The Iliad Part 65

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 circ.u.mference) 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 sh.o.r.e."

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 impa.s.sive 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 G.o.d-like Trojan in a veil of clouds.

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

Meanwhile the G.o.d, to cover their escape, a.s.sumes 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 G.o.d, now distant scarce a stride before, Tempts his pursuit, and wheels about the sh.o.r.e; 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.dhead to pursue?

For not to thee to know the G.o.ds 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 G.o.d."

The chief incensed--"Too partial G.o.d of day!

To check my conquests in the middle way: How few in Ilion else had refuge found!

What gasping numbers now had bit the ground!

Thou robb'st me of a glory justly mine, Powerful of G.o.dhead, and of fraud divine: Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain, To cheat a mortal who repines in vain."

Then to the city, terrible and strong, With high and haughty steps he tower'd along, So the proud courser, victor of the prize, To the near goal with double ardour flies.

Him, as he blazing shot across the field, The careful eyes of Priam first beheld.

Not half so dreadful rises to the sight,(274) Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night, Orion's dog (the year when autumn weighs), And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays; Terrific glory! for his burning breath Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death.

So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage: He strikes his reverend head, now white with age; He lifts his wither'd arms; obtests the skies; He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries: The son, resolved Achilles' force to dare, Full at the Scaean gates expects the war; While the sad father on the rampart stands, And thus adjures him with extended hands:

"Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone; Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son!

Methinks already I behold thee slain, And stretch'd beneath that fury of the plain.

Implacable Achilles! might'st thou be To all the G.o.ds no dearer than to me!

Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the sh.o.r.e.

And b.l.o.o.d.y dogs grow fiercer from thy gore.

How many valiant sons I late enjoy'd, Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy'd: Or, worse than slaughtered, sold in distant isles To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils.

Two, while I speak, my eyes in vain explore, Two from one mother sprung, my Polydore, And loved Lycaon; now perhaps no more!

Oh! if in yonder hostile camp they live, What heaps of gold, what treasures would I give!

(Their grandsire's wealth, by right of birth their own, Consign'd his daughter with Lelegia's throne:) But if (which Heaven forbid) already lost, All pale they wander on the Stygian coast; What sorrows then must their sad mother know, What anguish I? unutterable woe!

Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me, Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee.

Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall; And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all!

Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save.

Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs; While yet thy father feels the woes he bears, Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage (All trembling on the verge of helpless age) Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain!

The bitter dregs of fortune's cup to drain: To fill with scenes of death his closing eyes, And number all his days by miseries!

My heroes slain, my bridal bed o'erturn'd, My daughters ravish'd, and my city burn'd, My bleeding infants dash'd against the floor; These I have yet to see, perhaps yet more!

Perhaps even I, reserved by angry fate, The last sad relic of my ruin'd state, (Dire pomp of sovereign wretchedness!) must fall, And stain the pavement of my regal hall; Where famish'd dogs, late guardians of my door, Shall lick their mangled master's spatter'd gore.

Yet for my sons I thank ye, G.o.ds! 'tis well; Well have they perish'd, for in fight they fell.

Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best, Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast.

But when the fates, in fulness of their rage, Spurn the h.o.a.r head of unresisting age, In dust the reverend lineaments deform, And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm: This, this is misery! the last, the worse, That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!"

He said, and acting what no words could say, Rent from his head the silver locks away.

With him the mournful mother bears a part; Yet all her sorrows turn not Hector's heart.

The zone unbraced, her bosom she display'd; And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:

"Have mercy on me, O my son! revere The words of age; attend a parent's prayer!

If ever thee in these fond arms I press'd, Or still'd thy infant clamours at this breast; Ah do not thus our helpless years forego, But, by our walls secured, repel the foe.

Against his rage if singly thou proceed, Should'st thou, (but Heaven avert it!) should'st thou bleed, Nor must thy corse lie honour'd on the bier, Nor spouse, nor mother, grace thee with a tear!

Far from our pious rites those dear remains Must feast the vultures on the naked plains."

So they, while down their cheeks the torrents roll; But fix'd remains the purpose of his soul; Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance Expects the hero's terrible advance.

So, roll'd up in his den, the swelling snake Beholds the traveller approach the brake; When fed with noxious herbs his turgid veins Have gather'd half the poisons of the plains; He burns, he stiffens with collected ire, And his red eyeb.a.l.l.s glare with living fire.

Beneath a turret, on his shield reclined, He stood, and question'd thus his mighty mind:(275)

"Where lies my way? to enter in the wall?

Honour and shame the ungenerous thought recall: Shall proud Polydamas before the gate Proclaim, his counsels are obey'd too late, Which timely follow'd but the former night, What numbers had been saved by Hector's flight?

That wise advice rejected with disdain, I feel my folly in my people slain.

Methinks my suffering country's voice I hear, But most her worthless sons insult my ear, On my rash courage charge the chance of war, And blame those virtues which they cannot share.

No--if I e'er return, return I must Glorious, my country's terror laid in dust: Or if I perish, let her see me fall In field at least, and fighting for her wall.

And yet suppose these measures I forego, Approach unarm'd, and parley with the foe, The warrior-shield, the helm, and lance, lay down.

And treat on terms of peace to save the town: The wife withheld, the treasure ill-detain'd (Cause of the war, and grievance of the land) With honourable justice to restore: And add half Ilion's yet remaining store, Which Troy shall, sworn, produce; that injured Greece May share our wealth, and leave our walls in peace.

But why this thought? Unarm'd if I should go, What hope of mercy from this vengeful foe, But woman-like to fall, and fall without a blow?

We greet not here, as man conversing man, Met at an oak, or journeying o'er a plain; No season now for calm familiar talk, Like youths and maidens in an evening walk: War is our business, but to whom is given To die, or triumph, that, determine Heaven!"

Thus pondering, like a G.o.d the Greek drew nigh; His dreadful plumage nodded from on high; The Pelian javelin, in his better hand, Shot trembling rays that glitter'd o'er the land; And on his breast the beamy splendour shone, Like Jove's own lightning, or the rising sun.

As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise, Struck by some G.o.d, he fears, recedes, and flies.

He leaves the gates, he leaves the wall behind: Achilles follows like the winged wind.