Complete Works of Homer

by Homer

  Enough of Greeks shall dye thy spear with gore;

  But thou and Diomed be foes no more.

  Now change we arms, and prove to either host

  We guard the friendship of the line we boast."

  Thus having said, the gallant chiefs alight,

  Their hands they join, their mutual faith they plight;

  Brave Glaucus then each narrow thought resign'd,

  (Jove warm'd his bosom, and enlarged his mind,)

  For Diomed's brass arms, of mean device,

  For which nine oxen paid, (a vulgar price,)

  He gave his own, of gold divinely wrought,

  A hundred beeves the shining purchase bought.

  Meantime the guardian of the Trojan state,

  Great Hector, enter'd at the Scaean gate.

  Beneath the beech-tree's consecrated shades,

  The Trojan matrons and the Trojan maids

  Around him flock'd, all press'd with pious care

  For husbands, brothers, sons, engaged in war.

  He bids the train in long procession go,

  And seek the gods, to avert the impending woe.

  And now to Priam's stately courts he came,

  Rais'd on arch'd columns of stupendous frame;

  O'er these a range of marble structure runs,

  The rich pavilions of his fifty sons,

  In fifty chambers lodged: and rooms of state,

  Opposed to those, where Priam's daughters sate.

  Twelve domes for them and their loved spouses shone,

  Of equal beauty, and of polish'd stone.

  Hither great Hector pass'd, nor pass'd unseen

  Of royal Hecuba, his mother-queen.

  (With her Laodice, whose beauteous face

  Surpass'd the nymphs of Troy's illustrious race.)

  Long in a strict embrace she held her son,

  And press'd his hand, and tender thus begun:

  "O Hector! say, what great occasion calls

  My son from fight, when Greece surrounds our walls;

  Com'st thou to supplicate the almighty power

  With lifted hands, from Ilion's lofty tower?

  Stay, till I bring the cup with Bacchus crown'd,

  In Jove's high name, to sprinkle on the ground,

  And pay due vows to all the gods around.

  Then with a plenteous draught refresh thy soul,

  And draw new spirits from the generous bowl;

  Spent as thou art with long laborious fight,

  The brave defender of thy country's right."

  "Far hence be Bacchus' gifts; (the chief rejoin'd;)

  Inflaming wine, pernicious to mankind,

  Unnerves the limbs, and dulls the noble mind.

  Let chiefs abstain, and spare the sacred juice

  To sprinkle to the gods, its better use.

  By me that holy office were profaned;

  Ill fits it me, with human gore distain'd,

  To the pure skies these horrid hands to raise,

  Or offer heaven's great Sire polluted praise.

  You, with your matrons, go! a spotless train,

  And burn rich odours in Minerva's fane.

  The largest mantle your full wardrobes hold,

  Most prized for art, and labour'd o'er with gold,

  Before the goddess' honour'd knees be spread,

  And twelve young heifers to her altar led.

  So may the power, atoned by fervent prayer,

  Our wives, our infants, and our city spare;

  And far avert Tydides' wasteful ire,

  Who mows whole troops, and makes all Troy retire.

  Be this, O mother, your religious care:

  I go to rouse soft Paris to the war;

  If yet not lost to all the sense of shame,

  The recreant warrior hear the voice of fame.

  Oh, would kind earth the hateful wretch embrace,

  That pest of Troy, that ruin of our race!

  Deep to the dark abyss might he descend,

  Troy yet should flourish, and my sorrows end."

  This heard, she gave command: and summon'd came

  Each noble matron and illustrious dame.

  The Phrygian queen to her rich wardrobe went,

  Where treasured odours breathed a costly scent.

  There lay the vestures of no vulgar art,

  Sidonian maids embroider'd every part,

  Whom from soft Sidon youthful Paris bore,

  With Helen touching on the Tyrian shore.

  Here, as the queen revolved with careful eyes

  The various textures and the various dyes,

  She chose a veil that shone superior far,

  And glow'd refulgent as the morning star.

  Herself with this the long procession leads;

  The train majestically slow proceeds.

  Soon as to Ilion's topmost tower they come,

  And awful reach the high Palladian dome,

  Antenor's consort, fair Theano, waits

  As Pallas' priestess, and unbars the gates.

  With hands uplifted and imploring eyes,

  They fill the dome with supplicating cries.

  The priestess then the shining veil displays,

  Placed on Minerva's knees, and thus she prays:

  "Oh awful goddess! ever-dreadful maid,

  Troy's strong defence, unconquer'd Pallas, aid!

  Break thou Tydides' spear, and let him fall

  Prone on the dust before the Trojan wall!

  So twelve young heifers, guiltless of the yoke,

  Shall fill thy temple with a grateful smoke.

  But thou, atoned by penitence and prayer,

  Ourselves, our infants, and our city spare!"

  So pray'd the priestess in her holy fane;

  So vow'd the matrons, but they vow'd in vain.

  While these appear before the power with prayers,

  Hector to Paris' lofty dome repairs.

  Himself the mansion raised, from every part

  Assembling architects of matchless art.

  Near Priam's court and Hector's palace stands

  The pompous structure, and the town commands.

  A spear the hero bore of wondrous strength,

  Of full ten cubits was the lance's length,

  The steely point with golden ringlets join'd,

  Before him brandish'd, at each motion shined

  Thus entering, in the glittering rooms he found

  His brother-chief, whose useless arms lay round,

  His eyes delighting with their splendid show,

  Brightening the shield, and polishing the bow.

  Beside him Helen with her virgins stands,

  Guides their rich labours, and instructs their hands.

  Him thus inactive, with an ardent look

  The prince beheld, and high-resenting spoke.

  "Thy hate to Troy, is this the time to show?

  (O wretch ill-fated, and thy country's foe!)

  Paris and Greece against us both conspire,

  Thy close resentment, and their vengeful ire.

  For thee great Ilion's guardian heroes fall,

  Till heaps of dead alone defend her wall,

  For thee the soldier bleeds, the matron mourns,

  And wasteful war in all its fury burns.

  Ungrateful man! deserves not this thy care,

  Our troops to hearten, and our toils to share?

  Rise, or behold the conquering flames ascend,

  And all the Phrygian glories at an end."

  "Brother, 'tis just, (replied the beauteous youth,)

  Thy free remonstrance proves thy worth and truth:

  Yet charge my absence less, O generous chief!

  On hate to Troy, than conscious shame and grief:

  Here, hid from human eyes, thy brother sate,

  And mourn'd, in secret, his and Ilion's fate.

  'Tis now enough; now glory spreads her charms,

  And beauteous Helen calls h
er chief to arms.

  Conquest to-day my happier sword may bless,

  'Tis man's to fight, but heaven's to give success.

  But while I arm, contain thy ardent mind;

  Or go, and Paris shall not lag behind."

  HECTOR CHIDING PARIS.

  He said, nor answer'd Priam's warlike son;

  When Helen thus with lowly grace begun:

  "Oh, generous brother! (if the guilty dame

  That caused these woes deserve a sister's name!)

  Would heaven, ere all these dreadful deeds were done,

  The day that show'd me to the golden sun

  Had seen my death! why did not whirlwinds bear

  The fatal infant to the fowls of air?

  Why sunk I not beneath the whelming tide,

  And midst the roarings of the waters died?

  Heaven fill'd up all my ills, and I accursed

  Bore all, and Paris of those ills the worst.

  Helen at least a braver spouse might claim,

  Warm'd with some virtue, some regard of fame!

  Now tired with toils, thy fainting limbs recline,

  With toils, sustain'd for Paris' sake and mine

  The gods have link'd our miserable doom,

  Our present woe, and infamy to come:

  Wide shall it spread, and last through ages long,

  Example sad! and theme of future song."

  The chief replied: "This time forbids to rest;

  The Trojan bands, by hostile fury press'd,

  Demand their Hector, and his arm require;

  The combat urges, and my soul's on fire.

  Urge thou thy knight to march where glory calls,

  And timely join me, ere I leave the walls.

  Ere yet I mingle in the direful fray,

  My wife, my infant, claim a moment's stay;

  This day (perhaps the last that sees me here)

  Demands a parting word, a tender tear:

  This day, some god who hates our Trojan land

  May vanquish Hector by a Grecian hand."

  He said, and pass'd with sad presaging heart

  To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part;

  At home he sought her, but he sought in vain;

  She, with one maid of all her menial train,

  Had hence retired; and with her second joy,

  The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy,

  Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height,

  Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight;

  There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore,

  Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.

  But he who found not whom his soul desired,

  Whose virtue charm'd him as her beauty fired,

  Stood in the gates, and ask'd "what way she bent

  Her parting step? If to the fane she went,

  Where late the mourning matrons made resort;

  Or sought her sisters in the Trojan court?"

  "Not to the court, (replied the attendant train,)

  Nor mix'd with matrons to Minerva's fane:

  To Ilion's steepy tower she bent her way,

  To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day.

  Troy fled, she heard, before the Grecian sword;

  She heard, and trembled for her absent lord:

  Distracted with surprise, she seem'd to fly,

  Fear on her cheek, and sorrow m her eye.

  The nurse attended with her infant boy,

  The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy."

  Hector this heard, return'd without delay;

  Swift through the town he trod his former way,

  Through streets of palaces, and walks of state;

  And met the mourner at the Scaean gate.

  With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair.

  His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir:

  (Cilician Thebe great Aetion sway'd,

  And Hippoplacus' wide extended shade:)

  The nurse stood near, in whose embraces press'd,

  His only hope hung smiling at her breast,

  Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,

  Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.

  To this loved infant Hector gave the name

  Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream;

  Astyanax the Trojans call'd the boy,

  From his great father, the defence of Troy.

  Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resign'd

  To tender passions all his mighty mind;

  His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,

  Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;

  Her bosom laboured with a boding sigh,

  And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

  THE MEETING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

  "Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run?

  Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son!

  And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,

  A widow I, a helpless orphan he?

  For sure such courage length of life denies,

  And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.

  Greece in her single heroes strove in vain;

  Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain.

  O grant me, gods, ere Hector meets his doom,

  All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!

  So shall my days in one sad tenor run,

  And end with sorrows as they first begun.

  No parent now remains my griefs to share,

  No father's aid, no mother's tender care.

  The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,

  Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire!

  His fate compassion in the victor bred;

  Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead,

  His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil,

  And laid him decent on the funeral pile;

  Then raised a mountain where his bones were burn'd,

  The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorn'd,

  Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow

  A barren shade, and in his honour grow.

  "By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell;

  In one sad day beheld the gates of hell;

  While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed,

  Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled!

  My mother lived to wear the victor's bands,

  The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands:

  Redeem'd too late, she scarce beheld again

  Her pleasing empire and her native plain,

  When ah! oppress'd by life-consuming woe,

  She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

  "Yet while my Hector still survives, I see

  My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee:

  Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all

  Once more will perish, if my Hector fall,

  Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share:

  Oh, prove a husband's and a father's care!

  That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy,

  Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy;

  Thou, from this tower defend the important post;

  There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,

  That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,

  And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.

  Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given,

  Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven.

  Let others in the field their arms employ,

  But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."

  The chief replied: "That post shall be my care,

  Not that alone, but all the works of war.

  How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd,

  And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground

  Attaint the lustre of my former name,

  Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?

  My early youth was bred to martial pains,

  My soul impels
me to the embattled plains!

  Let me be foremost to defend the throne,

  And guard my father's glories, and my own.

  "Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates!

  (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!)

  The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,

  And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.

  And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,

  My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,

  Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore,

  Not all my brothers gasping on the shore;

  As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread:

  I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!

  In Argive looms our battles to design,

  And woes, of which so large a part was thine!

  To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring

  The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.

  There while you groan beneath the load of life,

  They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife!'

  Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,

  Imbitters all thy woes, by naming me.

  The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,

  A thousand griefs shall waken at the name!

  May I lie cold before that dreadful day,

  Press'd with a load of monumental clay!

  Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep,

  Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."

  Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy

  Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.

  The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,

  Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest.

  With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled,

  And Hector hasted to relieve his child,

  The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,

  And placed the beaming helmet on the ground;

  Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air,

  Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer:

  "O thou! whose glory fills the ethereal throne,

  And all ye deathless powers! protect my son!

  Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,

  To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown,

  Against his country's foes the war to wage,

  And rise the Hector of the future age!

  So when triumphant from successful toils

  Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,

  Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,

  And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame:'

  While pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy,

  His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."

  He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms,

  Restored the pleasing burden to her arms;