SOON as Aurora heav’d her orient head | |
| Above the waves that blush’d with early red | |
| (With new-born day to gladden mortal sight, | |
| And gild the courts of Heav’n with sacred light), | |
| Th’ immortal arms the Goddess-mother bears | 5 |
| Swift to her son: her son she finds in tears, | |
| Stretch’d o’er Patroclus’ corse, while all the rest | |
| Their Sov’reign’s sorrows in their own express’d. | |
| A ray divine her heav’nly presence shed, | |
| And thus, his hand soft touching, Thetis said: | 10 |
| ‘Suppress, my son, this rage of grief, and know | |
| It was not man, but Heav’n, that gave the blow: | |
| Behold what arms by Vulcan are bestow’d, | |
| Arms worthy thee, or fit to grace a God.’ | |
| Then drops the radiant burden on the ground; | 15 |
| Clang the strong arms, and ring the shores around; | |
| Back shrink the Myrmidons with dread surprise, | |
| And from the broad effulgence turn their eyes. | |
| Unmov’d, the hero kindles at the show, | |
| And feels with rage divine his bosom glow; | 20 |
| From his fierce eye-balls living flames expire, | |
| And flash incessant like a stream of fire: | |
| He turns the radiant gift, and feeds his mind | |
| On all th’ immortal artist had design’d. | |
| ‘Goddess’ (he cried), ‘these glorious arms that shine | 25 |
| With matchless art, confess the hand divine. | |
| Now to the bloody battle let me bend: | |
| But ah! the relics of my slaughter’d friend! | |
| In those wide wounds thro’ which his spirit fled, | |
| Shall flies, and worms obscene, pollute the dead?’ | 30 |
| ‘That unavailing care be laid aside’ | |
| (The azure Goddess to her son replied); | |
| ‘Whole years untouch’d, uninjured shall remain, | |
| Fresh as in life, the carcass of the slain. | |
| But go, Achilles (as affairs require), | 35 |
| Before the Grecian peers renounce thine ire: | |
| Then uncontroll’d in boundless war engage, | |
| And Heav’n with strength supply the mighty rage!’ | |
| Then in the nostrils of the slain she pour’d | |
| Nectareous drops, and rich ambrosia shower’d | 40 |
| O’er all the corse: the flies forbid their prey, | |
| Untouch’d it rests, and sacred from decay. | |
| Achilles to the strand obedient went; | |
| The shores resounded with the voice he sent. | |
| The heroes heard, and all the naval train | 45 |
| That tend the ships, or guide, them o’er the main, | |
| Alarm’d, transported, at the well-known sound, | |
| Frequent and full, the great assembly crown’d; | |
| Studious to see that terror of the plain, | |
| Long lost to battle, shine in arms again. | 50 |
| Tydides and Ulysses first appear, | |
| Lame with their wounds, and leaning on the spear: | |
| These on the sacred seats of council placed, | |
| The King of Men, Atrides, came the last: | |
| He too sore wounded by Agenor’s son. | 55 |
| Achilles (rising in the midst) begun: | |
| ‘Oh Monarch! better far had been the fate | |
| Of thee, of me, of all the Grecian state, | |
| If (ere the day when by mad passion sway’d, | |
| Rash we contended for the black-eyed maid) | 60 |
| Preventing Dian had despatch’d her dart, | |
| And shot the shining mischief to the heart! | |
| Then many a hero had not press’d the shore, | |
| Nor Troy’s glad fields been fatten’d with our gore: | |
| Long, long shall Greece the woes we caus’d bewail, | 65 |
| And sad posterity repeat the tale. | |
| But this, no more the subject of debate, | |
| Is past, forgotten, and resign’d to Fate: | |
| Why should, alas! a mortal man, as I, | |
| Burn with a fury that can never die? | 70 |
| Here then my anger ends: let war succeed, | |
| And ev’n as Greece hath bled, let Ilion bleed. | |
| Now call the hosts, and try, if in our sight, | |
| Troy yet shall dare to camp a second night? | |
| I deem their mightiest, when this arm he knows, | 75 |
| Shall’scape with transport, and with joy repose.’ | |
| He said; his finish’d wrath with loud acclaim | |
| The Greeks accept, and shout Pelides’ name. | |
| When thus, not rising from his lofty throne, | |
| In state unmov’d, the King of Men begun: | 80 |
| ‘Hear me, ye sons of Greece! with silence hear! | |
| And grant your Monarch an impartial ear: | |
| Awhile your loud untimely joy suspend, | |
| And let your rash injurious clamours end: | |
| Unruly murmurs, or ill-timed applause, | 85 |
| Wrong the best speaker, and the justest cause. | |
| Nor charge on me, ye Greeks, the dire debate; | |
| Know, angry Jove, and all-compelling Fate, | |
| With fell Erinnys, urged my wrath that day | |
| When from Achilles’ arms I forc’d the prey. | 90 |
| What then could I, against the will of Heav’n? | |
| Not by myself, but vengeful Até driv’n; | |
| She, Jove’s dread daughter, fated to infest | |
| The race of mortals, enter’d in my breast. | |
| Not on the ground that haughty Fury treads, | 95 |
| But prints her lofty footsteps on the heads | |
| Of mighty men; inflicting as she goes | |
| Long-fest’ring wounds, inextricable woes! | |
| Of old, she stalk’d amidst the bright abodes; | |
| And Jove himself, the sire of men and Gods, | 100 |
| The world’s great ruler, felt her venom’d dart; | |
| Deceiv’d by Juno’s wiles and female art. | |
| For when Alcmena’s nine long months were run, | |
| And Jove expected his immortal son, | |
| To Gods and Goddesses th’ unruly joy | 105 |
| He shew’d, and vaunted of his matchless boy: | |
| “From us” (he said) “this day an infant springs, | |
| Fated to rule, and born a King of Kings.” | |
| Saturnia ask’d an oath, to vouch the truth, | |
| And fix dominion on the favour’d youth. | 110 |
| The Thund’rer, unsuspicious of the fraud, | |
| Pronounc’d those solemn words that bind a God. | |
| The joyful Goddess, from Olympus’ height, | |
| Swift to Achaian Argos bent her flight. | |
| Scarce seven moons gone, lay Sthenelus’s wife; | 115 |
| She push’d her ling’ring infant into life: | |
| Her charms Alcmena’s coming labours stay, | |
| And stop the babe just issuing to the day. | |
| Then bids Saturnius bear his oath in mind; | |
| “A youth” (said she) “of Jove’s immortal kind | 120 |
| Is this day born: from Sthenelus he springs, | |
| And claims thy promise to be King of Kings.” | |
| Grief seiz’d the Thund’rer, by his oath engaged; | |
| Stung to the soul, he sorrow’d and he raged. | |
| From his ambrosial head, where perch’d she sat, | 125 |
| He snatch’d the Fury-Goddess of Debate, | |
| The dread, th’ irrevocable oath he swore, | |
| Th’ immortal seats should ne’er behold her more; | |
| And whirl’d her headlong down, for ever driv’n | |
| From bright Olympus and the starry Heav’n; | 130 |
| Thence on the nether world the Fury fell; | |
| Ordain’d with man’s contentious race to dwell. | |
| Full oft the God his son’s hard toils bemoan’d, | |
| Curs’d the dire Fury, and in secret groan’d. | |
| Ev’n thus, like Jove himself, was I misled, | 135 |
| While raging Hector heap’d our camps with dead. | |
| What can the errors of my rage atone? | |
| My martial troops, my treasures, are thy own: | |
| This instant from the navy shall be sent | |
| Whate’er Ulysses promis’d at thy tent; | 140 |
| But thou! appeas’d, propitious to our prayer, | |
| Resume thy arms, and shine again in war.’ | |
| ‘O King of Nations! whose superior sway’ | |
| (Returns Achilles) ‘all our hosts obey! | |
| To keep or send the presents be thy care; | 145 |
| To us, ’t is equal: all we ask is war. | |
| While yet we talk, or but an instant shun | |
| The fight, our glorious work remains undone. | |
| Let ev’ry Greek who sees my spear confound | |
| The Trojan ranks, and deal destruction round, | 150 |
| With emulation, what I act, survey, | |
| And learn from thence the business of the day.’ | |
| The son of Peleus thus: and thus replies | |
| The great in councils, Ithacus the wise: | |
| ‘Tho’, godlike, thou art by no toils oppress’d, | 155 |
| At least our armies claim repast and rest: | |
| Long and laborious must the combat be, | |
| When by the Gods inspired, and led by thee. | |
| Strength is derived from spirits and from blood, | |
| And those augment by gen’rous wine and food; | 160 |
| What boastful son of war, without that stay, | |
| Can last a hero thro’ a single day? | |
| Courage may prompt; but, ebbing out his strength | |
| Mere unsupported man must yield at length; | |
| Shrunk with dry famine, and with toils declin’d, | 165 |
| The drooping body will desert the mind: | |
| But built anew, with strength-conferring fare, | |
| With limbs and soul untamed, he tires a war. | |
| Dismiss the people then, and give command, | |
| With strong repast to hearten ev’ry band; | 170 |
| But let the presents to Achilles made, | |
| In full assembly of all Greece be laid. | |
| The King of Men shall rise in public sight, | |
| And solemn swear (observant of the rite), | |
| That, spotless as she came, the maid removes, | 175 |
| Pure from his arms, and guiltless of his loves. | |
| That done, a sumptuous banquet shall be made, | |
| And the full price of injured honour paid. | |
| Stretch not henceforth, O Prince! thy sov’reign might, | |
| Beyond the bounds of reason and of right; | 180 |
| ’T is 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; | 185 |
| And Heav’n regard me as I justly swear! | |
| Here then awhile let Greece assembled stay, | |
| Nor great Achilles grudge this short delay; | |
| Till from the fleet our presents be convey’d, | |
| And, Jove attesting, the firm compact made. | 190 |
| A train of noble youth the charge shall bear; | |
| These to select, Ulysses, be thy care; | |
| In order rank’d let all our gifts appear, | |
| And the train of captives close the rear: | |
| Talthybius shall the victim boar convey, | 195 |
| Sacred to Jove, and yon bright orb of day.’ | |
| ‘For this’ (the stern Æacides 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. | 200 |
| 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 should commence the fight. | |
| Then, when the day’s complete, let gen’rous bowls, | 205 |
| 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. | 210 |
| Revenge is all my soul! no meaner care, | |
| Int’rest, 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) | 215 |
| ‘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; | 220 |
| Tho’ vast the heaps that strew the crimson plain, | |
| The bloody harvest brings but little gain: | |
| The scale of conquest ever wav’ring lies, | |
| Great Jove but turns it, and the victor dies! | |
| The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall, | 225 |
| 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. | 230 |
| One Chief with patience to the grave resign’d, | |
| Our care devolves on others left behind. | |
| Let gen’rous food supplies of strength produce, | |
| Let rising spirits flow from sprightly juice, | |
| Let their warm heads with scenes of battle glow, | 235 |
| 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 effect shall find, | |
| If trembling in the ships he lags behind. | 240 |
| 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, | 245 |
| Thoas and Merion, thunderbolts of war, | |
| With Lycomedes of Creiontian strain, | |
| And Melanippus, form’d the chosen train. | |
| Swift as the word was giv’n, the youths obey’d; | |
| Twice ten bright vases in the midst they laid; | 250 |
| A row of six fair tripods then succeeds; | |
| And twice the number of high-bounding steeds; | |
| Sev’n captives next a lovely line compose; | |
| The eighth Briseïs, like the blooming rose, | |
| Closed the bright band: great Ithacus before, | 255 |
| 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 cutlass sheathed beside his sword; | 260 |
| The stubborn bristles from the victim’s brow | |
| He crops, and, off’ring, meditates his vow. | |
| His hands uplifted to th’ attesting skies, | |
| On Heav’n’s broad marble roof were fix’d his eyes; | |
| The solemn words a deep attention draw, | 265 |
| 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 Heav’n’s revolving light, | |
| And ye, fell Furies of the realms of night, | 270 |
| 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, Heav’n all its vengeance shed, | 275 |
| 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. | 280 |
| Then thus Achilles: ‘Hear, ye Greeks! and know | |
| Whate’er we feel, ’t is Jove inflicts the woe: | |
| Not else Atrides could our rage inflame, | |
| Nor from my arms, unwilling, force the dame. | |
| ’T was Jove’s high will alone, o’er-ruling all, | 285 |
| 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: | 290 |
| 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: | 295 |
| Briseïs, radiant as the Queen of Love, | |
| Slow as she pass’d, beheld with sad survey | |
| Where, gash’d with cruel wounds, Patroclus lay. | |
| Prone on the body fell the heav’nly Fair, | |
| Beat her sad breast, and tore her golden hair; | 300 |
| 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; | 305 |
| Now find thee cold, inanimated clay! | |
| What woes my wretched race of life attend! | |
| Sorrows on sorrows, never doom’d to end! | |
| The first lov’d consort of my virgin bed | |
| Before these eyes in fatal battle bled: | 310 |
| My three brave brothers in one mournful day | |
| All trod the dark irremeable way: | |
| Thy friendly arm uprear’d me from the plain, | |
| And dried my sorrows for a husband slain; | |
| Achilles’ care you promis’d I should prove, | 315 |
| 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!’ | 320 |
| Her sister captives echoed groan for groan, | |
| Nor mourn’d Patroclus’ fortunes, but their own. | |
| The leaders press’d the Chief on ev’ry side; | |
| Unmov’d he heard them, and with sighs denied: | |
| ‘If yet Achilles have a friend, whose care | 325 |
| 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, | 330 |
| Nestor, Idomeneus, Ulysses sage, | |
| And Phœnix, 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)! | 335 |
| ‘Hast spread th’ inviting banquet in our tents; | |
| Thy sweet society, thy winning care, | |
| Oft 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? | 340 |
| What greater sorrow could afflict my breast, | |
| What more, if hoary Peleus were deceas’d? | |
| Who now, perhaps, in Phthia dreads to hear | |
| His son’s sad fate, and drops a tender tear. | |
| What more, should Neoptolemus the brave | 345 |
| (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. | 350 |
| 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. | 355 |
| 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 hast’ning soul, and sinks him to the shades.’ | |
| Sighing he said: his grief the heroes join’d, | 360 |
| Each stole a tear, for what he left behind. | |
| Their mingled grief the Sire of Heav’n 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? | 365 |
| 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 | 370 |
| Shot the descending Goddess from above. | |
| So swift thro’ 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, | 375 |
| With nectar sweet (refection of the Gods)! | |
| 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, | 380 |
| And scatter o’er the fields the driving snow; | |
| From dusky clouds the fleecy winter flies, | |
| Whose dazzling lustre whitens all the skies: | |
| So helms succeeding helms, so shields from shields | |
| Catch the quick beams, and brighten all the fields; | 385 |
| Broad glitt’ring breast-plates, 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-tow’ring o’er the rest, | 390 |
| His limbs in arms divine Achilles dress’d; | |
| Arms which the Father of the Fire bestow’d, | |
| Forged on th’ eternal anvils of the God. | |
| Grief and revenge his furious heart inspire, | |
| His glowing eye-balls roll with living fire; | 395 |
| He grinds his teeth, and furious with delay | |
| O’erlooks th’ embattled host, and hopes the bloody 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, | 400 |
| That, starr’d with gems, hung glitt’ring at his side; | |
| And, like the moon, the broad refulgent shield | |
| Blazed with long rays, and gleam’d athwart the field. | |
| So to night-wand’ring sailors, pale with fears, | |
| Wide o’er the wat’ry waste a light appears, | 405 |
| 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 | 410 |
| 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. | 415 |
| The Chief beholds himself with wond’ring eyes; | |
| His arms he poises, and his motions tries; | |
| Buoy’d by some inward force, he seems to swim, | |
| And feels a pinion lifting ev’ry limb. | |
| And now he shakes his great paternal spear, | 420 |
| Pond’rous 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. | 425 |
| Automedon and Alcimus prepare | |
| Th’ immortal coursers and the radiant car | |
| (The silver traces sweeping at their side); | |
| Their fiery mouths resplendent bridles tied; | |
| The iv’ry-studded reins, return’d behind, | 430 |
| 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 heav’nly arms, above his squire | |
| Achilles mounts, and sets the field on fire; | 435 |
| Not brighter Phœbus in th’ 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 | 440 |
| (Unless ye boast that heav’nly race in vain), | |
| Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear, | |
| And learn to make your master more your care: | |
| Thro’ falling squadrons bear my slaught’ring sword, | |
| Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your lord.’ | 445 |
| The gen’rous Xanthus, as the words he said, | |
| Seem’d sensible of woe, and droop’d his head: | |
| Trembling he stood before the golden wain, | |
| And bow’d to dust the honours of his mane; | |
| When, strange to tell (so Juno will’d!), he broke | 450 |
| Eternal silence, and portentous spoke: | |
| ‘Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear | |
| Thy rage in safety thro’ the files of war: | |
| But come it will, the fatal time must come, | |
| Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom. | 455 |
| Not thro’ our crime, or slowness in the course, | |
| Fell thy Patroclus, but by heav’nly force: | |
| The bright far-shooting God who gilds the day | |
| (Confess’d we saw him) tore his arms away. | |
| No: could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail, | 460 |
| Or beat the pinions of the western gale, | |
| All were in vain: the Fates thy death demand, | |
| Due to a mortal and immortal hand.’ | |
| Then ceas’d for ever, by the Furies tied, | |
| His fateful voice. Th’ intrepid Chief replied | 465 |
| With unabated rage: ‘So let it be! | |
| Portents and prodigies are lost on me. | |
| I know my fates: to die, to see no more | |
| My much-lov’d parents, and my native shore— | |
| Enough: when Heav’n ordains, I sink in night; | 470 |
| Now perish Troy!’ He said, and rush’d to fight. | |
| |
