the sooty workman dress’d His brawny arms embrown’d, and hairy breast.

With his huge sceptre graced, and red attire, Came halting forth the sovereign of the fire: The monarch’s steps two female forms uphold, That moved and breathed in animated gold; To whom was voice, and sense, and science given Of works divine (such wonders are in heaven!) On these supported, with unequal gait,

He reach’d the throne where pensive Thetis sate; There placed beside her on the shining frame, He thus address’d the silver-footed dame: “Thee, welcome, goddess! what occasion calls (So long a stranger) to these honour’d walls?

‘Tis thine, fair Thetis, the command to lay, And Vulcan’s joy and duty to obey.”

 

{Illustration: VULCAN AND CHARIS RECEIVING THETIS.}

 

To whom the mournful mother thus replies: (The crystal drops stood trembling in her eyes:) “O Vulcan! say, was ever breast divine

So pierced with sorrows, so o’erwhelm’d as mine?

Of all the goddesses, did Jove prepare

For Thetis only such a weight of care?

I, only I, of all the watery race

By force subjected to a man’s embrace,

Who, sinking now with age and sorrow, pays The mighty fine imposed on length of days.

Sprung from my bed, a godlike hero came, The bravest sure that ever bore the name; Like some fair plant beneath my careful hand He grew, he flourish’d, and he graced the land: To Troy I sent him! but his native shore Never, ah never, shall receive him more; (Even while he lives, he wastes with secret woe;) Nor I, a goddess, can retard the blow!

Robb’d of the prize the Grecian suffrage gave, The king of nations forced his royal slave: For this he grieved; and, till the Greeks oppress’d Required his arm, he sorrow’d unredress’d.

Large gifts they promise, and their elders send; In vain—he arms not, but permits his friend His arms, his steeds, his forces to employ: He marches, combats, almost conquers Troy: Then slain by Phoebus (Hector had the name) At once resigns his armour, life, and fame.

But thou, in pity, by my prayer be won: Grace with immortal arms this short-lived son, And to the field in martial pomp restore, To shine with glory, till he shines no more!”

 

To her the artist-god: “Thy griefs resign, Secure, what Vulcan can, is ever thine.

O could I hide him from the Fates, as well, Or with these hands the cruel stroke repel, As I shall forge most envied arms, the gaze Of wondering ages, and the world’s amaze!”

 

Thus having said, the father of the fires To the black labours of his forge retires.

Soon as he bade them blow, the bellows turn’d Their iron mouths; and where the furnace burn’d, Resounding breathed: at once the blast expires, And twenty forges catch at once the fires; Just as the god directs, now loud, now low, They raise a tempest, or they gently blow; In hissing flames huge silver bars are roll’d, And stubborn brass, and tin, and solid gold; Before, deep fix’d, the eternal anvils stand; The ponderous hammer loads his better hand, His left with tongs turns the vex’d metal round, And thick, strong strokes, the doubling vaults rebound.

 

Then first he