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

Or quit the dearest, to converse alone.

Me fate has sever’d from the sons of earth, The fate foredoom’d that waited from my birth: Thee too it waits; before the Trojan wall Even great and godlike thou art doom’d to fall.

Hear then; and as in fate and love we join, Ah suffer that my bones may rest with thine!

Together have we lived; together bred,

One house received us, and one table fed; That golden urn, thy goddess-mother gave, May mix our ashes in one common grave.”

 

“And is it thou? (he answers) To my sight [243]

Once more return’st thou from the realms of night?

O more than brother! Think each office paid, Whate’er can rest a discontented shade; But grant one last embrace, unhappy boy!

Afford at least that melancholy joy.”

 

He said, and with his longing arms essay’d In vain to grasp the visionary shade!

Like a thin smoke he sees the spirit fly, [244]

And hears a feeble, lamentable cry.

Confused he wakes; amazement breaks the bands Of golden sleep, and starting from the sands, Pensive he muses with uplifted hands:

 

“‘Tis true, ‘tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains: The form subsists without the body’s aid, Aerial semblance, and an empty shade!

This night my friend, so late in battle lost, Stood at my side, a pensive, plaintive ghost: Even now familiar, as in life, he came; Alas! how different! yet how like the same!”

 

Thus while he spoke, each eye grew big with tears: And now the rosy-finger’d morn appears, Shows every mournful face with tears o’erspread, And glares on the pale visage of the dead.

But Agamemnon, as the rites demand,

With mules and waggons sends a chosen band To load the timber, and the pile to rear; A charge consign’d to Merion’s faithful care.

With proper instruments they take the road, Axes to cut, and ropes to sling the load.

First march the heavy mules, securely slow, O’er hills, o’er dales, o’er crags, o’er rocks they go: [245]

Jumping, high o’er the shrubs of the rough ground, Rattle the clattering cars, and the shock’d axles bound But when arrived at Ida’s spreading woods, [246]

(Fair Ida, water’d with descending floods,) Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown; Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down.

The wood the Grecians cleave, prepared to burn; And the slow mules the same rough road return The sturdy woodmen equal burdens bore

(Such charge was given them) to the sandy shore; There on the spot which great Achilles show’d, They eased their shoulders, and disposed the load; Circling around the place, where times to come Shall view Patroclus’ and Achilles’ tomb.

The hero bids his martial troops appear High on their cars in all the pomp of war; Each in refulgent arms his limbs attires, All mount their chariots, combatants and squires.

The chariots first proceed, a shining train; Then clouds of foot that smoke along the plain; Next these the melancholy band appear;

Amidst, lay dead Patroclus on the bier; O’er all the corse their scattered locks they throw; Achilles next, oppress’d with mighty woe, Supporting with his hands the hero’s head, Bends o’er the extended body of the dead.

Patroclus decent on the appointed ground They place, and heap the sylvan pile around.

But great Achilles stands apart in prayer, And from his head divides the yellow hair; Those curling locks which from his youth he vow’d, [247]

And sacred grew, to Sperchius’ honour’d flood: Then sighing, to the deep his locks he cast, And roll’d his eyes around the watery waste: “Sperchius! whose waves in mazy errors lost Delightful roll along my native coast!

To whom we vainly vow’d, at our return, These locks to fall, and hecatombs to burn: Full fifty rams to bleed in sacrifice,

Where to the day thy silver fountains rise, And where in shade of consecrated bowers Thy altars stand, perfumed with native flowers!

So vow’d my father, but he vow’d in vain; No more Achilles sees his native plain; In that vain hope these hairs no longer grow, Patroclus bears them to the shades below.”

 

Thus o’er Patroclus while the hero pray’d, On his cold hand the sacred lock he laid.

Once more afresh the Grecian sorrows flow: And now the sun had set upon their woe; But to the king of men thus spoke the chief: “Enough, Atrides! give the troops relief: Permit the mourning legions to retire,

And let the chiefs alone attend the pyre; The pious care be ours, the dead to burn—”

He said: the people to their ships return: While those deputed to inter the slain

Heap with a rising pyramid the plain. [248]

A hundred foot in length, a hundred wide, The growing structure spreads on every side; High on the top the manly corse they lay, And well-fed sheep and sable oxen slay: Achilles covered with their fat the dead, And the piled victims round the body spread; Then jars of honey, and of fragrant oil, Suspends around, low-bending o’er the pile.

Four sprightly coursers, with a deadly groan Pour forth their lives, and on the pyre are thrown.

Of nine large dogs, domestic at his board, Fall two, selected to attend their lord, Then last of all, and horrible to tell, Sad sacrifice! twelve Trojan captives fell. [249]

On these the rage of fire victorious preys, Involves and joins them in one common blaze.

Smear’d with the bloody rites, he stands on high, And calls the spirit with a dreadful cry: [250]

 

“All hail, Patroclus! let thy vengeful ghost Hear, and exult, on Pluto’s dreary coast.

Behold Achilles’ promise fully paid,

Twelve Trojan heroes offer’d to thy shade; But heavier fates on Hector’s corse attend, Saved from the flames, for hungry dogs to rend.”

 

So spake he, threatening: but the gods made vain His threat, and guard inviolate the slain: Celestial Venus hover’d o’er his head,

And roseate unguents, heavenly fragrance! shed: She watch’d him all the night and all the day, And drove the bloodhounds from their destined prey.

Nor sacred Phoebus less employ’d his care; He pour’d around a veil of gather’d air, And kept the nerves undried, the flesh entire, Against the solar beam and Sirian fire.

 

{Illustration: THE FUNERAL PILE OF PATROCLUS.}

 

Nor yet the pile, where dead Patroclus lies, Smokes, nor as yet the sullen flames arise; But, fast beside, Achilles stood in prayer, Invoked the gods whose spirit moves the air, And victims promised, and libations cast, To gentle Zephyr and the Boreal blast:

He call’d the aerial powers, along the skies To breathe, and whisper to the fires to rise.

The winged Iris heard the hero’s call,

And instant hasten’d to their airy hall, Where in old Zephyr’s open courts on high, Sat all the blustering brethren of the sky.

She shone amidst them, on her painted bow; The rocky pavement glitter’d with the show.

All from the banquet rise, and each invites The various goddess to partake the rites.

“Not so (the dame replied), I haste to go To sacred Ocean, and the floods below:

Even now our solemn hecatombs attend,

And heaven is feasting on the world’s green end With righteous Ethiops (uncorrupted train!) Far on the extremest limits of the main.

But Peleus’ son entreats, with sacrifice, The western spirit, and the north, to rise!

Let on Patroclus’ pile your blast be driven, And bear the blazing honours high to heaven.”

 

Swift as the word she vanish’d from their view; Swift as the word the winds tumultuous flew; Forth burst the stormy band with thundering roar, And heaps on heaps the clouds are toss’d before.

To the wide main then stooping from the skies, The heaving deeps in watery mountains rise: Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls, Till on the pile the gather’d tempest falls.

The structure crackles in the roaring fires, And all the night the plenteous flame aspires.

All night Achilles hails Patroclus’ soul, With large libations from the golden bowl.

As a poor father, helpless and undone,

Mourns o’er the ashes of an only son,

Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn, And pours in tears, ere yet they close the urn: So stay’d Achilles, circling round the shore, So watch’d the flames, till now they flame no more.

‘Twas when, emerging through the shades of night.

The morning planet told the approach of light; And, fast behind, Aurora’s warmer ray

O’er the broad ocean pour’d the golden day: Then sank the blaze, the pile no longer burn’d, And to their caves the whistling winds return’d: Across the Thracian seas their course they bore; The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.

 

Then parting from the pile he ceased to weep, And sank to quiet in the embrace of sleep, Exhausted with his grief: meanwhile the crowd Of thronging Grecians round Achilles stood; The tumult waked him: from his eyes he shook Unwilling slumber, and the chiefs bespoke: “Ye kings and princes of the Achaian name!

First let us quench the yet remaining flame With sable wine; then, as the rites direct, The hero’s bones with careful view select: (Apart, and easy to be known they lie

Amidst the heap, and obvious to the eye: The rest around the margin will be seen Promiscuous, steeds and immolated men:) These wrapp’d in double cauls of fat, prepare; And in the golden vase dispose with care; There let them rest with decent honour laid, Till I shall follow to the infernal shade.

Meantime erect the tomb with pious hands, A common structure on the humble sands: Hereafter Greece some nobler work may raise, And late posterity record our praise!”

 

The Greeks obey; where yet the embers glow, Wide o’er the pile the sable wine they throw, And deep subsides the ashy heap below.

Next the white bones his sad companions place, With tears collected, in the golden vase.

The sacred relics to the tent they bore; The urn a veil of linen covered o’er.

That done, they bid the sepulchre aspire, And cast the deep foundations round the pyre; High in the midst they heap the swelling bed Of rising earth, memorial of the dead.

 

The swarming populace the chief detains, And leads amidst a wide extent of plains; There placed them round: then from the ships proceeds A train of oxen, mules, and stately steeds, Vases and tripods (for the funeral games), Resplendent brass, and more resplendent dames.

First stood the prizes to reward the force Of rapid racers in the dusty course:

A woman for the first, in beauty’s bloom, Skill’d in the needle, and the labouring loom; And a large vase, where two bright handles rise, Of twenty measures its capacious size.

The second victor claims a mare unbroke, Big with a mule, unknowing of the yoke: The third, a charger yet untouch’d by flame; Four ample measures held the shining frame: Two golden talents for the fourth were placed: An ample double bowl contents the last.

These in fair order ranged upon the plain, The hero, rising, thus address’d the train: “Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed To the brave rulers of the racing steed; Prizes which none beside ourself could gain, Should our immortal coursers take the plain; (A race unrivall’d, which from ocean’s god Peleus received, and on his son bestow’d.) But this no time our vigour to display; Nor suit, with them, the games of this sad day: Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck.

Sad, as they shared in human grief, they stand, And trail those graceful honours on the sand!

Let others for the noble task prepare,

Who trust the courser and the flying car.”

 

Fired at his word the rival