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

found The guards repasting, while the bowls go round; On these the virtue of his wand he tries, And pours deep slumber on their watchful eyes: Then heaved the massy gates, removed the bars, And o’er the trenches led the rolling cars.

Unseen, through all the hostile camp they went, And now approach’d Pelides’ lofty tent.

On firs the roof was raised, and cover’d o’er With reeds collected from the marshy shore; And, fenced with palisades, a hall of state, (The work of soldiers,) where the hero sat.

Large was the door, whose well-compacted strength A solid pine-tree barr’d of wondrous length: Scarce three strong Greeks could lift its mighty weight, But great Achilles singly closed the gate.

This Hermes (such the power of gods) set wide; Then swift alighted the celestial guide, And thus reveal’d—“Hear, prince! and understand Thou ow’st thy guidance to no mortal hand: Hermes I am, descended from above,

The king of arts, the messenger of Jove, Farewell: to shun Achilles’ sight I fly; Uncommon are such favours of the sky,

Nor stand confess’d to frail mortality.

Now fearless enter, and prefer thy prayers; Adjure him by his father’s silver hairs, His son, his mother! urge him to bestow Whatever pity that stern heart can know.”

 

Thus having said, he vanish’d from his eyes, And in a moment shot into the skies:

The king, confirm’d from heaven, alighted there, And left his aged herald on the car,

With solemn pace through various rooms he went, And found Achilles in his inner tent:

There sat the hero: Alcimus the brave,

And great Automedon, attendance gave:

These served his person at the royal feast; Around, at awful distance, stood the rest.

 

Unseen by these, the king his entry made: And, prostrate now before Achilles laid, Sudden (a venerable sight!) appears;

Embraced his knees, and bathed his hands in tears; Those direful hands his kisses press’d, embrued Even with the best, the dearest of his blood!

 

As when a wretch (who, conscious of his crime, Pursued for murder, flies his native clime) Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amazed, All gaze, all wonder: thus Achilles gazed: Thus stood the attendants stupid with surprise: All mute, yet seem’d to question with their eyes: Each look’d on other, none the silence broke, Till thus at last the kingly suppliant spoke: “Ah think, thou favour’d of the powers divine! [255]

Think of thy father’s age, and pity mine!

In me that father’s reverend image trace, Those silver hairs, that venerable face; His trembling limbs, his helpless person, see!

In all my equal, but in misery!

Yet now, perhaps, some turn of human fate Expels him helpless from his peaceful state; Think, from some powerful foe thou seest him fly, And beg protection with a feeble cry.

Yet still one comfort in his soul may rise; He hears his son still lives to glad his eyes, And, hearing, still may hope a better day May send him thee, to chase that foe away.

No comfort to my griefs, no hopes remain, The best, the bravest, of my sons are slain!

Yet what a race! ere Greece to Ilion came, The pledge of many a loved and loving dame: Nineteen one mother bore—Dead, all are dead!

How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled!

Still one was left their loss to recompense; His father’s hope, his country’s last defence.

Him too thy rage has slain! beneath thy steel, Unhappy in his country’s cause he fell!

 

“For him through hostile camps I bent my way, For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay; Large gifts proportion’d to thy wrath I bear; O hear the wretched, and the gods revere!

 

“Think of thy father, and this face behold!

See him in me, as helpless and as old!

Though not so wretched: there he yields to me, The first of men in sovereign misery!

Thus forced to kneel, thus grovelling to embrace The scourge and ruin of my realm and race; Suppliant my children’s murderer to implore, And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore!”

 

These words soft pity in the chief inspire, Touch’d with the dear remembrance of his sire.

Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay) The old man’s cheek he gently turn’d away.

Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe; And now the mingled tides together flow: This low on earth, that gently bending o’er; A father one, and one a son deplore:

But great Achilles different passions rend, And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend.

The infectious softness through the heroes ran; One universal solemn shower began;

They bore as heroes, but they felt as man.

 

Satiate at length with unavailing woes, From the high throne divine Achilles rose; The reverend monarch by the hand he raised; On his white beard and form majestic gazed, Not unrelenting; then serene began

With words to soothe the miserable man: “Alas, what weight of anguish hast thou known, Unhappy prince! thus guardless and alone Two pass through foes, and thus undaunted face The man whose fury has destroy’d thy race!

Heaven sure has arm’d thee with a heart of steel, A strength proportion’d to the woes you feel.

Rise, then: let reason mitigate your care: To mourn avails not: man is born to bear.

Such is, alas! the gods’ severe decree: They, only they are blest, and only free.

Two urns by Jove’s high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ill; To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed To taste the bad unmix’d, is cursed indeed; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.

The happiest taste not happiness sincere; But find the cordial draught is dash’d with care.

Who more than Peleus shone in wealth and power What stars concurring bless’d his natal hour!

A realm, a goddess, to his wishes given; Graced by the gods with all the gifts of heaven.

One evil yet o’ertakes his latest day:

No race succeeding to imperial sway;

An only son; and he, alas! ordain’d

To fall untimely in a foreign land.

See him, in Troy, the pious care decline Of his weak age, to live the curse of thine!

Thou too, old man, hast happier days beheld; In riches once, in children once excell’d; Extended Phrygia own’d thy ample reign, And all fair Lesbos’ blissful seats contain, And all wide Hellespont’s unmeasured main.

But since the god his hand has pleased to turn, And fill thy measure from his bitter urn, What sees the sun, but hapless heroes’ falls?

War, and the blood of men, surround thy walls!

What must be, must be. Bear thy lot, nor shed These unavailing sorrows o’er the dead; Thou canst not call him from the Stygian shore, But thou, alas! may’st live to suffer more!”

 

To whom the king: “O favour’d of the skies!

Here let me grow to earth! since Hector lies On the bare beach deprived of obsequies.

O give me Hector! to my eyes restore

His corse, and take the gifts: I ask no more.

Thou, as thou may’st, these boundless stores enjoy; Safe may’st thou sail, and turn thy wrath from Troy; So shall thy pity and forbearance give

A weak old man to see the light and live!”

 

“Move me no more, (Achilles thus replies, While kindling anger sparkled in his eyes,) Nor seek by tears my steady soul to bend: To yield thy Hector I myself intend:

For know, from Jove my goddess-mother came, (Old Ocean’s daughter, silver-footed dame,) Nor comest thou but by heaven; nor comest alone, Some god impels with courage not thy own: No human hand the weighty gates unbarr’d, Nor could the boldest of our youth have dared To pass our outworks, or elude the guard.

Cease; lest, neglectful of high Jove’s command, I show thee, king! thou tread’st on hostile land; Release my knees, thy suppliant arts give o’er, And shake the purpose of my soul no more.”

 

The sire obey’d him, trembling and o’eraw’d.

Achilles, like a lion, rush’d abroad:

Automedon and Alcimus attend,

(Whom most he honour’d, since he lost his friend,) These to unyoke the mules and horses went, And led the hoary herald to the tent;

Next, heap’d on high, the numerous presents bear, (Great Hector’s ransom,) from the polish’d car.

Two splendid mantles, and a carpet spread, They leave: to cover and enwrap the dead.

Then call the handmaids, with assistant toil To wash the body and anoint with oil,

Apart from Priam: lest the unhappy sire, Provoked to passion, once more rouse to ire The stern Pelides; and nor sacred age,

Nor Jove’s command, should check the rising rage.

This done, the garments o’er the corse they spread; Achilles lifts it to the funeral bed:

Then, while the body on the car they laid, He groans, and calls on loved Patroclus’ shade: “If, in that gloom which never light must know, The deeds of mortals touch the ghosts below, O friend! forgive me, that I thus fulfil (Restoring Hector) heaven’s unquestion’d will.

The gifts the father gave, be ever thine, To grace thy manes, and adorn thy shrine.” [256]

 

He said, and, entering, took his seat of state; Where full before him reverend Priam sate; To whom, composed, the godlike chief begun: “Lo! to thy prayer restored, thy breathless son; Extended on the funeral couch he lies;

And soon as morning paints the eastern skies, The sight is granted to thy longing eyes: But now the peaceful hours of sacred night Demand reflection, and to rest invite:

Nor thou, O father! thus consumed with woe, The common cares that nourish life forego.

Not thus did Niobe, of form divine,

A parent once, whose sorrows equall’d thine: Six youthful sons, as many blooming maids, In one sad day beheld the Stygian shades; Those by Apollo’s silver bow were slain, These, Cynthia’s arrows stretch’d upon the plain: So was her pride chastised by wrath divine, Who match’d her own with bright Latona’s line; But two the goddess, twelve the queen enjoy’d; Those boasted twelve, the avenging two destroy’d.

Steep’d in their blood, and in the dust outspread, Nine days, neglected, lay exposed the dead; None by to weep them, to inhume them none; (For Jove had turn’d the nation all to stone.) The gods themselves, at length relenting gave The unhappy race the honours of a grave.

Herself a rock (for such was heaven’s high will) Through deserts wild now pours a weeping rill; Where round the bed whence Achelous springs, The watery fairies dance in mazy rings; There high on Sipylus’s shaggy brow,

She stands, her own sad monument of woe; The rock for ever lasts, the tears for ever flow.

 

“Such griefs, O king! have other parents known; Remember theirs, and mitigate thy own.

The care of heaven thy Hector has appear’d, Nor shall he lie unwept, and uninterr’d; Soon may thy aged cheeks in tears be drown’d, And all the eyes of Ilion stream around.”

 

He said, and, rising, chose the victim ewe With silver fleece, which his attendants slew.

The limbs they sever from the reeking hide, With skill prepare them, and in parts divide: Each on the coals the separate morsels lays, And, hasty, snatches from the rising blaze.

With bread the glittering canisters they load, Which round the board Automedon bestow’d.

The chief himself to each his portion placed, And each indulging shared in sweet repast.

When now the rage of hunger was repress’d, The wondering hero eyes his royal guest: No less the royal guest the hero eyes,

His godlike aspect and majestic size;

Here, youthful grace and noble fire engage; And there, the mild benevolence of age.

Thus gazing long, the silence neither broke, (A solemn scene!)