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

his face: Yet still the brother-kings of Atreus’ race, Nestor, Idomeneus, Ulysses sage,

And Phoenix, strive to calm his grief and rage: His rage they calm not, nor his grief control; He groans, he raves, he sorrows from his soul.

 

“Thou too, Patroclus! (thus his heart he vents) Once spread the inviting banquet in our tents: Thy sweet society, thy winning care,

Once stay’d Achilles, rushing to the war.

But now, alas! to death’s cold arms resign’d, What banquet but revenge can glad my mind?

What greater sorrow could afflict my breast, What more if hoary Peleus were deceased?

Who now, perhaps, in Phthia dreads to hear His son’s sad fate, and drops a tender tear.

What more, should Neoptolemus the brave, My only offspring, sink into the grave?

If yet that offspring lives; (I distant far, Of all neglectful, wage a hateful war.) I could not this, this cruel stroke attend; Fate claim’d Achilles, but might spare his friend.

I hoped Patroclus might survive, to rear My tender orphan with a parent’s care,

From Scyros’ isle conduct him o’er the main, And glad his eyes with his paternal reign, The lofty palace, and the large domain.

For Peleus breathes no more the vital air; Or drags a wretched life of age and care, But till the news of my sad fate invades His hastening soul, and sinks him to the shades.”

 

Sighing he said: his grief the heroes join’d, Each stole a tear for what he left behind.

Their mingled grief the sire of heaven survey’d, And thus with pity to his blue-eyed maid: “Is then Achilles now no more thy care, And dost thou thus desert the great in war?

Lo, where yon sails their canvas wings extend, All comfortless he sits, and wails his friend: Ere thirst and want his forces have oppress’d, Haste and infuse ambrosia in his breast.”

 

He spoke; and sudden, at the word of Jove, Shot the descending goddess from above.

So swift through ether the shrill harpy springs, The wide air floating to her ample wings, To great Achilles she her flight address’d, And pour’d divine ambrosia in his breast, [219]

With nectar sweet, (refection of the gods!) Then, swift ascending, sought the bright abodes.

 

Now issued from the ships the warrior-train, And like a deluge pour’d upon the plain.

As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow, And scatter o’er the fields the driving snow; From dusky clouds the fleecy winter flies, Whose dazzling lustre whitens all the skies: So helms succeeding helms, so shields from shields, Catch the quick beams, and brighten all the fields; Broad glittering breastplates, spears with pointed rays, Mix in one stream, reflecting blaze on blaze; Thick beats the centre as the coursers bound; With splendour flame the skies, and laugh the fields around, Full in the midst, high-towering o’er the rest, His limbs in arms divine Achilles dress’d; Arms which the father of the fire bestow’d, Forged on the eternal anvils of the god.

Grief and revenge his furious heart inspire, His glowing eyeballs roll with living fire; He grinds his teeth, and furious with delay O’erlooks the embattled host, and hopes the bloody day.

 

The silver cuishes first his thighs infold; Then o’er his breast was braced the hollow gold; The brazen sword a various baldric tied, That, starr’d with gems, hung glittering at his side; And, like the moon, the broad refulgent shield Blazed with long rays, and gleam’d athwart the field.

 

So to night-wandering sailors, pale with fears, Wide o’er the watery waste, a light appears, Which on the far-seen mountain blazing high, Streams from some lonely watch-tower to the sky: With mournful eyes they gaze, and gaze again; Loud howls the storm, and drives them o’er the main.

 

Next, his high head the helmet graced; behind The sweepy crest hung floating in the wind: Like the red star, that from his flaming hair Shakes down diseases, pestilence, and war; So stream’d the golden honours from his head, Trembled the sparkling plumes, and the loose glories shed.

The chief beholds himself with wondering eyes; His arms he poises, and his motions tries; Buoy’d by some inward force, he seems to swim, And feels a pinion lifting every limb.

 

And now he shakes his great paternal spear, Ponderous and huge, which not a Greek could rear, From Pelion’s cloudy top an ash entire

Old Chiron fell’d, and shaped it for his sire; A spear which stern Achilles only wields, The death of heroes, and the dread of fields.

 

Automedon and Alcimus prepare

The immortal coursers, and the radiant car; (The silver traces sweeping at their side;) Their fiery mouths resplendent bridles tied; The ivory-studded reins, return’d behind, Waved o’er their backs, and to the chariot join’d.

The charioteer then whirl’d the lash around, And swift ascended at one active bound.

All bright in heavenly arms, above his squire Achilles mounts, and sets the field on fire; Not brighter Phoebus in the ethereal way Flames from his chariot, and restores the day.

High o’er the host, all terrible he stands, And thunders to his steeds these dread commands: “Xanthus and Balius! of Podarges’ strain, (Unless ye boast that heavenly race in vain,) Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear, And learn to make your master more your care: Through falling squadrons bear my slaughtering sword, Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your lord.”

 

The generous Xanthus, as the words he said, Seem’d sensible of woe, and droop’d his head: Trembling he stood before the golden wain, And bow’d to dust the honours of his mane.

When, strange to tell! (so Juno will’d) he broke Eternal silence, and portentous spoke.

“Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear Thy rage in safety through the files of war: But come it will, the fatal time must come, Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom.

Not through our crime, or slowness in the course, Fell thy Patroclus, but by heavenly force; The bright far-shooting god who gilds the day (Confess’d we saw him) tore his arms way.

No—could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail, Or beat the pinions of the western gale, All were in vain—the Fates thy death demand, Due to a mortal and immortal hand.”

 

Then ceased for ever, by the Furies tied, His fateful voice. The intrepid chief replied With unabated rage—“So let it be!

Portents and prodigies are lost on me.

I know my fate: to die, to see no more

My much-loved parents, and my native shore—

Enough—when heaven ordains, I sink in night: Now perish Troy!” He said, and rush’d to fight.

 

{Illustration: HERCULES.}

 

BOOK XX.

 

ARGUMENT.

 

THE BATTLE OF THE GODS, AND THE ACTS OF ACHILLES.

 

Jupiter, upon Achilles’ return to the battle, calls a council of the gods, and permits them to assist either party. The terrors of the combat described, when the deities are engaged. Apollo encourages AEneas to meet Achilles. After a long conversation, these two heroes encounter; but AEneas is preserved by the assistance of Neptune.

Achilles falls upon the rest of the Trojans, and is upon the point of killing Hector, but Apollo conveys him away in a cloud. Achilles pursues the Trojans with a great slaughter.

 

The same day continues. The scene is in the field before Troy.

 

Thus round Pelides breathing war and blood Greece, sheathed in arms, beside her vessels stood; While near impending from a neighbouring height, Troy’s black battalions wait the shock of fight.

Then Jove to Themis gives command, to call The gods to council in the starry hall: Swift o’er Olympus’ hundred hills she flies, And summons all the senate of the skies.

These shining on, in long procession come To Jove’s eternal adamantine dome.

Not one was absent, not a rural power

That haunts the verdant gloom, or rosy bower; Each fair-hair’d dryad of the shady wood, Each azure sister of the silver flood;

All but old Ocean, hoary sire! who keeps His ancient seat beneath the sacred deeps.

On marble thrones, with lucid columns crown’d, (The work of Vulcan,) sat the powers around.

Even he whose trident sways the watery reign Heard the loud summons, and forsook the main, Assumed his throne amid the bright abodes, And question’d thus the sire of men and gods: “What moves the god who heaven and earth commands, And grasps the thunder in his awful hands, Thus to convene the whole ethereal state?

Is Greece and Troy the subject in debate?

Already met, the louring hosts appear,

And death stands ardent on the edge of war.”

 

“‘Tis true (the cloud-compelling power replies) This day we call the council of the skies In care of human race; even Jove’s own eye Sees with regret unhappy mortals die.

Far on Olympus’ top in secret state

Ourself will sit, and see the hand of fate Work out our will. Celestial powers! descend, And as your minds direct, your succour lend To either host. Troy soon must lie o’erthrown, If uncontroll’d Achilles fights alone:

Their troops but lately durst not meet his eyes; What can they now, if in his rage he rise?

Assist them, gods! or Ilion’s sacred wall May fall this day, though fate forbids the fall.”

 

He said, and fired their heavenly breasts with rage.

On adverse parts the warring gods engage: Heaven’s awful queen; and he whose azure round Girds the vast globe; the maid in arms renown’d; Hermes, of profitable arts the sire;

And Vulcan, the black sovereign of the fire: These to the fleet repair with instant flight; The vessels tremble as the gods alight.

In aid of Troy, Latona, Phoebus came,

Mars fiery-helm’d, the laughter-loving dame, Xanthus, whose streams in golden currents flow, And the chaste huntress of the silver bow.

Ere yet the gods their various aid employ, Each Argive bosom swell’d with manly joy, While great Achilles (terror of the plain), Long lost to battle, shone in arms again.

Dreadful he stood in front of all his host; Pale Troy beheld, and seem’d already lost; Her bravest heroes pant with inward fear, And trembling see another god of war.

 

But when the powers descending swell’d the fight, Then tumult rose: fierce rage and pale affright Varied each face: then Discord sounds alarms, Earth echoes, and the nations rush to arms.

Now through the trembling shores Minerva calls, And now she thunders from the Grecian walls.

Mars hovering o’er his Troy, his terror shrouds In gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds: Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours With voice divine, from Ilion’s topmost towers: Now shouts to Simois, from her beauteous hill; The mountain shook, the rapid stream stood still.

 

Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls, And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles.

Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground; The forests wave, the mountains nod around; Through all their summits tremble Ida’s woods, And from their sources boil her hundred floods.

Troy’s turrets totter on the rocking plain, And the toss’d navies beat the heaving main.

Deep in the dismal regions of the dead, [220]

The infernal monarch rear’d his horrid head, Leap’d from his throne, lest Neptune’s arm should lay His dark dominions open to the day,

And pour in light on Pluto’s drear abodes, Abhorr’d by men, and dreadful even to gods. [221]

 

{Illustration: THE GODS DESCENDING TO BATTLE.}

 

Such war the immortals wage; such horrors rend The world’s vast concave, when the gods contend First silver-shafted Phoebus took the plain Against blue Neptune, monarch of the main.

The god of arms his giant bulk display’d, Opposed to Pallas, war’s triumphant maid.

Against Latona march’d the son of May.

The quiver’d Dian, sister of the day,

(Her golden arrows sounding at her side,) Saturnia, majesty of heaven, defied.

With fiery Vulcan last in battle stands The sacred flood