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, | 5 |
| 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 Seæan gate; | 10 |
| Still his bold arms determin’d to employ, | |
| The guardian still of long-defended Troy. | |
| Apollo now to tried Achilles turns | |
| (The Power confess’d in all his glory burns), | |
| ‘And what’ (he cries) ‘has Peleus’ son in view, | 15 |
| With mortal speed a Godhead to pursue? | |
| For not to thee to know the Gods is giv’n, | |
| Unskill’d to trace the latent marks of Heav’n. | |
| What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain? | |
| Vain thy past labour, and thy present vain: | 20 |
| Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow’d, | |
| While here thy frantic rage attacks a God.’ | |
| The Chief incens’d: ‘Too partial God of Day! | |
| To check my conquest in the middle way: | |
| How few in Ilion else had refuge found! | 25 |
| What gasping numbers now had bit the ground! | |
| Thou robb’st me of a glory justly mine, | |
| Powerful of Godhead, and of fraud divine: | |
| Mean fame, alas! for one of heav’nly strain, | |
| To cheat a mortal who repines in vain.’ | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| The careful eyes of Priam first beheld. | |
| Not half so dreadful rises to the sight, | |
| Thro’ the thick gloom of some tempestuous night, | |
| Orion’s dog (the year when autumn weighs), | |
| And o’er the feebler stars exerts his rays; | 40 |
| 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 rev’rend head, now white with age; | |
| He lifts his wither’d arms; obtests the skies; | 45 |
| He calls his much-lov’d son with feeble cries: | |
| The son, resolv’d Achilles’ force to dare, | |
| Full at the Scæan gate expects the war: | |
| While the sad father on the rampart stands, | |
| And thus adjures him with extended hands: | 50 |
| ‘Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone; | |
| Hector, my lov’d, 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 | 55 |
| To all the Gods no dearer than to me! | |
| Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore, | |
| And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore! | |
| How many valiant sons I late enjoy’d, | |
| Valiant in vain! by thy curs’d arm destroy’d: | 60 |
| Or, worse than slaughter’d, 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! | 65 |
| 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 Heav’n forbid) already lost, | 70 |
| 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. | 75 |
| 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; | 80 |
| While yet thy father feels the woes he bears, | |
| Yet curs’d 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: | 85 |
| 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; | 90 |
| These I have yet to see, perhaps yet more! | |
| Perhaps ev’n I, reserv’d 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; | 95 |
| 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, Gods! ’t was well: | |
| Well have they perish’d, for in fight they fell. | |
| Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best, | 100 |
| Struck thro’ with wounds, all honest on the breast. | |
| But when the Fates, in fulness of their rage, | |
| Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age, | |
| In dust the rev’rend lineaments deform, | |
| And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm; | 105 |
| This, this is misery! the last, the worst, | |
| That man can feel: man, fated to be curs’d!’ | |
| 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: | 110 |
| Yet all their 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! | 115 |
| 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, | 120 |
| Should’st thou (but Heav’n 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.’ | 125 |
| So they, while down their cheeks the torrents roll: | |
| But fix’d remains the purpose of his soul; | |
| Resolv’d he stands, and with a fiery glance | |
| Expects the hero’s terrible advance. | |
| So, roll’d up in his den, the swelling snake | 130 |
| 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 eyeballs glare with living fire. | 135 |
| Beneath a turret, on his shield reclin’d, | |
| He stood, and question’d thus his mighty mind: | |
| ‘Where lies my way? To enter in the wall? | |
| Honour and shame th’ ungen’rous thought recall: | |
| Shall proud Polydamas before the gate | 140 |
| 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. | 145 |
| Methinks my suff’ring 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 | 150 |
| Glorious, my country’s terror laid in dust: | |
| Or if I perish, let her see my 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, | 155 |
| 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; | 160 |
| And add half Ilion’s yet remaining store, | |
| Which Troy shall, sworn, produce; that injur’d 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, | 165 |
| 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 ev’ning walk: | 170 |
| War is our business, but to whom is giv’n | |
| To die or triumph, that determine Heav’n!’ | |
| Thus pond’ring, like a God the Greek drew nigh: | |
| His dreadful plumage nodded from on high; | |
| The Pelian jav’lin, in his better hand, | 175 |
| Shot trembling rays that glitter’d o’er the land; | |
| And on his breast the beamy splendours shone | |
| Like Jove’s own lightning, or the rising sun. | |
| As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise, | |
| Struck by some God, he fears, recedes, and flies: | 180 |
| He leaves the gates, he leaves the walls behind; | |
| Achilles follows like the winged wind. | |
| Thus at the panting dove the falcon flies | |
| (The swiftest racer of the liquid skies); | |
| Just when he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey, | 185 |
| Obliquely wheeling thro’ th’ aærial way, | |
| With open beak and shrilling cries he springs, | |
| And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings: | |
| No less fore-right the rapid chase they held, | |
| One urged by fury, one by fear impell’d; | 190 |
| Now circling round the walls their course maintain, | |
| Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain; | |
| Now where the fig-trees spread their umbrage broad | |
| (A wider compass), smoke along the road. | |
| Next by Scamander’s double source they bound, | 195 |
| Where two famed fountains burst the parted ground: | |
| This hot thro’ scorching clefts is seen to rise, | |
| With exhalations steaming to the skies; | |
| That the green banks in summer’s heat o’erflows, | |
| Like crystal clear, and cold as winter snows. | 200 |
| Each gushing fount a marble cistern fills, | |
| Whose polish’d bed receives the falling rills; | |
| Where Trojan dames (ere yet alarm’d by Greece) | |
| Wash’d their fair garments in the days of peace. | |
| By these they pass’d, one chasing, one in flight | 205 |
| (The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might); | |
| Swift was the course; no vulgar prize they play, | |
| No vulgar victim must reward the day | |
| (Such as in races crown the speedy strife); | |
| The prize contended was great Hector’s life. | 210 |
| As when some hero’s funerals are decreed, | |
| In grateful honour of the mighty dead; | |
| Where high rewards the vig’rous youth inflame | |
| (Some golden tripod, or some lovely dame), | |
| The panting coursers swiftly turn the goal, | 215 |
| And with them turns the rais’d spectator’s soul: | |
| Thus three times round the Trojan wall they fly; | |
| The gazing Gods lean forward from the sky: | |
| To whom, while eager on the chase they look, | |
| The Sire of mortals and immortals spoke: | 220 |
| ‘Unworthy sight! the man, belov’d of Heav’n, | |
| Behold, inglorious round yon city driv’n! | |
| My heart partakes the gen’rous Hector’s pain; | |
| Hector, whose zeal whole hecatombs has slain, | |
| Whose grateful fumes the Gods receiv’d with joy, | 225 |
| From Ida’s summits, and the towers of Troy: | |
| Now see him flying! to his fears resign’d, | |
| And Fate, and fierce Achilles, close behind. | |
| Consult, ye Powers (’t is worthy your debate) | |
| Whether to snatch him from impending Fate, | 230 |
| Or let him bear, by stern Pelides slain | |
| (Good as he is), the lot imposed on man?’ | |
| Then Pallas thus: ‘Shall he whose vengeance forms | |
| The forky bolt, and blackens Heav’n with storms, | |
| Shall he prolong one Trojan’s forfeit breath, | 235 |
| A man a mortal, pre-ordain’d to death? | |
| And will no murmurs fill the courts above? | |
| No Gods indignant blame their partial Jove?’ | |
| ‘Go then’ (return’d the Sire), ‘without delay; | |
| Exert thy will: I give the Fates their way.’ | 240 |
| Swift at the mandate pleas’d Tritonia flies, | |
| And stoops impetuous from the cleaving skies. | |
| As thro’ the forest, o’er the vale and lawn, | |
| The well-breathed beagle drives the flying fawn; | |
| In vain he tries the covert of the brakes, | 245 |
| Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes: | |
| Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews, | |
| The certain hound his various maze pursues: | |
| Thus step by step, where’er the Trojan wheel’d, | |
| There swift Achilles compass’d round the field. | 250 |
| Oft as to reach the Dardan gates he bends, | |
| And hopes th’ assistance of his pitying friends | |
| (Whose show’ring arrows, as he cours’d below, | |
| From the high turrets might oppress the foe), | |
| So oft Achilles turns him to the plain: | 255 |
| He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain. | |
| As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace | |
| One to pursue, and one to lead the chase, | |
| Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake, | |
| Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake: | 260 |
| No less the lab’ring heroes pant and strain; | |
| While that but flies, and this pursues, in vain. | |
| What God, O Muse! assisted Hector’s force, | |
| With Fate itself so long to hold the course? | |
| Phæbus it was: who, in his latest hour, | 265 |
| Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power; | |
| And great Achilles, lest some Greek’s advance | |
| Should snatch the glory from his lifted lance, | |
| Sign’d to the troops, to yield his foe the way, | |
| And leave untouch’d the honours of the day. | 270 |
| Jove lifts the golden balances, that show | |
| The fates of mortal men, and things below: | |
| Here each contending hero’s lot he tries, | |
| And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies. | |
| Low sinks the scale surcharg’d with Hector’s fate; | 275 |
| Heavy with death it sinks, and Hell receives the weight. | |
| Then Phæbus left him. Fierce Minerva flies | |
| To stern Pelides, and, triumphing, cries: | |
| ‘Oh lov’d of Jove! this day our labours cease, | |
| And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece. | 280 |
| Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far, | |
| Drunk with renown, insatiable of war, | |
| Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force nor flight | |
| Shall more avail him, nor his God of Light. | |
| See, where in vain he supplicates above, | 285 |
| Roll’d at the feet of unrelenting Jove! | |
| Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on, | |
| And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun.’ | |
| Her voice divine the Chief with joyful mind | |
| Obey’d, and rested, on his lance reclin’d. | 290 |
| While like Deïphobus the Martial Dame | |
| (Her face, her gesture, and her arms, the same), | |
| In show an aid, by hapless Hector’s side | |
| Approach’d, and greets him thus with voice belied: | |
| ‘Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight | 295 |
| Of this distress, and sorrow’d in thy flight: | |
| It fits us now a noble stand to make, | |
| And here, as brothers, equal fates partake.’ | |
| Then he: ‘O Prince! allied in blood and fame, | |
| Dearer than all that own a brother’s name; | 300 |
| Of all that Hecuba to Priam bore, | |
| Long tried, long lov’d; much lov’d, but honour’d more! | |
| Since you of all our numerous race alone | |
| Defend my life, regardless of your own.’ | |
| Again the Goddess: ‘Much my father’s prayer, | 305 |
| And much my mother’s, press’d me to forbear: | |
| My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay, | |
| But stronger love impell’d, and I obey. | |
| Come then, the glorious conflict let us try, | |
| Let the steel sparkle and the jav’lin fly; | 310 |
| Or let us stretch Achilles on the field, | |
| Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield.’ | |
| Fraudful she said; then swiftly march’d before; | |
| The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more. | |
| Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke; | 315 |
| His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke: | |
| ‘Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view’d | |
| Her walls thrice circled, and her Chief pursued. | |
| But now some God within me bids me try | |
| Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die. | 320 |
| Yet on the verge of battle let us stay, | |
| And for a moment’s space suspend the day: | |
| Let Heav’n’s high Powers be call’d to arbitrate | |
| The just conditions of this stern debate | |
| (Eternal witnesses of all below, | 325 |
| And faithful guardians of the treasured vow)! | |
| To them I swear: if, victor in the strife, | |
| Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life, | |
| No vile dishonour shall thy corse pursue; | |
| Stripp’d of its arms alone (the conqueror’s due), | 330 |
| The rest to Greece uninjur’d I ’ll restore: | |
| Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more.’ | |
| ‘Talk not of oaths’ (the dreadful Chief replies, | |
| While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes), | |
| ‘Detested as thou art, and ought to be, | 335 |
| Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee; | |
| Such pacts, as lambs and rabid wolves combine, | |
| Such leagues, as men and furious lions join, | |
| To such I call the Gods! one constant state | |
| Of lasting rancour and eternal hate: | 340 |
| No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife, | |
| Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life. | |
| Rouse then thy forces this important hour, | |
| Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power. | |
| No farther subterfuge, no farther chance; | 345 |
| ’T is Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my lance. | |
| Each Grecian ghost by thee deprived of breath, | |
| Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death.’ | |
| He spoke, and launch’d his jav’lin at the foe; | |
| But Hector shunn’d the meditated blow: | 350 |
| He stoop’d, while o’er his head the flying spear | |
| Sung innocent, and spent its force in air. | |
| Minerva watch’d it falling on the land, | |
| Then drew, and gave to great Achilles’ hand, | |
| Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy, | 355 |
| Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy: | |
| ‘The life you boasted to that jav’lin giv’n, | |
| Prince! you have miss’d. My fate depends on Heav’n. | |
| To thee (presumptuous as thou art) unknown | |
| Or what must prove my fortune, or thy own. | 360 |
| Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind, | |
| And with false terrors sink another’s mind. | |
| But know, whatever fate I am to try, | |
| By no dishonest wound shall Hector die; | |
| I shall not fall a fugitive at least, | 365 |
| My soul shall bravely issue from my breast. | |
| But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart | |
| End all my country’s woes, deep buried in thy heart!’ | |
| The weapon flew, its course unerring held; | |
| Unerring, but the heav’nly shield repell’d | 370 |
| The mortal dart; resulting with a bound | |
| From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground. | |
| Hector beheld his jav’lin fall in vain, | |
| Nor other lance nor other hope remain; | |
| He calls Deïphobus, demands a spear, | 375 |
| In vain, for no Deïphobus was there. | |
| All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh, | |
| ‘’T is so—Heav’n wills it, and my hour is nigh! | |
| I deem’d Deïphobus had heard my call, | |
| But he secure lies guarded in the wall. | 380 |
| A God deceiv’d me; Pallas, ’t was thy deed: | |
| Death and black Fate approach! ’t is I must bleed: | |
| No refuge now, no succour from above, | |
| Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove, | |
| Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome Fate! | 385 |
| ’T is true I perish, yet I perish great: | |
| Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire, | |
| Let future ages hear it, and admire!’ | |
| Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew, | |
| And, all collected, on Achilles flew. | 390 |
| So Jove’s bold bird, high balanc’d in the air, | |
| Stoops from the clouds to truss the quiv’ring hare. | |
| Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares; | |
| Before his breast the flaming shield he bears, | |
| Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone | 395 |
| The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun, | |
| Nodding at ev’ry step (Vulcanian frame)! | |
| And as he mov’d, his figure seem’d on flame. | |
| As radiant Hesper shines with keener light, | |
| Far-beaming o’er the silver host of night, | 400 |
| When all the starry train emblaze the sphere: | |
| So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear. | |
| In his right hand he waves the weapon round, | |
| Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound: | |
| But the rich mail Patroclus lately wore, | 405 |
| Securely cased the warrior’s body o’er. | |
| One place at length he spies, to let in Fate, | |
| Where ’twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate | |
| Gave entrance: thro’ that penetrable part | |
| Furious he drove the well-directed dart: | 410 |
| Nor pierc’d the windpipe yet, nor took the power | |
| Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour. | |
| Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies, | |
| While thus, triumphing, stern Achilles cries: | |
| ‘At last is Hector stretch’d upon the plain, | 415 |
| Who fear’d no vengeance for Patroclus slain: | |
| Then, Prince! you should have fear’d, what now you feel; | |
| Achilles absent was Achilles still. | |
| Yet a short space the great avenger stay’d, | |
| Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid. | 420 |
| Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn’d, | |
| For ever honour’d, and for ever mourn’d: | |
| While, cast to all the rage of hostile power, | |
| Thee birds shall mangle, and thee dogs devour.’ | |
| Then Hector, fainting at th’ approach of death: | 425 |
| ‘By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath! | |
| By all the sacred prevalence of prayer; | |
| Ah, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear! | |
| The common rites of sepulture bestow, | |
| To soothe a father’s and a mother’s woe; | 430 |
| Let their large gifts procure an urn at least, | |
| And Hector’s ashes in his country rest.’ | |
| ‘No, wretch accurs’d!’ relentless he replies | |
| (Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes), | |
| ‘Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare, | 435 |
| Nor all the sacred prevalence of prayer. | |
| Could I myself the bloody banquet join! | |
| No—to the dogs that carcass I resign. | |
| Should Troy to bribe me bring forth all her store, | |
| And, giving thousands, offer thousands more; | 440 |
| Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame, | |
| Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame; | |
| Their Hector on the pile they should not see, | |
| Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee.’ | |
| Then thus the Chief his dying accents drew: | 445 |
| ‘Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew: | |
| The Furies that relentless breast have steel’d, | |
| And curs’d thee with a heart that cannot yield. | |
| Yet think, a day will come, when Fate’s decree | |
| And angry Gods shall wreak this wrong on thee; | 450 |
| Phœbus and Paris shall avenge my fate, | |
| And stretch thee here, before this Scæan gate.’ | |
| He ceas’d: the Fates suppress’d his lab’ring breath, | |
| And his eyes stiffen’d at the hand of death; | |
| To the dark realm the spirit wings its way | 455 |
| (The manly body left a load of clay), | |
| And plaintive glides along the dreary coast, | |
| A naked, wand’ring, melancholy ghost! | |
| Achilles, musing as he roll’d his eyes | |
| O’er the dead hero, thus (unheard) replies: | 460 |
| ‘Die thou the first! when Jove and Heav’n ordain, | |
| I follow thee.’ He said, and stripp’d the slain. | |
| Then, forcing backward from the gaping wound | |
| The reeking jav’lin, cast it on the ground. | |
| The thronging Greeks behold with wond’ring eyes | 465 |
| His manly beauty and superior size: | |
| While some, ignobler, the great dead deface | |
| With wounds ungen’rous, or with taunts disgrace. | |
| ‘How changed that Hector! who, like Jove, of late | |
| Sent lightning on our fleets and scatter’d Fate!’ | 470 |
| High o’er the slain the great Achilles stands, | |
| Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands; | |
| And thus aloud, while all the host attends: | |
| ‘Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends! | |
| Since now at length the powerful will of Heav’n | 475 |
| The dire destroyer to our arm has giv’n, | |
| Is not Troy fall’n already? Haste, ye Powers! | |
| See if already their deserted towers | |
| Are left unmann’d; or if they yet retain | |
| The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain? | 480 |
| But what is Troy, or glory what to me? | |
| Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee, | |
| Divine Patroclus! Death has seal’d his eyes; | |
| Unwept, unhonour’d, uninterr’d he lies! | |
| Can his dear image from my soul depart, | 485 |
| Long as the vital spirit moves my heart? | |
| If, in the melancholy shades below, | |
| The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow, | |
| Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay’d, | |
| Burn on thro’ death, and animate my shade. | 490 |
| Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring | |
| The corse of Hector, and your Pæans sing. | |
| Be this the song, slow moving tow’rd the shore, | |
| “Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more.” ’ | |
| Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred | 495 |
| (Unworthy of himself, and of the dead); | |
| The nervous ancles bored, his feet he bound | |
| With thongs inserted thro’ the double wound; | |
| These fix’d up high behind the rolling wain, | |
| His graceful head was trail’d along the plain. | 500 |
| Proud on his car th’ insulting victor stood, | |
| And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood. | |
| He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies; | |
| The sudden clouds of circling dust arise. | |
| Now lost is all that formidable air; | 505 |
| The face divine, and long-descending hair, | |
| Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand; | |
| Deform’d, dishonour’d, in his native land! | |
| Giv’n to the rage of an insulting throng! | |
| And, in his parents’ sight, now dragg’d along. | 510 |
| The mother first beheld with sad survey; | |
| She rent her tresses, venerably grey, | |
| And cast far off the regal veils away. | |
| With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans, | |
| While the sad father answers groans with groans; | 515 |
| Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o’erflow, | |
| And the whole city wears one face of woe: | |
| No less than if the rage of hostile fires, | |
| From her foundations curling to her spires, | |
| O’er the proud citadel at length should rise, | 520 |
| And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies. | |
| The wretched Monarch of the falling state, | |
| Distracted, presses to the Dardan gate: | |
| Scarce the whole people stop his desp’rate course, | |
| While strong affliction gives the feeble force: | 525 |
| Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro, | |
| In all the raging impotence of woe. | |
| At length he roll’d in dust, and thus begun, | |
| Imploring all, and naming one by one: | |
| ‘Ah! let me, let me go where sorrow calls; | 530 |
| I, only I, will issue from your walls | |
| (Guide or companion, friends! I ask ye none), | |
| And bow before the murd’rer, of my son: | |
| My grief perhaps his pity may engage; | |
| Perhaps at least he may respect my age. | 535 |
| He has a father too; a man like me; | |
| One not exempt from age and misery | |
| (Vig’rous no more, as when his young embrace | |
| Begot this pest of me, and all my race). | |
| How many valiant sons, in early bloom, | 540 |
| Has that curs’d hand sent headlong to the tomb! | |
| Thee, Hector! last; thy loss (divinely brave)! | |
| Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave. | |
| Oh had thy gentle spirit pass’d in peace, | |
| The son expiring in the sire’s embrace, | 545 |
| While both thy parents wept thy fatal hour, | |
| And, bending o’er thee, mix’d the tender shower! | |
| Some comfort that had been, some sad relief, | |
| To melt in full satiety of grief!’ | |
| Thus wail’d the father, grov’ling on the ground, | 550 |
| And all the eyes of Ilion stream’d around. | |
| Amidst her matrons Hecuba appears | |
| (A mourning Princess, and a train in tears): | |
| ‘Ah! why has Heav’n prolong’d this hated breath, | |
| Patient of horrors, to behold thy death? | 555 |
| O Hector! late thy parents’ pride and joy, | |
| The boast of nations! the defence of Troy! | |
| To whom her safety and her fame she owed, | |
| Her Chief, her hero, and almost her God! | |
| O fatal change! become in one sad day | 560 |
| A senseless corse! inanimated clay!’ | |
| But not as yet the fatal news had spread | |
| To fair Andromache, of Hector dead; | |
| As yet no messenger had told his Fate, | |
| Nor ev’n his stay without the Scæan gate. | 565 |
| Far in the close recesses of the dome | |
| Pensive she plied the melancholy loom; | |
| A growing work employ’d her secret hours, | |
| Confusedly gay with intermingled flowers. | |
| Her fair-hair’d handmaids heat the brazen urn, | 570 |
| The bath preparing for her lord’s return: | |
| In vain: alas! her lord returns no more! | |
| Unbathed he lies, and bleeds along the shore! | |
| Now from the walls the clamours reach her ear | |
| And all her members shake with sudden fear; | 575 |
| Forth from her iv’ry hand the shuttle falls, | |
| As thus, astonish’d, to her maids she calls: | |
| ‘Ah, follow me’ (she cried)! ‘what plaintive noise | |
| Invades my ear? ’T is sure my mother’s voice. | |
| My falt’ring knees their trembling frame desert, | 580 |
| A pulse unusual flutters at my heart. | |
| Some strange disaster, some reverse of fate | |
| (Ye Gods avert it!) threats the Trojan state. | |
| Far be the omen which my thoughts suggest! | |
| But much I fear my Hector’s dauntless breast | 585 |
| Confronts Achilles; chased along the plain, | |
| Shut from our walls! I fear, I fear him slain! | |
| Safe in the crowd he ever scorn’d to wait, | |
| And sought for glory in the jaws of Fate: | |
| Perhaps that noble heat has cost his breath, | 590 |
| Now quench’d for ever in the arms of death.’ | |
| She spoke; and, furious, with distracted pace, | |
| Fears in her heart, and anguish in her face, | |
| Flies thro’ the dome (the maids her step pursue), | |
| And mounts the walls, and sends around her view. | 595 |
| Too soon her eyes the killing object found, | |
| The godlike Hector dragg’d along the ground. | |
| A sudden darkness shades her swimming eyes: | |
| She faints, she falls; her breath, her colour, flies. | |
| Her hair’s fair ornaments, the braids that bound, | 600 |
| The net that held them, and the wreath that crown’d, | |
| The veil and diadem, flew far away | |
| (The gift of Venus on her bridal day). | |
| Around, a train of weeping sisters stands, | |
| To raise her sinking with assistant hands. | 605 |
| Scarce from the verge of death recall’d, again | |
| She faints, or but recovers to complain: | |
| ‘O wretched husband of a wretched wife! | |
| Born with one fate, to one unhappy life! | |
| For sure one star its baneful beam display’d | 610 |
| On Priam’s roof, and Hippoplacia’s shade. | |
| From diff’rent parents, diff’rent climes, we came, | |
| At diff’rent periods, yet our fate the same! | |
| Why was my birth to great Eëtion owed, | |
| And why was all that tender care bestow’d? | 615 |
| Would I had never been!—Oh thou, the ghost | |
| Of my dead husband! miserably lost! | |
| Thou to the dismal realms for ever gone! | |
| And I abandon’d, desolate, alone! | |
| An only child, once comfort of my pains, | 620 |
| Sad product now of hapless love, remains! | |
| No more to smile upon his sire! no friend | |
| To help him now! no father to defend! | |
| For should he ’scape the sword, the common doom, | |
| What wrongs attend him, and what griefs to come! | 625 |
| Ev’n from his own paternal roof expell’d, | |
| Some stranger ploughs his patrimonial field. | |
| The day that to the shades the father sends, | |
| Robs the sad orphan of his father’s friends: | |
| He, wretched outcast of mankind! appears | 630 |
| For ever sad, for ever bathed in tears; | |
| Amongst the happy, unregarded he | |
| Hangs on the robe or trembles at the knee; | |
| While those his father’s former bounty fed, | |
| Nor reach the goblet, nor divide the bread: | 635 |
| The kindest but his present wants allay, | |
| To leave him wretched the succeeding day. | |
| Frugal compassion! Heedless, they who boast | |
| Both parents still, nor feel what he has lost, | |
| Shall cry, Begone! thy father feasts not here: | 640 |
| The wretch obeys, retiring with a tear. | |
| Thus wretched, thus retiring all in tears, | |
| To my sad soul Astyanax appears! | |
| Forc’d by repeated insults to return, | |
| And to his widow’d mother vainly mourn. | 645 |
| He who, with tender delicacy bred, | |
| With Princes sported, and on dainties fed, | |
| And, when still ev’ning gave him up to rest, | |
| Sunk soft in down upon the nurse’s breast, | |
| Must—ah what must he not? Whom Ilion calls | 650 |
| Astyanax, from her well-guarded walls, | |
| Is now that name no more, unhappy boy! | |
| Since now no more thy father guards his Troy. | |
| But thou, my Hector! liest exposed in air, | |
| Far from thy parents’ and thy consort’s care, | 655 |
| Whose hand in vain, directed by her love, | |
| The martial scarf and robe of triumph wove. | |
| Now to devouring flames be these a prey, | |
| Useless to thee, from this accursed day! | |
| Yet let the sacrifice at least be paid, | 660 |
| An honour to the living, not the dead!’ | |
| So spake the mournful dame: her matrons hear, | |
| Sigh back her sighs, and answer tear with tear. | |
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