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

of a year?

Troy walls I raised (for such were Jove’s commands), And yon proud bulwarks grew beneath my hands: Thy task it was to feed the bellowing droves Along fair Ida’s vales and pendant groves.

But when the circling seasons in their train Brought back the grateful day that crown’d our pain, With menace stern the fraudful king defied Our latent godhead, and the prize denied: Mad as he was, he threaten’d servile bands, And doom’d us exiles far in barbarous lands. [233]

Incensed, we heavenward fled with swiftest wing, And destined vengeance on the perjured king.

Dost thou, for this, afford proud Ilion grace, And not, like us, infest the faithless race; Like us, their present, future sons destroy, And from its deep foundations heave their Troy?”

 

Apollo thus: “To combat for mankind

Ill suits the wisdom of celestial mind; For what is man? Calamitous by birth,

They owe their life and nourishment to earth; Like yearly leaves, that now, with beauty crown’d, Smile on the sun; now, wither on the ground.

To their own hands commit the frantic scene, Nor mix immortals in a cause so mean.”

 

Then turns his face, far-beaming heavenly fires, And from the senior power submiss retires: Him thus retreating, Artemis upbraids,

The quiver’d huntress of the sylvan shades: “And is it thus the youthful Phoebus flies, And yields to ocean’s hoary sire the prize?

How vain that martial pomp, and dreadful show Of pointed arrows and the silver bow!

Now boast no more in yon celestial bower, Thy force can match the great earth-shaking power.”

 

Silent he heard the queen of woods upbraid: Not so Saturnia bore the vaunting maid: But furious thus: “What insolence has driven Thy pride to face the majesty of heaven?

What though by Jove the female plague design’d, Fierce to the feeble race of womankind, The wretched matron feels thy piercing dart; Thy sex’s tyrant, with a tiger’s heart?

What though tremendous in the woodland chase Thy certain arrows pierce the savage race?

How dares thy rashness on the powers divine Employ those arms, or match thy force with mine?

Learn hence, no more unequal war to wage—”

She said, and seized her wrists with eager rage; These in her left hand lock’d, her right untied The bow, the quiver, and its plumy pride.

About her temples flies the busy bow;

Now here, now there, she winds her from the blow; The scattering arrows, rattling from the case, Drop round, and idly mark the dusty place.

Swift from the field the baffled huntress flies, And scarce restrains the torrent in her eyes: So, when the falcon wings her way above, To the cleft cavern speeds the gentle dove; (Not fated yet to die;) there safe retreats, Yet still her heart against the marble beats.

 

To her Latona hastes with tender care;

Whom Hermes viewing, thus declines the war: “How shall I face the dame, who gives delight To him whose thunders blacken heaven with night?

Go, matchless goddess! triumph in the skies, And boast my conquest, while I yield the prize.”

 

He spoke; and pass’d: Latona, stooping low, Collects the scatter’d shafts and fallen bow, That, glittering on the dust, lay here and there Dishonour’d relics of Diana’s war:

Then swift pursued her to her blest abode, Where, all confused, she sought the sovereign god; Weeping, she grasp’d his knees: the ambrosial vest Shook with her sighs, and panted on her breast.

 

The sire superior smiled, and bade her show What heavenly hand had caused his daughter’s woe?

Abash’d, she names his own imperial spouse; And the pale crescent fades upon her brows.

 

Thus they above: while, swiftly gliding down, Apollo enters Ilion’s sacred town;

The guardian-god now trembled for her wall, And fear’d the Greeks, though fate forbade her fall.

Back to Olympus, from the war’s alarms, Return the shining bands of gods in arms; Some proud in triumph, some with rage on fire; And take their thrones around the ethereal sire.

 

Through blood, through death, Achilles still proceeds, O’er slaughter’d heroes, and o’er rolling steeds.

As when avenging flames with fury driven On guilty towns exert the wrath of heaven; The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly; And the red vapours purple all the sky: So raged Achilles: death and dire dismay, And toils, and terrors, fill’d the dreadful day.

 

High on a turret hoary Priam stands,

And marks the waste of his destructive hands; Views, from his arm, the Trojans’ scatter’d flight, And the near hero rising on his sight!

No stop, no check, no aid! With feeble pace, And settled sorrow on his aged face,

Fast as he could, he sighing quits the walls; And thus descending, on the guards he calls: “You to whose care our city-gates belong, Set wide your portals to the flying throng: For lo! he comes, with unresisted sway; He comes, and desolation marks his way!

But when within the walls our troops take breath, Lock fast the brazen bars, and shut out death.”

Thus charged the reverend monarch: wide were flung The opening folds; the sounding hinges rung.

Phoebus rush’d forth, the flying bands to meet; Struck slaughter back, and cover’d the retreat, On heaps the Trojans crowd to gain the gate, And gladsome see their last escape from fate.

Thither, all parch’d with thirst, a heartless train, Hoary with dust, they beat the hollow plain: And gasping, panting, fainting, labour on With heavier strides, that lengthen toward the town.

Enraged Achilles follows with his spear; Wild with revenge, insatiable of war.

 

Then had the Greeks eternal praise acquired, And Troy inglorious to her walls retired; But he, the god who darts ethereal flame, Shot down to save her, and redeem her fame: To young Agenor force divine he gave;

(Antenor’s offspring, haughty, bold, and brave;) In aid of him, beside the beech he sate, And wrapt in clouds, restrain’d the hand of fate.

When now the generous youth Achilles spies.

Thick beats his heart, the troubled motions rise.

(So, ere a storm, the waters heave and roll.) He stops, and questions thus his mighty soul; “What, shall I fly this terror of the plain!

Like others fly, and be like others slain?

Vain hope! to shun him by the self-same road Yon line of slaughter’d Trojans lately trod.

No: with the common heap I scorn to fall—

What if they pass’d me to the Trojan wall, While I decline to yonder path, that leads To Ida’s forests and surrounding shades?

So may I reach, conceal’d, the cooling flood, From my tired body wash the dirt and blood, As soon as night her dusky veil extends, Return in safety to my Trojan friends.

What if?—But wherefore all this vain debate?

Stand I to doubt, within the reach of fate?

Even now perhaps, ere yet I turn the wall, The fierce Achilles sees me, and I fall: Such is his swiftness, ‘tis in vain to fly, And such his valour, that who stands must die.

Howe’er ‘tis better, fighting for the state, Here, and in public view, to meet my fate.

Yet sure he too is mortal; he may feel

(Like all the sons of earth) the force of steel.

One only soul informs that dreadful frame: And Jove’s sole favour gives him all his fame.”

 

He said, and stood, collected, in his might; And all his beating bosom claim’d the fight.

So from some deep-grown wood a panther starts, Roused from his thicket by a storm of darts: Untaught to fear or fly, he hears the sounds Of shouting hunters, and of clamorous hounds; Though struck, though wounded, scarce perceives the pain; And the barb’d javelin stings his breast in vain: On their whole war, untamed, the savage flies; And tears his hunter, or beneath him dies.

Not less resolved, Antenor’s valiant heir Confronts Achilles, and awaits the war, Disdainful of retreat: high held before, His shield (a broad circumference) he bore; Then graceful as he stood, in act to throw The lifted javelin, thus bespoke the foe: “How proud Achilles glories in his fame!

And hopes this day to sink the Trojan name Beneath her ruins! Know, that hope is vain; A thousand woes, a thousand toils remain.

Parents and children our just arms employ, And strong and many are the sons of Troy.

Great as thou art, even thou may’st stain with gore These Phrygian fields, and press a foreign shore.”

 

He said: with matchless force the javelin flung Smote on his knee; the hollow cuishes rung Beneath the pointed steel; but safe from harms He stands impassive in the ethereal arms.

Then fiercely rushing on the daring foe, His lifted arm prepares the fatal blow: But, jealous of his fame, Apollo shrouds The godlike Trojan in a veil of clouds.

Safe from pursuit, and shut from mortal view, Dismiss’d with fame, the favoured youth withdrew.

Meanwhile the god, to cover their escape, Assumes Agenor’s habit, voice and shape, Flies from the furious chief in this disguise; The furious chief still follows where he flies.

Now o’er the fields they stretch with lengthen’d strides, Now urge the course where swift Scamander glides: The god, now distant scarce a stride before, Tempts his pursuit, and wheels about the shore; While all the flying troops their speed employ, And pour on heaps into the walls of Troy: No stop, no stay; no thought to ask, or tell, Who ‘scaped by flight, or who by battle fell.

‘Twas tumult all, and violence of flight; And sudden joy confused, and mix’d affright.

Pale Troy against Achilles shuts her gate: And nations breathe, deliver’d from their fate.

 

BOOK XXII.

 

ARGUMENT.

 

THE DEATH OF HECTOR.

 

The Trojans being safe within the walls, Hector only stays to oppose Achilles. Priam is struck at his approach, and tries to persuade his son to re-enter the town. Hecuba joins her entreaties, but in vain.

Hector consults within himself what measures to take; but at the advance of Achilles, his resolution fails him, and he flies. Achilles pursues him thrice round the walls of Troy. The gods debate concerning the fate of Hector; at length Minerva descends to the aid of Achilles.

She deludes Hector in the shape of Deiphobus; he stands the combat, and is slain. Achilles drags the dead body at his chariot in the sight of Priam and Hecuba. Their lamentations, tears, and despair. Their cries reach the ears of Andromache, who, ignorant of this, was retired into the inner part of the palace: she mounts up to the walls, and beholds her dead husband. She swoons at the spectacle. Her excess of grief and lamentation.

 

The thirtieth day still continues. The scene lies under the walls, and on the battlements of Troy.

 

Thus to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear, The herded Ilians rush like driven deer: There safe they wipe the briny drops away, And drown in bowls the labours of the day.

Close to the walls, advancing o’er the fields Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields, March, bending on, the Greeks’ embodied powers, Far stretching in the shade of Trojan towers.

Great Hector singly stay’d: chain’d down by fate There fix’d he stood before the Scaean gate; Still his bold arms determined to employ, The guardian still of long-defended Troy.

 

Apollo now to tired Achilles turns:

(The power confess’d in all his glory burns:) “And what (he cries) has Peleus’ son in view, With mortal speed a godhead to pursue?

For not to thee to know the gods is given, Unskill’d to trace the latent marks of heaven.

What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain?

Vain thy past labour, and thy present vain: Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow’d, While here thy frantic rage attacks a god.”

 

The chief incensed—“Too partial god of day!

To check my conquests in the middle way: How few