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

troops triumphant bore the fight, Now chased, and trembling in ignoble flight: (These with a gathered mist Saturnia shrouds, And rolls behind the rout a heap of clouds:) Part plunge into the stream: old Xanthus roars, The flashing billows beat the whiten’d shores: With cries promiscuous all the banks resound, And here, and there, in eddies whirling round, The flouncing steeds and shrieking warriors drown’d.

As the scorch’d locusts from their fields retire, While fast behind them runs the blaze of fire; Driven from the land before the smoky cloud, The clustering legions rush into the flood: So, plunged in Xanthus by Achilles’ force, Roars the resounding surge with men and horse.

His bloody lance the hero casts aside,

(Which spreading tamarisks on the margin hide,) Then, like a god, the rapid billows braves, Arm’d with his sword, high brandish’d o’er the waves: Now down he plunges, now he whirls it round, Deep groan’d the waters with the dying sound; Repeated wounds the reddening river dyed, And the warm purple circled on the tide.

Swift through the foamy flood the Trojans fly, And close in rocks or winding caverns lie: So the huge dolphin tempesting the main, In shoals before him fly the scaly train, Confusedly heap’d they seek their inmost caves, Or pant and heave beneath the floating waves.

Now, tired with slaughter, from the Trojan band Twelve chosen youths he drags alive to land; With their rich belts their captive arms restrains (Late their proud ornaments, but now their chains).

These his attendants to the ships convey’d, Sad victims destined to Patroclus’ shade; Then, as once more he plunged amid the flood, The young Lycaon in his passage stood;

The son of Priam; whom the hero’s hand

But late made captive in his father’s land (As from a sycamore, his sounding steel Lopp’d the green arms to spoke a chariot wheel) To Lemnos’ isle he sold the royal slave, Where Jason’s son the price demanded gave; But kind Eetion, touching on the shore, The ransom’d prince to fair Arisbe bore.

Ten days were past, since in his father’s reign He felt the sweets of liberty again;

The next, that god whom men in vain withstand Gives the same youth to the same conquering hand Now never to return! and doom’d to go

A sadder journey to the shades below.

His well-known face when great Achilles eyed, (The helm and visor he had cast aside

With wild affright, and dropp’d upon the field His useless lance and unavailing shield,) As trembling, panting, from the stream he fled, And knock’d his faltering knees, the hero said.

“Ye mighty gods! what wonders strike my view!

Is it in vain our conquering arms subdue?

Sure I shall see yon heaps of Trojans kill’d Rise from the shades, and brave me on the field; As now the captive, whom so late I bound And sold to Lemnos, stalks on Trojan ground!

Not him the sea’s unmeasured deeps detain, That bar such numbers from their native plain; Lo! he returns. Try, then, my flying spear!

Try, if the grave can hold the wanderer; If earth, at length this active prince can seize, Earth, whose strong grasp has held down Hercules.”

 

Thus while he spoke, the Trojan pale with fears Approach’d, and sought his knees with suppliant tears Loth as he was to yield his youthful breath, And his soul shivering at the approach of death.

Achilles raised the spear, prepared to wound; He kiss’d his feet, extended on the ground: And while, above, the spear suspended stood, Longing to dip its thirsty point in blood, One hand embraced them close, one stopp’d the dart, While thus these melting words attempt his heart: “Thy well-known captive, great Achilles! see, Once more Lycaon trembles at thy knee.

Some pity to a suppliant’s name afford, Who shared the gifts of Ceres at thy board; Whom late thy conquering arm to Lemnos bore, Far from his father, friends, and native shore; A hundred oxen were his price that day, Now sums immense thy mercy shall repay.

Scarce respited from woes I yet appear, And scarce twelve morning suns have seen me here; Lo! Jove again submits me to thy hands, Again, her victim cruel Fate demands!

I sprang from Priam, and Laothoe fair,

(Old Altes’ daughter, and Lelegia’s heir; Who held in Pedasus his famed abode,

And ruled the fields where silver Satnio flow’d,) Two sons (alas! unhappy sons) she bore; For ah! one spear shall drink each brother’s gore, And I succeed to slaughter’d Polydore.

How from that arm of terror shall I fly?

Some demon urges! ‘tis my doom to die!

If ever yet soft pity touch’d thy mind, Ah! think not me too much of Hector’s kind!

Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath, With his, who wrought thy loved Patroclus’ death.”

 

These words, attended with a shower of tears, The youth address’d to unrelenting ears: “Talk not of life, or ransom (he replies): Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies: In vain a single Trojan sues for grace; But least, the sons of Priam’s hateful race.

Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore?

The great, the good Patroclus is no more!

He, far thy better, was foredoom’d to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality?

Seest thou not me, whom nature’s gifts adorn, Sprung from a hero, from a goddess born?

The day shall come (which nothing can avert) When by the spear, the arrow, or the dart, By night, or day, by force, or by design, Impending death and certain fate are mine!

Die then,”—He said; and as the word he spoke, The fainting stripling sank before the stroke: His hand forgot its grasp, and left the spear, While all his trembling frame confess’d his fear: Sudden, Achilles his broad sword display’d, And buried in his neck the reeking blade.

Prone fell the youth; and panting on the land, The gushing purple dyed the thirsty sand.

The victor to the stream the carcase gave, And thus insults him, floating on the wave: “Lie there, Lycaon! let the fish surround Thy bloated corpse, and suck thy gory wound: There no sad mother shall thy funerals weep, But swift Scamander roll thee to the deep, Whose every wave some watery monster brings, To feast unpunish’d on the fat of kings.

So perish Troy, and all the Trojan line!

Such ruin theirs, and such compassion mine.

What boots ye now Scamander’s worshipp’d stream, His earthly honours, and immortal name?

In vain your immolated bulls are slain, Your living coursers glut his gulfs in vain!

Thus he rewards you, with this bitter fate; Thus, till the Grecian vengeance is complete: Thus is atoned Patroclus’ honour’d shade, And the short absence of Achilles paid.”

 

These boastful words provoked the raging god; With fury swells the violated flood.

What means divine may yet the power employ To check Achilles, and to rescue Troy?

Meanwhile the hero springs in arms, to dare The great Asteropeus to mortal war;

The son of Pelagon, whose lofty line

Flows from the source of Axius, stream divine!

(Fair Peribaea’s love the god had crown’d, With all his refluent waters circled round:) On him Achilles rush’d; he fearless stood, And shook two spears, advancing from the flood; The flood impell’d him, on Pelides’ head To avenge his waters choked with heaps of dead.

Near as they drew, Achilles thus began: “What art thou, boldest of the race of man?

Who, or from whence? Unhappy is the sire Whose son encounters our resistless ire.”

 

“O son of Peleus! what avails to trace

(Replied the warrior) our illustrious race?

From rich Paeonia’s valleys I command,

Arm’d with protended spears, my native band; Now shines the tenth bright morning since I came In aid of Ilion to the fields of fame:

Axius, who swells with all the neighbouring rills, And wide around the floated region fills, Begot my sire, whose spear much glory won: Now lift thy arm, and try that hero’s son!”

 

Threatening he said: the hostile chiefs advance; At once Asteropeus discharged each lance, (For both his dexterous hands the lance could wield,) One struck, but pierced not, the Vulcanian shield; One razed Achilles’ hand; the spouting blood Spun forth; in earth the fasten’d weapon stood.

Like lightning next the Pelean javelin flies: Its erring fury hiss’d along the skies; Deep in the swelling bank was driven the spear, Even to the middle earth; and quiver’d there.

Then from his side the sword Pelides drew, And on his foe with double fury flew.

The foe thrice tugg’d, and shook the rooted wood; Repulsive of his might the weapon stood: The fourth, he tries to break the spear in vain; Bent as he stands, he tumbles to the plain; His belly open’d with a ghastly wound,

The reeking entrails pour upon the ground.

Beneath the hero’s feet he panting lies, And his eye darkens, and his spirit flies; While the proud victor thus triumphing said, His radiant armour tearing from the dead: “So ends thy glory! Such the fate they prove, Who strive presumptuous with the sons of Jove!

Sprung from a river, didst thou boast thy line?

But great Saturnius is the source of mine.

How durst thou vaunt thy watery progeny?

Of Peleus, AEacus, and Jove, am I.

The race of these superior far to those, As he that thunders to the stream that flows.

What rivers can, Scamander might have shown; But Jove he dreads, nor wars against his son.

Even Achelous might contend in vain,

And all the roaring billows of the main.

The eternal ocean, from whose fountains flow The seas, the rivers, and the springs below, The thundering voice of Jove abhors to hear, And in his deep abysses shakes with fear.”

 

He said: then from the bank his javelin tore, And left the breathless warrior in his gore.

The floating tides the bloody carcase lave, And beat against it, wave succeeding wave; Till, roll’d between the banks, it lies the food Of curling eels, and fishes of the flood.

All scatter’d round the stream (their mightiest slain) The amazed Paeonians scour along the plain; He vents his fury on the flying crew,

Thrasius, Astyplus, and Mnesus slew;

Mydon, Thersilochus, with AEnius, fell; And numbers more his lance had plunged to hell, But from the bottom of his gulfs profound Scamander spoke; the shores return’d the sound.

 

“O first of mortals! (for the gods are thine) In valour matchless, and in force divine!

If Jove have given thee every Trojan head, ‘Tis not on me thy rage should heap the dead.

See! my choked streams no more their course can keep, Nor roll their wonted tribute to the deep.

Turn then, impetuous! from our injured flood; Content, thy slaughters could amaze a god.”

 

In human form, confess’d before his eyes, The river thus; and thus the chief replies: “O sacred stream! thy word we shall obey; But not till Troy the destined vengeance pay, Not till within her towers the perjured train Shall pant, and tremble at our arms again; Not till proud Hector, guardian of her wall, Or stain this lance, or see Achilles fall.”

 

He said; and drove with fury on the foe.

Then to the godhead of the silver bow

The yellow flood began: “O son of Jove!

Was not the mandate of the sire above

Full and express, that Phoebus should employ His sacred arrows in defence of Troy,

And make her conquer, till Hyperion’s fall In awful darkness hide the face of all?”

 

He spoke in vain—The chief without dismay Ploughs through the boiling surge his desperate way.

Then rising in his rage above the shores, From all his deep the bellowing river roars, Huge heaps of slain disgorges on the coast, And round the banks the ghastly dead are toss’d.

While all before, the billows ranged on high, (A watery bulwark,) screen the