Robert Barnabas Brough (1828–1860)

CHRISTIANS were on the earth ere Christ was born;

His laws, not yet a code, were follow’d still

By sightless Pagans in the dark forlorn,

Groping toward the light, as blind men will:

Thousands of years ago men dared to die

Loving their enemies—and wonder’d why!

Who that has read in Homer’s truthful page

Of brave Achilles brooding o’er the corse

Of Hector sacrificed—less to his rage

Than iron custom’s law, without remorse

Claiming revenge for mild Patroclus slain—

Can doubt he wish’d great Hector lived again?

Full half the tears he shed were Hector’s due,

Whose noble soul he had to Hades sent.

Why—was Patroclus gainer, if they knew?

Methinks I see Achilles in his tent

Beating his breast and twitching at his hair,

Wanting a few words only—the Lord’s Prayer!

And more for his than Priam’s sake I feel

Rejoiced when I am told the good old man

Comes with his simple fatherly appeal

For Hector’s body—pointing out a plan

Of kindliness, atonement, and of peace,

That in Achilles’ breast hate’s strife may cease.

What joy he must have felt to see a way

To turn him from revenge’s irksome path;

Like a worn seaman who descries the day

After a night-watch ’mid the tempest’s wrath.

Methinks I see him in his huge arms bear

Great Hector’s body, with admiring care,

And, chuckling to evade the sentries dull,

Convey it thro’ the sleeping camp with glee,

With sense of lightness, new and wonderful,

To grateful Priam’s car. ‘What can it be,’

—I hear him ask—‘thus makes my bosom glow,

Showing such weakness to a fallen foe?’