SO warr’d both armies on th’ ensanguin’d shore, | |
| While the black vessels smoked with human gore. | |
| Meantime Patroclus to Achilles flies; | |
| The streaming tears fall copious from his eyes; | |
| Not faster, trickling to the plains below, | 5 |
| From the tall rock the sable waters flow. | |
| Divine Pelides, with compassion mov’d, | |
| Thus spoke, indulgent to his best belov’d: | |
| ‘Patroclus, say, what grief thy bosom bears, | |
| That flows so fat in these unmanly tears? | 10 |
| No girl, no infant whom the mother keeps | |
| From her lov’d breast, with fonder passion weeps; | |
| Not more the mother’s soul that infant warms, | |
| Clung to her knees, and reaching at her arms, | |
| Than thou hast mine! Oh tell me to what end | 15 |
| Thy melting sorrows thus pursue thy friend? | |
| ‘Griev’st thou for me, or for my martial band? | |
| Or come sad tidings from our native land? | |
| Our fathers live (our first, most tender care,) | |
| Thy good Menœtius breathes the vital air, | 20 |
| And hoary Peleus yet extends his days; | |
| Pleas’d in their age to hear their children’s praise. | |
| ‘Or may some meaner cause thy pity claim? | |
| Perhaps yon relics of the Grecian name, | |
| Doom’d in their ships to sink by fire and sword, | 25 |
| And pay the forfeit of their haughty lord? | |
| Whate’er the cause, reveal thy secret care, | |
| And speak those sorrows which a friend would share.’ | |
| A sigh, that instant, from his bosom broke, | |
| Another follow’d, and Patroclus spoke: | 30 |
| ‘Let Greece at length with pity touch thy breast, | |
| Thyself a Greek; and, once, of Greeks the best! | |
| Lo! ev’ry Chief that might her fate prevent, | |
| Lies pierc’d with wounds, and bleeding in his tent: | |
| Eurpylus, Tydides, Atreus’ son, | 35 |
| And wise Ulysses, at the navy groan, | |
| More for their country’s wounds, than for their own. | |
| Their pain soft arts of pharmacy can ease; | |
| Thy breast alone no lenitives appease. | |
| ‘May never rage like thine my soul enslave, | 40 |
| O great in vain! unprofitably brave! | |
| Thy country slighted in her last distress, | |
| What friend, what man, from thee shall hope redress? | |
| No: men unborn, and ages yet behind, | |
| Shall curse that fierce, that unforgiving mind. | 45 |
| ‘O man unpitying! if of man thy race; | |
| But sure thou spring’st not from a soft embrace, | |
| Nor ever am’rous hero caus’d thy birth, | |
| Nor ever tender Goddess brought thee forth. | |
| Some rugged rock’s hard entrails gave thee form, | 50 |
| And raging seas produced thee in a storm; | |
| A soul well suiting that tempestuous kind, | |
| So rough thy manners, so untamed thy mind. | |
| ‘If some dire oracle thy breast alarm, | |
| If aught from Jove, or Thetis, stop thy arm, | 55 |
| Some beam of comfort yet on Greece may shine, | |
| If I but lead the Myrmidonian line: | |
| Clad in thy dreadful arms if I appear, | |
| Proud Troy shall tremble and desert the war: | |
| Without thy person Greece shall win the day, | 60 |
| And thy mere image chase her foes away. | |
| Press’d by fresh forces, her o’erlabour’d train | |
| Shall quit the ships, and Greece respire again.’ | |
| Thus, blind to fate! with supplicating breath, | |
| Thou begg’st his arms, and in his arms thy death. | 65 |
| Unfortunately good! a boding sigh | |
| Thy friend return’d; and with it, this reply: | |
| ‘Patroclus! thy Achilles knows no fears; | |
| Nor words from Jove, nor oracles, he hears; | |
| Nor aught a mother’s caution can suggest; | 70 |
| The tyrant’s pride lies rooted in my breast. | |
| My wrongs, my wrongs, my constant thought engage, | |
| Those, my sole oracles, inspire my rage: | |
| I made him tyrant; gave him power to wrong | |
| Ev’n me: I felt it; and shall feel it long. | 75 |
| The maid, my black-eyed maid, he forc’d away; | |
| Due to the toils of many a well-fought day; | |
| Due to my conquest of her father’s reign; | |
| Due to the votes of all the Grecian train. | |
| From me he forc’d her, me the bold and brave; | 80 |
| Disgraced, dishonour’d, like the meanest slave. | |
| But bear we this——The wrongs I grieve are past; | |
| ’T is time our fury should relent at last: | |
| I fix’d its date; the day I wish’d appears; | |
| Now Hector to my ships his battle bears, | 85 |
| The flames my eyes, the shouts invade my ears. | |
| Go, then, Patroclus! court fair honour’s charms | |
| In Troy’s famed fields, and in Achilles’ arms: | |
| Lead forth my martial Myrmidons to fight, | |
| Go, save the fleets, and conquer in my right. | 90 |
| See the thin relics of their baffled band, | |
| At the last edge of yon deserted land! | |
| Behold all Ilion on their ships descends; | |
| How the cloud blackens, how the storm impends! | |
| It was not thus, when, at my sight amazed, | 95 |
| Troy saw and trembled as this helmet blazed: | |
| Had not th’ injurious king our friendship lost, | |
| Yon ample trench had buried half her host. | |
| No camps, no bulwarks, now the Trojans fear, | |
| Those are not dreadful, no Achilles there: | 100 |
| No longer flames the lance of Tydeus’ son; | |
| No more your Gen’ral calls his heroes on: | |
| Hector alone I hear; his dreadful breath | |
| Commands your slaughter, or proclaims your death. | |
| Yet now, Patroclus, issue to the plain; | 105 |
| Now save the ships, the rising fires restrain, | |
| And give the Greeks to visit Greece again. | |
| But heed my words, and mark a friend’s command, | |
| Who trusts his fame and honours in thy hand, | |
| And from thy deeds expects th’ Achaian host | 110 |
| Shall render back the beauteous maid he lost: | |
| Rage uncontroll’d thro’ all the hostile crew, | |
| But touch not Hector, Hector is my due. | |
| Tho’ Jove in thunder should command the war, | |
| Be just, consult my glory, and forbear. | 115 |
| The fleet once saved, desist from farther chase, | |
| Nor lead to Ilion’s walls the Grecian race; | |
| Some adverse God thy rashness may destroy; | |
| Some God, like Phœbus, ever kind to Troy. | |
| Let Greece, redeem’d from this destructive strait, | 120 |
| Do her own work, and leave the rest to fate. | |
| Oh! would to all th’ immortal powers above, | |
| Apollo, Pallas, and almighty Jove! | |
| That not one Trojan might be left alive, | |
| And not a Greek of all the race survive; | 125 |
| Might only we the vast destruction shun, | |
| And only we destroy th’ accursed town!’ | |
| Such conf’rence held the Chiefs: while, on the strand, | |
| Great Jove with conquest crown’d the Trojan band. | |
| Ajax no more the sounding storm sustain’d, | 130 |
| So thick the darts an iron tempest rain’d: | |
| On his tired arm the weighty buckler hung; | |
| His hollow helm with falling jav’lins rung: | |
| His breath, in quick short pantings, comes and goes; | |
| And painful sweat from all his members flows. | 135 |
| Spent and o’erpower’d, he barely breathes at most; | |
| Yet scarce an army stirs him from his post: | |
| Dangers on dangers all around him grow, | |
| And toil to toil, and woe succeeds to woe. | |
| Say, Muses, throned above the starry frame, | 140 |
| How first the navy blazed with Trojan flame? | |
| Stern Hector waved his sword, and, standing near | |
| Where furious Ajax plied his ashen spear, | |
| Full on the lance a stroke so justly sped, | |
| That the broad falchion lopp’d its brazen head: | 145 |
| His pointless spear the warrior shakes in vain; | |
| The brazen head falls sounding on the plain. | |
| Great Ajax saw, and own’d the hand divine, | |
| Confessing Jove, and trembling at the sign; | |
| Warn’d he retreats. Then swift from all sides pour | 150 |
| The hissing brands; thick streams the fiery shower; | |
| O’er the high stern the curling volumes rise, | |
| And sheets of rolling smoke involve the skies. | |
| Divine Achilles view’d the rising flames, | |
| And smote his thigh, and thus aloud exclaims: | 155 |
| ‘Arm, arm, Patroclus! lo, the blaze aspires! | |
| The glowing ocean reddens with the fires. | |
| Arm, ere our vessels catch the spreading flame; | |
| Arm, ere the Grecians be no more a name; | |
| I haste to bring the troops.’ The Hero said; | 160 |
| The friend with ardour and with joy obey’d. | |
| He cased his limbs in brass; and first around | |
| His manly legs with silver buckles bound | |
| The clasping greaves: then to his breast applies | |
| The flamy cuirass, of a thousand dyes; | 165 |
| Emblazed with studs of gold, his falchion shone | |
| In the rich belt, as in a starry zone. | |
| Achilles’ shield his ample shoulders spread, | |
| Achilles’ helmet nodded o’er his head. | |
| Adorn’d in all his terrible array, | 170 |
| He flash’d around intolerable day. | |
| Alone, untouch’d, Pelides’ jav’lin stands, | |
| Not to be pois’d but by Pelides’ hands: | |
| From Pelion’s shady brow the plant entire | |
| Old Chiron rent, and shaped it for his sire; | 175 |
| Whose son’s great arm alone the weapon wields, | |
| The death of heroes, and the dread of fields. | |
| Then brave Automedon (an honour’d name, | |
| The second to his lord in love and fame, | |
| In peace his friend, and partner of the war) | 180 |
| The winged coursers harness’d to the car. | |
| Xanthus and Balius, of immortal breed, | |
| Sprung from the wind, and like the wind in speed; | |
| Whom the wing’d harpy, swift Podarge, bore, | |
| By Zephyr pregnant on the breezy shore. | 185 |
| Swift Pedasus was added to their side | |
| (Once great Eëtion’s, now Achilles’ pride), | |
| Who, like in strength, in swiftness, and in grace, | |
| A mortal courser, match’d th’ immortal race. | |
| Achilles speeds from tent to tent, and warms | 190 |
| His hardy Myrmidons to blood and arms. | |
| All breathing death, around their Chief they stand, | |
| A grim, terrific, formidable band; | |
| Grim as voracious wolves that seek the springs, | |
| When scalding thirst their burning bowels wrings | 195 |
| (When some tall stag, fresh slaughter’d in the wood, | |
| Has drench’d their wide insatiate throats with blood); | |
| To the black fount they rush, a hideous throng, | |
| With paunch distended and with lolling tongue; | |
| Fire fills their eyes, their black jaws belch the gore, | 200 |
| And, gorged with slaughter, still they thirst for more. | |
| Like furious rush’d the Myrmidonian crew, | |
| Such their dread strength, and such their dreadful view. | |
| High in the midst the great Achilles stands, | |
| Directs their order, and the war commands. | 205 |
| He, lov’d of Jove, had launch’d for Ilion’s shores | |
| Full fifty vessels, mann’d with fifty oars: | |
| Five chosen leaders the fierce bands obey, | |
| Himself supreme in valour, as in sway. | |
| First march’d Menestheus, of celestial birth, | 210 |
| Derived from thee, whose waters wash the earth, | |
| Divine Sperchins! Jove-descended flood! | |
| A mortal mother mixing with a God. | |
| Such was Menestheus, but miscall’d by Fame | |
| The son of Borus, that espous’d the dame. | 215 |
| Eudorus next; whom Polymele the gay, | |
| Famed in the graceful dance, produced to day. | |
| Her, sly Cyllenius lov’d; on her would gaze, | |
| As with swift step she form’d the running maze: | |
| To her high chamber, from Diana’s quire, | 220 |
| The God pursued her, urged, and crown’d his fire. | |
| The son confess’d his father’s heav’nly race, | |
| And heir’d his mother’s swiftness in the chase. | |
| Strong Echecleüs, bless’d in all those charms | |
| That pleas’d a God, succeeded to her arms; | 225 |
| Not conscious of those loves, long hid from fame, | |
| With gifts of price he sought and won the dame; | |
| Her secret offspring to her sire she bare; | |
| Her sire caress’d him with a parent’s care. | |
| Pisander follow’d; matchless in his art | 230 |
| To wing the spear, or aim the distant dart; | |
| No hand so sure of all th’ Emathian line, | |
| Or if a surer, great Patroclus! thine. | |
| The fourth by Phœnix’ grave command was graced: | |
| Laërces’ valiant offspring led the last. | 235 |
| Soon as Achilles with superior care | |
| Had call’d the Chiefs, and order’d all the war, | |
| This stern remembrance to his troops he gave: | |
| ‘Ye far-famed Myrmidons, ye fierce and brave! | |
| Think with what threats you dared the Trojan throng, | 240 |
| Think what reproach these ears endured so long: | |
| “Stern son of Peleus” (thus ye used to say, | |
| While restless, raging, in your ships you lay), | |
| “Oh nurs’d with gall, unknowing how to yield! | |
| Whose rage defrauds us of so famed a field, | 245 |
| If that dire fury must for ever burn, | |
| What make we here? Return, ye Chiefs, return!” | |
| Such were your words. Now, warriors, grieve no more, | |
| Lo there the Trojans! bathe your swords in gore! | |
| This day shall give you all your soul demands; | 250 |
| Glut all your hearts! and weary all your hands!’ | |
| Thus while he rous’d the fire in ev’ry breast, | |
| Close, and more close, the list’ning cohorts press’d; | |
| Ranks wedg’d in ranks, of arms a steely ring | |
| Still grows and spreads and thickens round the King. | 255 |
| As when a circling wall the builder forms, | |
| Of strength defensive against winds and storms, | |
| Compacted stones the thick’ning work compose, | |
| And round him wide the rising structure grows: | |
| So helm to helm, and crest to crest they throng, | 260 |
| Shield urged on shield, and man drove man along: | |
| Thick undistinguish’d plumes, together join’d, | |
| Float in one sea, and wave before the wind. | |
| Far o’er the rest, in glitt’ring pomp appear, | |
| There bold Automedon, Patroclus here; | 265 |
| Brothers in arms, with equal fury fired; | |
| Two friends, two bodies with one soul inspired. | |
| But, mindful of the Gods, Achilles went | |
| To the rich coffer in his shady tent: | |
| There lay on heaps his various garments roll’d, | 270 |
| And costly furs, and carpets stiff with gold | |
| (The presents of the silver-footed dame); | |
| From thence he took a bowl of antique frame, | |
| Which never man had stain’d with ruddy wine, | |
| Nor rais’d in offerings but to Jove alone. | 275 |
| But Peleus’ son; and Peleus’ son to none | |
| Had rais’d in offerings, but to Jove alone. | |
| This, tinged with sulphur, sacred first to flame, | |
| He purged; and wash’d it in the running stream. | |
| Then cleans’d his hands; and, fixing for a space | 280 |
| His eyes on Heav’n, his feet upon the place | |
| Of sacrifice, the purple draught he pour’d | |
| Forth in the midst; and thus the God implor’d: | |
| ‘Oh thou Supreme! high-throned all height above! | |
| Oh great Pelasgic, Dodonean Jove! | 285 |
| Who, ’midst surrounding frosts, and vapours chill, | |
| Presid’st on bleak Dodona’s vocal hill | |
| (Whose groves the Selli, race austere! | |
| Their feet unwash’d, their slumbers on the ground; | |
| Who hear from rustling oaks thy dark decrees; | 290 |
| And catch the fates low-whisper’d in the breeze): | |
| Hear, as of old: Thou gavest at Thetis’ prayer, | |
| Glory to me, and to the Greeks despair: | |
| Lo, to the dangers of the fighting field | |
| The best, the dearest of my friends, I yield: | 295 |
| Tho’ still determin’d, to my ships confin’d, | |
| Patroclus gone, I stay but half behind. | |
| Oh be his guard thy providential care, | |
| Confirm his heart, and string his arm to war; | |
| Press’d by his single force, let Hector see | 300 |
| His fame in arms not owing all to me. | |
| But when the fleets are saved from foes and fire, | |
| Let him with conquest and renown retire; | |
| Preserve his arms, preserve his social train, | |
| And safe return him to these eyes again!’ | 305 |
| Great Jove consents to half the Chief’s request, | |
| But Heav’n’s eternal doom denies the rest: | |
| To free the fleet was granted to his prayer; | |
| His safe return the winds dispers’d in air. | |
| Back to his tent the stern Achilles flies, | 310 |
| And waits the combat with impatient eyes. | |
| Meanwhile the troops, beneath Patroclus’ care, | |
| Invade the Trojans, and commence the war. | |
| As wasps, provoked by children in their play, | |
| Pour from their mansions by the broad highway, | 315 |
| In swarms the guiltless traveller engage, | |
| Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage: | |
| All rise in arms, and with a gen’ral cry | |
| Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny. | |
| Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms, | 320 |
| So loud their clamours, and so keen their arms; | |
| Their rising rage Patroclus’ breath inspires, | |
| Who thus inflames them with heroic fires: | |
| ‘Oh warriors, partners of Achilles’ praise! | |
| Be mindful of your deeds in ancient days: | 325 |
| Your Godlike master let your acts proclaim, | |
| And add new glories to his mighty name. | |
| Think your Achilles sees you fight: be brave, | |
| And humble the proud Monarch whom you save.’ | |
| Joyful they heard, and, kindling as he spoke, | 330 |
| Flew to the fleet, involv’d in fire and smoke. | |
| From shore to shore the doubling shouts resound, | |
| The hollow ships return a deeper sound. | |
| The war stood still, and all around them gazed, | |
| When great Achilles’ shining armour blazed: | 335 |
| Troy saw, and thought the dread Achilles nigh; | |
| At once they see, they tremble, and they fly. | |
| Then first thy spear, divine Patroclus! flew, | |
| Where the war raged, and where the tumult grew. | |
| Close to the stern of that famed ship, which bore | 340 |
| Unbless’d Protesilaus to Ilion’s shore, | |
| The great Pæonian, bold Pyræchmes, stood, | |
| Who led his bands from Axius’ winding flood: | |
| His shoulder-blade receives the fatal wound; | |
| The groaning warrior pants upon the ground. | 345 |
| His troops, that see their country’s glory slain, | |
| Fly diverse, scatter’d o’er the distant plain. | |
| Patroclus’ arm forbids the spreading fires, | |
| And from the half-burn’d ship proud Troy retires, | |
| Clear’d from the smoke the joyful navy lies, | 350 |
| In heaps on heaps the foe tumultuous flies; | |
| Triumphant Greece her rescued decks ascends, | |
| And loud acclaim the starry region rends. | |
| So when thick clouds enwrap the mountain’s head, | |
| O’er Heav’n’s expanse like one black ceiling spread: | 355 |
| Sudden the Thund’rer, with flashing ray, | |
| Bursts thro’ the darkness, and lets down the day: | |
| The hills shine out, the rocks in prospect rise, | |
| And streams, and vales, and forests strike the eyes; | |
| The smiling scene wide opens to the sight, | 360 |
| And all th’ unmeasur’d ether flames with light. | |
| But Troy repuls’d, and scatter’d o’er the plains, | |
| Forc’d from the navy, yet fight maintains. | |
| Now ev’ry Greek some hostile hero slew, | |
| But still the foremost bold Patroclus flew: | 365 |
| As Areïlycus had turn’d him round, | |
| Sharp in his thigh he felt the piercing wound; | |
| The brazen-pointed spear, with vigour thrown, | |
| The thigh transfix’d, and broke the brittle bone: | |
| Headlong he fell. Next, Thoas, was thy chance, | 370 |
| Thy breast, unarm’d, receiv’d the Spartan lance. | |
| Phylides’ dart, as Amphiclus drew nigh, | |
| His blow prevented, and transpierc’d his thigh, | |
| Tore all the brawn, and rent the nerves away; | |
| In darkness and in death the warrior lay. | 375 |
| In equal arms two sons of Nestor stand, | |
| And two bold brothers of the Lycian band: | |
| By great Antilochus, Antymnius dies, | |
| Pierc’d in the flank, lamented youth! he lies. | |
| Kind Maris, bleeding in his brother’s wound, | 380 |
| Defends the breathless carcass on the ground. | |
| Furious he flies, his murd’rer to engage, | |
| But godlike Thrasymed prevents his rage: | |
| Between his arm and shoulder aims a blow; | |
| His arm falls spouting on the dust below: | 385 |
| He sinks, with endless darkness cover’d o’er, | |
| And vents his soul, effused with gushing gore. | |
| Slain by two brothers, thus two brothers bleed, | |
| Sarpedon’s friends, Amisodarus’ seed; | |
| Amisodarus, who, by Furies led, | 390 |
| The bane of man, abhorr’d Chimæra bred: | |
| Skill’d in the dart in vain, his sons expire, | |
| And pay the forfeit of their guilty sire. | |
| Stopp’d in the tumult Cleobulus lies, | |
| Beneath Oïleus’ arm, a living prize; | 395 |
| A living prize not long the Trojan stood: | |
| The thirsty falchion drank his reeking blood; | |
| Plunged in his throat the smoking weapon lies: | |
| Black Death, and Fate unpitying, seal his eyes. | |
| Amid the ranks, with mutual thirst of fame, | 400 |
| Lycon the brave, and fierce Peneleus came; | |
| In vain their jav’lins at each other flew; | |
| Now, met in arms, their eager swords they drew: | |
| On the plumed crest of his Bœotian foe | |
| The daring Lycon aim’d noble blow; | 405 |
| The sword broke short; but his, Peneleus sped | |
| Full on the juncture of the neck and head: | |
| The head, divided by a stroke so just, | |
| Hung by the skin; the body sunk to dust. | |
| O’ertaken Acamas by Merion bleeds, | 410 |
| Pierc’d thro’ the shoulders as he mounts his steeds: | |
| Back from the car he tumbles to the ground; | |
| His swimming eyes eternal shades surround. | |
| Next Erymas was doom’d his fate to feel: | |
| His open’d mouth receiv’d the Cretan steel; | 415 |
| Beneath the brain the point a passage tore, | |
| Crash’d the thin bones, and ground the teeth in gore. | |
| His mouth his eyes, his nostrils, pour a flood; | |
| He sobs his soul out in the gush of blood. | |
| As when the flocks neglected by the swain | 420 |
| (Or kids, or lambs) lie scatter’d o’er the plain, | |
| A troop of wolves th’ unguarded charge survey, | |
| And rend the trembling, unresisting prey: | |
| Thus on the foe the Greeks impetuous came: | |
| Troy fled, unmindful of her former fame. | 425 |
| But still at Hector godlike Ajax aim’d, | |
| Still, pointed at his breast, his jav’lin flamed: | |
| The Trojan Chief, experienc’d in the field, | |
| O’er his broad shoulders spread the massy shield, | |
| Observ’d the storm of darts the Grecians pour, | 430 |
| And on his buckler caught the ringing shower. | |
| He sees for Greece the scale of conquest rise, | |
| Yet stops, and turns, and saves his lov’d allies. | |
| As when the hand of Jove a tempest forms, | |
| And rolls the clouds to blacken Heav’n with storms, | 435 |
| Dark o’er the fields th’ ascending vapour flies, | |
| And shades the sun, and blots the golden skies: | |
| So from the ships, along the dusky plain, | |
| Dire Fright and Terror drove the Trojan train. | |
| Ev’n Hector fled; thro’ heaps of disarray | 440 |
| The fiery coursers forc’d their lord away: | |
| While far behind his Trojans fall confused, | |
| Wedg’d in the trench, in one vast carnage bruis’d. | |
| Chariots on chariots roll; the clashing spokes | |
| Shock; while the madd’ning steeds break short their yokes. | 445 |
| In vain they labour up the steepy mound; | |
| Their charioteers lie foaming on the ground. | |
| Fierce on the rear, with shouts, Patroclus flies; | |
| Tumultuous clamour fills the fields and skies; | |
| Thick drifts of dust involve their rapid flight; | 450 |
| Clouds rise on clouds, and Heav’n is snatch’d from sight. | |
| Th’ affrighted steeds, their dying lords cast down, | |
| Scour o’er the fields, and stretch to reach the town. | |
| Loud o’er the rout was heard the victor’s cry, | |
| Where the war bleeds, and where the thickest die; | 455 |
| Where horse, and arms, and chariots, lie o’erthrown, | |
| And bleeding heroes under axles groan. | |
| No stop, no check, the steeds of Peleus knew; | |
| From bank to bank th’ immortal coursers flew, | |
| High-bounding o’er the fosse: the whirling car | 460 |
| Smokes thro’ the ranks, o’ertakes the flying war, | |
| And thunders after Hector; Hector flies, | |
| Patroclus shakes his lance; but Fate denies. | |
| Not with less noise, with less impetuous force, | |
| The tide of Trojans urge their desperate course, | 465 |
| Than when in autumn Jove his fury pours, | |
| And earth is laden with incessant showers | |
| (When guilty mortals break th’ eternal laws, | |
| Or judges, bribed, betray the righteous cause); | |
| From their deep beds he bids the rivers rise, | 470 |
| And opens all the floodgates of the skies: | |
| Th’ impetuous torrents from their hills obey, | |
| Whole fields are drown’d, and mountains swept away; | |
| Loud roars the deluge till it meets the main; | |
| And trembling man sees all his labours vain. | 475 |
| And now the Chief (the foremost troops repell’d) | |
| Back to the ships his destin’d progress held, | |
| Bore down half Troy in his resistless way, | |
| And forc’d the routed ranks to stand the day. | |
| Between the space where silver Simois flows, | 480 |
| Where lay the fleets, and where the rampires rose, | |
| All grim with dust and blood, Patroclus stands, | |
| And turns the slaughter on the conquering bands. | |
| First Pronoüs died beneath his fiery dart, | |
| Which pierc’d below the shield his valiant heart. | 485 |
| Thestor was next; who saw the Chief appear, | |
| And fell the victim of his coward fear: | |
| Shrunk up he sat, with wild and haggard eye, | |
| Nor stood to combat, nor had force to fly: | |
| Patroclus mark’d him as he shunn’d the war, | 490 |
| And with unmanly trembling shook the car. | |
| And dropp’d the flowing reins. Him ’twixt the jaws | |
| The jav’lin sticks, and from the chariot draws. | |
| As on a rock that overhangs the main, | |
| An angler, studious of the line and cane, | 495 |
| Some mighty fish draws panting on the shore; | |
| Not with less ease the barbed jav’lin bore | |
| The gaping dastard; as the spear was shook, | |
| He fell, and life his heartless breast forsook. | |
| Next on Eryalus he flies; a stone, | 500 |
| Large as a rock, was by his fury thrown: | |
| Full on his crown the pond’rous fragment flew, | |
| And burst the helm, and cleft the head in two: | |
| Prone to the ground the breathless warrior fell, | |
| And death involv’d him with the shades of hell. | 505 |
| Then low in dust Epaltes, Echius, lie; | |
| Ipheas, Evippus, Polymelus, die; | |
| Amphoterus and Erymas succeed; | |
| And last Tlepolemus and Pyres bleed. | |
| Where’er he moves, the growing slaughters spread | 510 |
| In heaps on heaps; a monument of dead. | |
| When now Sarpedon his brave friends beheld | |
| Grovelling in dust, and gasping on the field, | |
| With this reproach his flying host he warms; | |
| ‘Oh stain to honour! oh disgrace to arms! | 515 |
| Forsake, inglorious, the contended plain; | |
| This hand, unaided, shall the war sustain; | |
| The task be mine, this hero’s strength to try, | |
| Who mows whole troops, and makes an army fly.’ | |
| He spake; and, speaking, leaps from off the car; | 520 |
| Patroclus lights, and sternly waits the war. | |
| As when two vultures on the mountain’s height | |
| Stoop with resounding pinions to the fight; | |
| They cuff, they tear, they raise a screaming cry; | |
| The desert echoes, and the rocks reply: | 525 |
| The warriors thus, opposed in arms, engage | |
| With equal clamours, and with equal rage. | |
| Jove view’d the combat, whose event foreseen, | |
| He thus bespoke his Sister and his Queen: | |
| ‘The hour draws on; the destinies ordain | 530 |
| My godlike son shall press the Phrygian plain: | |
| Already on the verge of death he stands, | |
| His life is ow’d to fierce Patroclus’ hands. | |
| What passions in a parent’s breast debate! | |
| Say, shall I snatch him from impending fate, | 535 |
| And send him safe to Lycia, distant far | |
| From all the dangers and the toils of war? | |
| Or to his doom my bravest offspring yield, | |
| And fatten with celestial blood the field?’ | |
| Then thus the Goddess with the radiant eyes: | 540 |
| ‘What words are these? O Sov’reign of the Skies! | |
| Short is the date prescribed to mortal man; | |
| Shall Jove, for one, extend the narrow span, | |
| Whose bounds were fix’d before his race began? | |
| How many sons of Gods, foredoom’d to death, | 545 |
| Before proud Ilion must resign their breath! | |
| Were thine exempt, debate would rise above, | |
| And murm’ring Powers condemn their partial Jove. | |
| Give the bold Chief a glorious fate in fight; | |
| And when th’ ascending soul has wing’d her flight, | 550 |
| Let Sleep and Death convey, by thy command, | |
| The breathless body to his native land. | |
| His friends and people, to his future praise, | |
| A marble tomb and pyramid shall raise, | |
| And lasting honours to his ashes give; | 555 |
| His fame (’t is all the dead can have) shall live.’ | |
| She said; the Cloud-compeller, overcome, | |
| Assents to Fate, and ratifies the doom. | |
| Then, touch’d with grief, the weeping Heav’ns distill’d | |
| A shower of blood o’er all the fatal field; | 560 |
| The God, his eyes averting from the plain, | |
| Laments his son, predestin’d to be slain, | |
| Far from the Lycian shores, his happy native reign. | |
| Now met in arms, the combatants appear, | |
| Each heav’d the shield, and pois’d the lifted spear; | 565 |
| From strong Patroclus’ hand the jav’lin fled, | |
| And pass’d the groin of valiant Thrasymed; | |
| The nerves unbraced no more his bulk sustain; | |
| He falls, and falling bites the bloody plain. | |
| Two sounding darts the Lycian leader threw; | 570 |
| The first aloof with erring fury flew, | |
| The next transpierc’d Achilles’ mortal steed, | |
| The gen’rous Pedasus, of Theban breed, | |
| Fix’d in the shoulder-joint; he reel’d around, | |
| Roll’d in the bloody dust, and paw’d the slipp’ry ground. | 575 |
| His sudden fall th’ entangled harness broke; | |
| Each axle crackled, and the chariot shook: | |
| When bold Automedon, to disengage | |
| The starting coursers, and restrain their rage, | |
| Divides the traces with his sword, and freed | 580 |
| Th’ encumber’d chariot from the dying steed: | |
| The rest move on, obedient to the rein; | |
| The car rolls slowly o’er the dusty plain. | |
| The tow’ring Chiefs to fiercer fight advance, | |
| And first Sarpedon whirl’d his mighty lance, | 585 |
| Which o’er the warrior’s shoulder took its course, | |
| And spent in empty air its dying force. | |
| Not so Patroclus’ never-erring dart; | |
| Aim’d at his breast, it pierc’d the mortal part, | |
| Where the strong fibres bind the solid heart. | 590 |
| Then, as the mountain oak, or poplar tall, | |
| Or pine (fit mast for some great admiral), | |
| Nods to the axe, till with a groaning sound | |
| It sinks, and spreads its honours on the ground; | |
| Thus fell the King; and, laid on earth supine, | 595 |
| Before his chariot stretch’d his form divine: | |
| He grasp’d the dust distain’d with streaming gore, | |
| And, pale in death, lay groaning on the shore. | |
| So lies a bull beneath the lion’s paws, | |
| While the grim savage grinds with foaming jaws | 600 |
| The trembling limbs, and sucks the smoking blood; | |
| Deep groans, and hollow roars, rebellow thro’ the wood. | |
| Then to the leader of the Lycian band | |
| The dying Chief address’d his last command: | |
| ‘Glaucus, be bold; thy task be first to dare | 605 |
| The glorious dangers of destructive war, | |
| To lead my troops, to combat at their head, | |
| Incite the living, and supply the dead. | |
| Tell them, I charged them with my latest breath | |
| Not unrevenged to bear Sarpedon’s death. | 610 |
| What grief, what shame, must Glaucus undergo, | |
| If these spoil’d arms adorn a Grecian foe! | |
| Then as a friend, and as a warrior, fight; | |
| Defend my body, conquer in my right; | |
| That, taught by great examples, all may try | 615 |
| Like thee to vanquish, or like me to die.’ | |
| He ceas’d; the Fates suppress’d his lab’ring breath, | |
| And his eyes darken’d with the shades of death. | |
| Th’ insulting victor with disdain bestrode | |
| The prostrate Prince, and on his bosom trod; | 620 |
| Then drew the weapon from his panting heart, | |
| The reeking fibres clinging to the dart; | |
| From the wide wound gush’d out a stream of blood, | |
| And the soul issued in the purple flood. | |
| His flying steeds the Myrmidons detain, | 625 |
| Unguided now, their mighty master slain. | |
| All-impotent of aid, transfix’d with grief, | |
| Unhappy Glaucus heard the dying Chief. | |
| His painful arm, yet useless with the smart | |
| Inflicted late by Teucer’s deadly dart, | 630 |
| Supported on his better hand he stay’d; | |
| To Phœbus then (’t was all he could) he pray’d: | |
| ‘All-seeing Monarch! whether Lycia’s coast, | |
| Or sacred Ilion, thy bright presence boast, | |
| Powerful alike to ease the wretch’s smart; | 635 |
| O hear me! God of ev’ry healing art! | |
| Lo! stiff with clotted blood, and pierc’d with pain, | |
| That thrills my arm, and shoots thro’ ev’ry vein: | |
| I stand unable to sustain the spear, | |
| And sigh, at distance from the glorious war. | 640 |
| Low in the dust is great Sarpedon laid, | |
| Nor Jove vouchsafed his hapless offspring aid. | |
| But thou, O God of health! thy succour lend, | |
| To guard the reliques of my slaughter’d friend. | |
| For thou, tho’ distant, canst restore my might, | 645 |
| To head my Lycians, and support the fight.’ | |
| Apollo heard; and, suppliant as he stood, | |
| His heav’nly hand restrain’d the flux of blood; | |
| He drew the dolours from the wounded part, | |
| And breathed a spirit in his rising heart. | 650 |
| Renew’d by art divine, the hero stands, | |
| And owns th’ of immortal hands. | |
| First to the fight his native troops he warms, | |
| Then loudly calls on Troy’s vindictive arms; | |
| With ample strides he stalks from place to place, | 655 |
| Now fires Agenor, now Polydamas; | |
| Æneas next, and Hector he accosts; | |
| Inflaming thus the rage of all their hosts: | |
| ‘What thoughts, regardless Chief! thy breast employ, | |
| Oh too forgetful of the friends of Troy! | 660 |
| Those gen’rous friends, who, from their country far, | |
| Breathe their brave souls out in another’s war. | |
| See! where in dust the great Sarpedon lies, | |
| In action valiant, and in council wise, | |
| Who guarded right, and kept his people free; | 665 |
| To all his Lycians lost, and lost to thee! | |
| Stretch’d by Patroclus’ arm on yonder plains; | |
| Oh save from hostile rage his lov’d remains! | |
| Ah! let not Greece his conquer’d trophies boast, | |
| Nor on his corse revenge her heroes lost.’ | 670 |
| He spoke: each leader in his grief partook; | |
| Troy, at the loss, thro’ all her legions shook; | |
| Transfix’d with deep regret, they view o’erthrown | |
| At once his country’s pillar, and their own; | |
| A Chief, who led to Troy’s beleaguered wall | 675 |
| A host of heroes, and outshined them all. | |
| Fired, they rush on; first Hector seeks the foes, | |
| And with superior vengeance greatly glows. | |
| But o’er the head the fierce Patroclus stands, | |
| And, rousing Ajax, rous’d the list’ning bands: | 680 |
| ‘Heroes, be men! be what you were before; | |
| Or weigh the great occasion, and be more. | |
| The Chief who taught our lofty walls to yield, | |
| Lies pale in death, extended on the field: | |
| To guard his body, Troy in numbers flies; | 685 |
| ’T is half the glory to maintain our prize. | |
| Haste, strip his arms, the slaughter round him spread, | |
| And send the living Lycians to the dead.’ | |
| The heroes kindle at his fierce command; | |
| The martial squadrons close on either hand: | 690 |
| Here Troy and Lycia charge with loud alarms, | |
| Thessalia there and Greece oppose their arms. | |
| With horrid shouts they circle round the slain; | |
| The clash of armour rings o’er all the plain. | |
| Great Jove, to swell the horrors of the fight, | 695 |
| O’er the fierce armies pours pernicious night, | |
| And round his son confounds the warring hosts, | |
| His fate ennobling with a crowd of ghosts. | |
| Now Greece gives way, and great Epigeus falls; | |
| Agacleus’ son, from Budium’s lofty walls: | 700 |
| Who, chased for murder thence, a suppliant came | |
| To Peleus and the silver-footed dame; | |
| Now sent to Troy, Achilles’ arms to aid, | |
| He pays the vengeance to his kinsman’s shade. | |
| Soon as his luckless hand had touch’d the dead, | 705 |
| A rock’s large fragment thunder’d on his head; | |
| Hurl’d by Hectorean force, it cleft in twain | |
| His shatter’d helm, and stretch’d him o’er the slain. | |
| Fierce to the van of fight Patroclus came; | |
| And, like an eagle darting at his game, | 710 |
| Sprung on the Trojan and the Lycian band: | |
| What grief thy heart, what fury urged thy hand, | |
| Oh gen’rous Greek! when with full vigour thrown | |
| At Sthenelaüs flew the weighty stone, | |
| Which sunk him to the dead: when Troy, too near | 715 |
| That arm, drew back; and Hector learn’d to fear. | |
| Far as an able hand a lance can throw, | |
| Or at the lists, or at the fighting foe, | |
| So far the Trojans from their lines retired; | |
| Till Glaucus, turning, all the rest inspired. | 720 |
| Then Bathycleüs fell beneath his rage, | |
| The only hope of Chalcon’s trembling age: | |
| Wide o’er the land was stretch’d his large domain, | |
| With stately seats and riches bless’d in vain. | |
| Him, bold with youth, and eager to pursue | 725 |
| The flying Lycians, Glaucus met, and slew; | |
| Pierc’d thro’ the bosom with a sudden wound, | |
| He fell, and, falling, made the fields resound. | |
| Th’ Achaians sorrow for their hero slain; | |
| With conquering shouts the Trojans shake the plain, | 730 |
| And crowd to spoil the dead: the Greeks oppose: | |
| An iron circle round the carcass grows. | |
| Then brave Laogonus resign’d his breath, | |
| Despatch’d by Merion to the shades of death: | |
| On Ida’s holy hill he made abode, | 735 |
| The priest of Jove, and honour’d like his God. | |
| Between the jaw and ear the jav’lin went: | |
| The soul, exhaling, issued at the vent. | |
| His spear Æneas at the victor threw, | |
| Who, stooping forward, from the death withdrew; | 740 |
| The lance hiss’d harmless o’er his cov’ring shield, | |
| And trembling struck, and rooted in the field; | |
| There yet scarce spent, it quivers on the plain, | |
| Sent by the great Æneas’ arm in vain. | |
| ‘Swift as thou art’ (the raging hero cries), | 745 |
| ‘And skill’d in dancing to dispute the prize, | |
| My spear, the destin’d passage had it found, | |
| Had fix’d thy active vigour to the ground.’ | |
| ‘Oh valiant leader of the Dardan host!’ | |
| (Insulted Merion thus retorts the boast); | 750 |
| ‘Strong as you are, ’t is mortal force you trust, | |
| An arm as strong may stretch thee in the dust. | |
| And if to this my lance thy fate be giv’n, | |
| Vain are thy vaunts; success is still from Heav’n: | |
| This, instant, sends thee down to Pluto’s coast: | 755 |
| Mine is the glory, his thy parting ghost.’ | |
| ‘O friend!’ (Menœtius’ son this answer gave) | |
| ‘With words to combat ill benefits the brave: | |
| Not empty boasts the sons of Troy repel, | |
| Your swords must plunge them to the shades of Hell. | 760 |
| To speak, beseems the council: but to dare | |
| In glorious action, is the task of war.’ | |
| This said, Patroclus to the battle flies; | |
| Great Merion follows, and new shouts arise: | |
| Shields, helmets rattle, as the warriors close; | 765 |
| And thick and heavy sounds the storm of blows. | |
| As thro’ the shrilling vale, or mountain ground, | |
| The labours of the woodman’s axe resound; | |
| Blows following blows are heard re-echoing wide, | |
| While crackling forests fall on ev’ry side: | 770 |
| Thus echoed all the fields with loud alarms, | |
| So fell the warriors, and so rung their arms. | |
| Now great Sarpedon on the sandy shore, | |
| His heav’nly form defaced with dust and gore, | |
| And stuck with darts by warring heroes shed, | 775 |
| Lies undistinguish’d from the vulgar dead. | |
| His long-disputed corse the chiefs enclose, | |
| On ev’ry side the busy combat grows; | |
| Thick as beneath some shepherd’s thatch’d abode, | |
| (The pails high foaming with a milky flood), | 780 |
| The buzzing flies, a persevering train, | |
| Incessant swarm, and chased return again. | |
| Jove view’d the combat with a stern survey, | |
| And eyes that flash’d intolerable day; | |
| Fix’d on the field his sight, his breast debates | 785 |
| The vengeance due, and meditates the fates: | |
| Whether to urge their prompt effect, and call | |
| The force of Hector to Patroclus’ fall, | |
| This instant see his short-lived trophies won, | |
| And stretch him breathless on his slaughter’d son; | 790 |
| Or yet, with many a soul’s untimely flight, | |
| Augment the fame and horror of the fight. | |
| To crown Achilles’ valiant friend with praise | |
| At length he dooms: and that his last of days | |
| Shall set in glory; bids him drive the foe; | 795 |
| Nor unattended see the shades below. | |
| Then Hector’s mind he fills with dire dismay: | |
| He mounts his car, and calls his hosts away; | |
| Sunk with Troy’s heavy fates, he sees decline | |
| The scales of Jove, and pants with awe divine. | 800 |
| Then, nor before, the hardy Lycians fled, | |
| And left their Monarch with the common dead: | |
| Around, in heaps on heaps, a dreadful wall | |
| Of carnage rises, as the heroes fall. | |
| (So Jove decreed!) At length the Greeks obtain | 805 |
| The prize contested, and despoil the slain. | |
| The radiant arms are by Patroclus borne, | |
| Patroclus’ ships the glorious spoils adorn. | |
| Then thus to Phœbus in the realms above, | |
| Spoke from his throne the cloud-compelling Jove: | 810 |
| ‘Descend, my Phœbus! on the Phrygian plain, | |
| And from the fight convey Sarpedon slain: | |
| Then bathe his body in the crystal flood, | |
| With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with blood: | |
| O’er all his limbs ambrosial odours shed, | 815 |
| And with celestial robes adorn the dead. | |
| Those rites discharged, his sacred corse bequeath | |
| To the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death: | |
| They to his friends the mournful charge shall bear | |
| His friends a tomb and pyramid shall rear; | 820 |
| What honours mortals after death receive, | |
| Those unavailing honours we may give.’ | |
| Apollo bows, and from Mount Ida’s height, | |
| Swift to the field precipitates his flight; | |
| Thence from the war the breathless hero bore, | 825 |
| Veil’d in a cloud to silver Simois’ shore; | |
| There bathed his honourable wounds, and dress’d | |
| His manly members in th’ immortal vest | |
| And with perfumes of sweet ambrosial dews, | |
| Restores his freshness, and his form renews. | 830 |
| Then Sleep and Death, two twins of winged race, | |
| Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace, | |
| Receiv’d Sarpedon at the God’s command, | |
| And in a moment reach’d the Lycian land; | |
| The corse amidst his weeping friends they laid, | 835 |
| Where endless honours wait the sacred shade. | |
| Meanwhile Patroclus pours along the plains, | |
| With foaming coursers, and with loosen’d reins: | |
| Fierce on the Trojan and the Lycian crew, | |
| Ah blind to Fate! thy headlong fury flew: | 840 |
| Against what Fate and powerful Jove ordain, | |
| Vain was thy friend’s command, thy courage vain. | |
| For he, the God, whose counsels uncontroll’d | |
| Dismay the mighty, and confound the bold; | |
| The God, who gives, resumes, and orders all, | 845 |
| He urged thee on, and urged thee on to fall. | |
| Who first, brave hero! by that arm was slain, | |
| Who last beneath thy vengeance press’d the plain, | |
| When Heav’n itself thy fatal fury led, | |
| And call’d to fill the number of the dead? | 850 |
| Adrestus first; Autonoüs then succeeds; | |
| Echeclus follows; next young Megas bleeds; | |
| Epistor, Menalippus, bite the ground: | |
| The slaughter Elasus and Mulius crown’d: | |
| Then sunk Pylartes to eternal night; | 855 |
| The rest, dispersing, trust their fates to flight. | |
| Now Troy had stoop’d beneath his matchless power | |
| But flaming Phœbus kept the sacred tower. | |
| Thrice at the battlements Patroclus struck, | |
| His blazing ægis thrice Apollo shook: | 860 |
| He tried the fourth; when, bursting from the cloud, | |
| A more than mortal voice was heard aloud: | |
| ‘Patroclus! cease; this Heav’n-defended wall | |
| Defies thy lance, not fated yet to fall; | |
| Thy friend, thy greater far, it shall withstand, | 865 |
| Troy shall not stoop, ev’n to Achilles’ hand.’ | |
| So spoke the God who darts celestial fires: | |
| The Greek obeys him, and with awe retires: | |
| While Hector, checking at the Scæan gates | |
| His panting coursers, in his breast debates, | 870 |
| Or in the field his forces to employ, | |
| Or draw the troops within the walls of Troy. | |
| Thus while he thought, beside him Phœbus stood, | |
| In Asius’ shape, who reign’d by Sangar’s flood | |
| (Thy brother, Hecuba! from Dymas sprung, | 875 |
| A valiant warrior, haughty, bold and young): | |
| Thus he accosts him: ‘What a shameful sight! | |
| Gods! is it Hector that forbears the fight? | |
| Were thine my vigour, this successful spear | |
| Should soon convince thee of so false a fear. | 880 |
| Turn thee, ah turn thee to the Field of Fame, | |
| And in Patroclus’ blood efface thy shame. | |
| Perhaps Apollo shall thy arms succeed, | |
| And Heav’n ordains him by thy lance to bleed.’ | |
| So spoke th’ inspiring God: then took his flight, | 885 |
| And plunged amidst the tumult of the fight. | |
| He bids Cebrion drive the rapid car; | |
| The lash resounds, the coursers rush to war: | |
| The God the Grecians’ sinking souls depress’d, | |
| And pour’d swift spirits thro’ each Trojan breast. | 890 |
| Patroclus lights, impatient for the fight; | |
| A spear his left, a stone employs his right: | |
| With all his nerves he drives it at the foe; | |
| Pointed above, and rough and gross below: | |
| The falling ruin crush’d Cebrion’s head, | 895 |
| The lawless offspring of King Priam’s bed; | |
| His front, brows, eyes, one undistinguish’d wound; | |
| The bursting balls drop sightless to the ground. | |
| The charioteer, while yet he held the rein, | |
| Struck from the car, falls headlong on the plain. | 900 |
| To the dark shades the soul unwilling glides, | |
| While the proud victor thus his fall derides: | |
| ‘Good Heav’ns! what active feats yon artist shews! | |
| What skilful divers are our Phrygian foes! | |
| Mark with what ease they sink into the sand! | 905 |
| Pity, that all their practice is by land!’ | |
| Then rushing sudden on his prostrate prize, | |
| To spoil the carcass fierce Patroclus flies: | |
| Swift as a lion, terrible and bold, | |
| That sweeps the fields, depopulates the fold; | 910 |
| Pierc’d thro’ the dauntless heart, then tumbles slain; | |
| And from his fatal courage finds his bane. | |
| At once bold Hector, leaping from his car, | |
| Defends the body, and provokes the war. | |
| Thus for some slaughter’d hind, with equal rage, | 915 |
| Two lordly rulers of the wood engage; | |
| Stung with fierce hunger each the prey invades, | |
| And echoing roars rebellow thro’ the shades. | |
| Stern Hector fastens on the warrior’s head, | |
| And by the foot Patroclus drags the dead; | 920 |
| While all around, confusion, rage, and fright | |
| Mix the contending hosts in mortal fight. | |
| So, pent by hills, the wild winds roar aloud | |
| In the deep bosom of some gloomy wood; | |
| Leaves, arms, and trees, aloft in air are blown, | 925 |
| The broad oaks crackle, and the Sylvans groan; | |
| This way and that the rattling thicket bends, | |
| And the whole forest in one crash descends. | |
| Not with less noise, with less tumultuous rage, | |
| In dreadful shock the mingled hosts engage. | 930 |
| Darts shower’d on darts now round the carcass ring; | |
| Now flights of arrows bounding from the string: | |
| Stones follow stones; some clatter on the fields, | |
| Some, hard and heavy, shake the sounding shields. | |
| But where the rising whirlwind clouds the plains, | 935 |
| Sunk in soft dust the mighty Chief remains, | |
| And, stretch’d in death, forgets the guiding reins! | |
| Now, flaming from the zenith, Sol had driv’n | |
| His fervid orb thro’ half the vault of Heav’n; | |
| While on each host with equal tempest fell | 940 |
| The show’ring darts, and numbers sunk to hell. | |
| But when his evening wheels o’erhung the main, | |
| Glad conquest rested on the Grecian train, | |
| Then, from amidst the tumult and alarms, | |
| They draw the conquer’d corse and radiant arms. | 945 |
| Then rash Patroclus with new fury glows, | |
| And, breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes. | |
| Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew, | |
| And thrice three heroes at each onset slew. | |
| There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine | 950 |
| The last black remnant of so bright a line; | |
| Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way; | |
| Death calls, and Heav’n allows no longer day! | |
| For lo! the God in dusky clouds enshrin’d, | |
| Approaching, dealt a stagg’ring blow behind. | 955 |
| The weighty shock his neck and shoulders feel; | |
| His eyes flash sparkles, his stunn’d senses reel | |
| In giddy darkness; far to distance flung, | |
| His bounding helmet on the champaign rung. | |
| Achilles’ plume is stain’d with dust and gore, | 960 |
| That plume which never stoop’d to earth before; | |
| Long used, untouch’d, in fighting fields to shine, | |
| And shade the temples of the man divine. | |
| Jove dooms it now on Hector’s helm to nod; | |
| Not long—for Fate pursues him, and the God. | 965 |
| His spear in shivers falls: his ample shield | |
| Drops from his arm: his baldric strews the field: | |
| The corslet his astonish’d breast forsakes; | |
| Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes, | |
| Stupid he stares, and all assistless stands: | 970 |
| Such is the force of more than mortal hands! | |
| A Dardan youth there was, well known to fame, | |
| From Panthus sprung, Euphorbus was his name; | |
| Famed for the manage of the foaming horse, | |
| Skill’d in the dart, manage of the foaming horse, | 975 |
| Full twenty knights he tumbled from the car, | |
| While yet he learn’d his rudiments of war. | |
| His venturous spear first drew the hero’s gore; | |
| He struck, he wounded, but he durst no more; | |
| Nor, tho’ disarm’d, Patroclus’ fury stood, | 980 |
| But swift withdrew the long-protended wood, | |
| And turn’d him short, and herded in the crowd. | |
| Thus by an arm divine, and mortal spear, | |
| Wounded at once, Patroclus yields to fear, | |
| Retires for succour to his social train, | 985 |
| And flies the fate which Heav’n decreed, in vain. | |
| Stern Hector, as the bleeding Chief he views, | |
| Breaks thro’ the ranks, and his retreat pursues: | |
| The lance arrests him with a mortal wound; | |
| He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound. | 990 |
| With him all Greece was sunk; that moment all | |
| Her yet surviving heroes seem’d to fall. | |
| So, scorch’d with heat, along the desert shore, | |
| The roaming lion meets a bristly boar, | |
| Fast by the spring; they both dispute the flood. | 995 |
| With flaming eyes and jaws besmear’d with blood; | |
| At length the sov’reign savage wins the strife, | |
| And the torn boar resigns his thirst and life. | |
| Patroclus thus, so many Chiefs o’erthrown, | |
| So many lives effused, expires his own. | 1000 |
| As dying now at Hector’s feet he lies, | |
| He sternly views him, and triumphing cries: | |
| ‘Lie there, Patroclus! and with thee the joy, | |
| Thy pride once promis’d, of subverting Troy; | |
| The fancied scenes of Ilion wrapp’d in flames, | 1005 |
| And thy soft pleasures serv’d with captive dames! | |
| Unthinking man! I fought those towers to free, | |
| And guard that beauteous race from lords like thee: | |
| But thou a prey to vultures shalt be made; | |
| Thy own Achilles cannot lend thee aid; | 1010 |
| Tho’ much at parting that great Chief might say, | |
| And much enjoin thee, this important day: | |
| “Return not, my brave friend” (perhaps he said), | |
| “Without the bloody arms of Hector dead.” | |
| He spoke, Patroclus march’d, and thus he sped.’ | 1015 |
| Supine, and wildly gazing on the skies, | |
| With faint expiring breath, the Chief replies: | |
| ‘Vain Boaster! cease, and know the Powers divine: | |
| Jove’s and Apollo’s is this deed, not thine; | |
| To Heav’n is owed whate’er your own you call, | 1020 |
| And Heav’n itself disarm’d me ere my fall. | |
| Had twenty mortals, each thy match in might, | |
| Opposed me fairly, they had sunk in fight: | |
| By Fate and Phœbus was I first o’erthrown, | |
| Euphorbus next; the third mean part thy own. | 1025 |
| But thou, Imperious! hear my latest breath; | |
| The Gods inspire it, and it sounds thy death. | |
| Insulting man, thou shalt be soon as I; | |
| Black Fate hangs o’er thee, and thy hour draws nigh; | |
| Ev’n now on life’s last verge I see thee stand. | 1030 |
| I see thee fall, and by Achilles’ hand.’ | |
| He faints; the soul unwilling wings her way | |
| (The beauteous body left a load of clay), | |
| Flits to the lone, uncomfortable coast; | |
| A naked, wand’ring, melancholy ghost! | 1035 |
| Then Hector pausing, as his eyes he fed | |
| On the pale carcass, thus address’d the dead: | |
| ‘From whence this boding speech, the stern decree | |
| Of death denounc’d, or why denounc’d to me? | |
| Why not as well Achilles’ fate be giv’n | 1040 |
| To Hector’s lance? who knows the will of Heav’n?’ | |
| Pensive he said: then, pressing as he lay | |
| His breathless bosom, tore the lance away, | |
| And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear | |
| He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer. | 1045 |
| But swift Automedon with loosen’d reins, | |
| Rapt in the chariot o’er the distant plains, | |
| Far from his rage th’ immortal coursers drove; | |
| Th’ immortal coursers were the gift of Jove. | |
| |
