The Iliad Part 59

That done, a sumptuous banquet shall be made, And the full price of injured honour paid.

Stretch not henceforth, O prince.! thy sovereign might Beyond the bounds of reason and of right; 'Tis the chief praise that e'er to kings belong'd, To right with justice whom with power they wrong'd."

To him the monarch: "Just is thy decree, Thy words give joy, and wisdom breathes in thee.

Each due atonement gladly I prepare; And heaven regard me as I justly swear!

Here then awhile let Greece a.s.sembled stay, Nor great Achilles grudge this short delay.

Till from the fleet our presents be convey'd, And Jove attesting, the firm compact made.

A train of n.o.ble youths the charge shall bear; These to select, Ulysses, be thy care: In order rank'd let all our gifts appear, And the fair train of captives close the rear: Talthybius shall the victim boar convey, Sacred to Jove, and yon bright orb of day."

"For this (the stern aeacides replies) Some less important season may suffice, When the stern fury of the war is o'er, And wrath, extinguish'd, burns my breast no more.

By Hector slain, their faces to the sky, All grim with gaping wounds, our heroes lie: Those call to war! and might my voice incite, Now, now, this instant, shall commence the fight: Then, when the day's complete, let generous bowls, And copious banquets, glad your weary souls.

Let not my palate know the taste of food, Till my insatiate rage be cloy'd with blood: Pale lies my friend, with wounds disfigured o'er, And his cold feet are pointed to the door.

Revenge is all my soul! no meaner care, Interest, or thought, has room to harbour there; Destruction be my feast, and mortal wounds, And scenes of blood, and agonizing sounds."

"O first of Greeks, (Ulysses thus rejoin'd,) The best and bravest of the warrior kind!

Thy praise it is in dreadful camps to shine, But old experience and calm wisdom mine.

Then hear my counsel, and to reason yield, The bravest soon are satiate of the field; Though vast the heaps that strow the crimson plain, The b.l.o.o.d.y harvest brings but little gain: The scale of conquest ever wavering lies, Great Jove but turns it, and the victor dies!

The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall, And endless were the grief, to weep for all.

Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?

Greece honours not with solemn fasts the dead: Enough, when death demands the brave, to pay The tribute of a melancholy day.

One chief with patience to the grave resign'd, Our care devolves on others left behind.

Let generous food supplies of strength produce, Let rising spirits flow from sprightly juice, Let their warm heads with scenes of battle glow, And pour new furies on the feebler foe.

Yet a short interval, and none shall dare Expect a second summons to the war; Who waits for that, the dire effects shall find, If trembling in the ships he lags behind.

Embodied, to the battle let us bend, And all at once on haughty Troy descend."

And now the delegates Ulysses sent, To bear the presents from the royal tent: The sons of Nestor, Phyleus' valiant heir, Thias and Merion, thunderbolts of war, With Lycomedes of Creiontian strain, And Melanippus, form'd the chosen train.

Swift as the word was given, the youths obey'd: Twice ten bright vases in the midst they laid; A row of six fair tripods then succeeds; And twice the number of high-bounding steeds: Seven captives next a lovely line compose; The eighth Briseis, like the blooming rose, Closed the bright band: great Ithacus, before, First of the train, the golden talents bore: The rest in public view the chiefs dispose, A splendid scene! then Agamemnon rose: The boar Talthybius held: the Grecian lord Drew the broad cutla.s.s sheath'd beside his sword: The stubborn bristles from the victim's brow He crops, and offering meditates his vow.

His hands uplifted to the attesting skies, On heaven's broad marble roof were fixed his eyes.

The solemn words a deep attention draw, And Greece around sat thrill'd with sacred awe.

"Witness thou first! thou greatest power above, All-good, all-wise, and all-surveying Jove!

And mother-earth, and heaven's revolving light, And ye, fell furies of the realms of night, Who rule the dead, and horrid woes prepare For perjured kings, and all who falsely swear!

The black-eyed maid inviolate removes, Pure and unconscious of my manly loves.

If this be false, heaven all its vengeance shed, And levell'd thunder strike my guilty head!"

With that, his weapon deep inflicts the wound; The bleeding savage tumbles to the ground; The sacred herald rolls the victim slain (A feast for fish) into the foaming main.

Then thus Achilles: "Hear, ye Greeks! and know Whate'er we feel, 'tis Jove inflicts the woe; Not else Atrides could our rage inflame, Nor from my arms, unwilling, force the dame.

'Twas Jove's high will alone, o'erruling all, That doom'd our strife, and doom'd the Greeks to fall.

Go then, ye chiefs! indulge the genial rite; Achilles waits ye, and expects the fight."

The speedy council at his word adjourn'd: To their black vessels all the Greeks return'd.

Achilles sought his tent. His train before March'd onward, bending with the gifts they bore.

Those in the tents the squires industrious spread: The foaming coursers to the stalls they led; To their new seats the female captives move Briseis, radiant as the queen of love, Slow as she pa.s.s'd, beheld with sad survey Where, gash'd with cruel wounds, Patroclus lay.

p.r.o.ne on the body fell the heavenly fair, Beat her sad breast, and tore her golden hair; All beautiful in grief, her humid eyes Shining with tears she lifts, and thus she cries:

"Ah, youth for ever dear, for ever kind, Once tender friend of my distracted mind!

I left thee fresh in life, in beauty gay; Now find thee cold, inanimated clay!

What woes my wretched race of life attend!

Sorrows on sorrows, never doom'd to end!

The first loved consort of my virgin bed Before these eyes in fatal battle bled: My three brave brothers in one mournful day All trod the dark, irremeable way: Thy friendly hand uprear'd me from the plain, And dried my sorrows for a husband slain; Achilles' care you promised I should prove, The first, the dearest partner of his love; That rites divine should ratify the band, And make me empress in his native land.

Accept these grateful tears! for thee they flow, For thee, that ever felt another's woe!"

Her sister captives echoed groan for groan, Nor mourn'd Patroclus' fortunes, but their own.

The leaders press'd the chief on every side; Unmoved he heard them, and with sighs denied.

"If yet Achilles have a friend, whose care Is bent to please him, this request forbear; Till yonder sun descend, ah, let me pay To grief and anguish one abstemious day."

He spoke, and from the warriors turn'd 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 h.o.a.ry 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 G.o.ddess 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,(259) With nectar sweet, (refection of the G.o.ds!) 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 l.u.s.tre 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 G.o.d.

Grief and revenge his furious heart inspire, His glowing eyeb.a.l.l.s roll with living fire; He grinds his teeth, and furious with delay O'erlooks the embattled host, and hopes the b.l.o.o.d.y 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."