Complete Works of Homer

by Homer

  Requite thee on that day, when pierced thyself

  By Paris and Apollo, thou shalt fall,

  Brave as thou art, before the Scæan gate.

  He ceased, and death involved him dark around.

  His spirit, from his limbs dismiss'd, the house

  Of Ades sought, mourning in her descent

  Youth's prime and vigor lost, disastrous doom!

  But him though dead, Achilles thus bespake.

  Die thou. My death shall find me at what hour

  Jove gives commandment, and the Gods above.

  He spake, and from the dead drawing away

  His brazen spear, placed it apart, then stripp'd

  His arms gore-stain'd. Meantime the other sons

  Of the Achaians, gathering fast around,

  The bulk admired, and the proportion just

  Of Hector; neither stood a Grecian there

  Who pierced him not, and thus the soldier spake.

  Ye Gods! how far more patient of the touch

  Is Hector now, than when he fired the fleet!

  Thus would they speak, then give him each a stab.

  And now, the body stripp'd, their noble Chief

  The swift Achilles standing in the midst,

  The Grecians in wing'd accents thus address'd.

  Friends, Chiefs and Senators of Argos' host!

  Since, by the will of heaven, this man is slain

  Who harm'd us more than all our foes beside,

  Essay we next the city, so to learn

  The Trojan purpose, whether (Hector slain)

  They will forsake the citadel, or still

  Defend it, even though of him deprived.

  But wherefore speak I thus? still undeplored,

  Unburied in my fleet Patroclus lies;

  Him never, while alive myself, I mix

  With living men and move, will I forget.

  In Ades, haply, they forget the dead,

  Yet will not I Patroclus, even there.

  Now chanting pæans, ye Achaian youths!

  Return we to the fleet with this our prize;

  We have achieved great glory, we have slain

  Illustrious Hector, him whom Ilium praised

  In all her gates, and as a God revered.

  He said; then purposing dishonor foul

  To noble Hector, both his feet he bored

  From heel to ancle, and, inserting thongs,

  Them tied behind his chariot, but his head

  Left unsustain'd to trail along the ground.

  Ascending next, the armor at his side

  He placed, then lash'd the steeds; they willing flew

  Thick dust around the body dragg'd arose,

  His sable locks all swept the plain, and all

  His head, so graceful once, now track'd the dust,

  For Jove had given it into hostile hands

  That they might shame it in his native soil.

  Thus, whelm'd in dust, it went. The mother Queen

  Her son beholding, pluck'd her hair away,

  Cast far aside her lucid veil, and fill'd

  With shrieks the air. His father wept aloud,

  And, all around, long, long complaints were heard

  And lamentations in the streets of Troy,

  Not fewer or less piercing, than if flames

  Had wrapt all Ilium to her topmost towers.

  His people scarce detain'd the ancient King

  Grief-stung, and resolute to issue forth

  Through the Dardanian gates; to all he kneel'd

  In turn, then roll'd himself in dust, and each

  By name solicited to give him way.

  Stand off, my fellow mourners! I would pass

  The gates, would seek, alone, the Grecian fleet.

  I go to supplicate the bloody man,

  Yon ravager; he may respect, perchance,

  My years, may feel some pity of my age;

  For, such as I am, his own father is,

  Peleus, who rear'd him for a curse to Troy,

  But chiefly rear'd him to myself a curse,

  So numerous have my sons in prime of youth

  Fall'n by his hand, all whom I less deplore

  (Though mourning all) than one; my agonies

  For Hector soon shall send me to the shades.

  Oh had he but within these arms expired,

  The hapless Queen who bore him, and myself

  Had wept him, then, till sorrow could no more!

  So spake he weeping, and the citizens

  All sigh'd around; next, Hecuba began

  Amid the women, thus, her sad complaint.

  Ah wherefore, oh my son! wretch that I am,

  Breathe I forlorn of thee? Thou, night and day,

  My glory wast in Ilium, thee her sons

  And daughters, both, hail'd as their guardian God,

  Conscious of benefits from thee received,

  Whose life prolong'd should have advanced them all

  To high renown. Vain boast! thou art no more.

  So mourn'd the Queen. But fair Andromache

  Nought yet had heard, nor knew by sure report

  Hector's delay without the city gates.

  She in a closet of her palace sat,

  A twofold web weaving magnificent,

  With sprinkled flowers inwrought of various hues,

  And to her maidens had commandment given

  Through all her house, that compassing with fire

  An ample tripod, they should warm a bath

  For noble Hector from the fight return'd.

  Tenderness ill-inform'd! she little knew

  That in the field, from such refreshments far,

  Pallas had slain him by Achilles' hand.

  She heard a cry of sorrow from the tower;

  Her limbs shook under her, her shuttle fell,

  And to her bright-hair'd train, alarm'd, she cried.

  Attend me two of you, that I may learn

  What hath befallen. I have heard the voice

  Of the Queen-mother; my rebounding heart

  Chokes me, and I seem fetter'd by a frost.

  Some mischief sure o'er Priam's sons impends.

  Far be such tidings from me! but I fear

  Horribly, lest Achilles, cutting off

  My dauntless Hector from the gates alone,

  Enforce him to the field, and quell perhaps

  The might, this moment, of that dreadful arm

  His hinderance long; for Hector ne'er was wont

  To seek his safety in the ranks, but flew

  First into battle, yielding place to none.

  So saying, she rush'd with palpitating heart

  And frantic air abroad, by her two maids

  Attended; soon arriving at the tower,

  And at the throng of men, awhile she stood

  Down-looking wistful from the city-wall,

  And, seeing him in front of Ilium, dragg'd

  So cruelly toward the fleet of Greece,

  O'erwhelm'd with sudden darkness at the view

  Fell backward, with a sigh heard all around.

  Far distant flew dispersed her head-attire,

  Twist, frontlet, diadem, and even the veil

  By golden Venus given her on the day

  When Hector led her from Eëtion's house

  Enrich'd with nuptial presents to his home.

  Around her throng'd her sisters of the house

  Of Priam, numerous, who within their arms

  Fast held her loathing life; but she, her breath

  At length and sense recovering, her complaint

  Broken with sighs amid them thus began.

  Hector! I am undone; we both were born

  To misery, thou in Priam's house in Troy,

  And I in Hypoplacian Thebes wood-crown'd

  Beneath Eëtion's roof. He, doom'd himself

  To sorrow, me more sorrowfully doom'd,

  Sustain'd in helpless infancy, whom oh

&nb
sp; That he had ne'er begotten! thou descend'st

  To Pluto's subterraneous dwelling drear,

  Leaving myself destitute, and thy boy,

  Fruit of our hapless loves, an infant yet,

  Never to be hereafter thy delight,

  Nor love of thine to share or kindness more.

  For should he safe survive this cruel war,

  With the Achaians penury and toil

  Must be his lot, since strangers will remove

  At will his landmarks, and possess his fields.

  Thee lost, he loses all, of father, both,

  And equal playmate in one day deprived,

  To sad looks doom'd, and never-ceasing-tears.

  He seeks, necessitous his father's friends,

  One by his mantle pulls, one by his vest,

  Whose utmost pity yields to his parch'd lips

  A thirst-provoking drop, and grudges more;

  Some happier child, as yet untaught to mourn

  A parent's loss, shoves rudely from the board

  My son, and, smiting him, reproachful cries —

  Away — thy father is no guest of ours —

  Then, weeping, to his widow'd mother comes

  Astyanax, who on his father's lap

  Ate marrow only, once, and fat of lambs,

  And when sleep took him, and his crying fit

  Had ceased, slept ever on the softest bed,

  Warm in his nurse's arms, fed to his fill

  With delicacies, and his heart at rest.

  But now, Astyanax (so named in Troy

  For thy sake, guardian of her gates and towers)

  His father lost, must many a pang endure.

  And as for thee, cast naked forth among

  Yon galleys, where no parent's eye of thine

  Shall find thee, when the dogs have torn thee once

  Till they are sated, worms shall eat thee next.

  Meantime, thy graceful raiment rich, prepared

  By our own maidens, in thy palace lies;

  But I will burn it, burn it all, because

  Useless to thee, who never, so adorn'd,

  Shalt slumber more; yet every eye in Troy

  Shall see, how glorious once was thy attire.

  So, weeping, she; to whom the multitude

  Of Trojan dames responsive sigh'd around.

  * * *

  BOOK XXIII.

  * * *

  ARGUMENT OF THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK.

  The body of Patroclus is burned, and the funeral games ensue.

  * * *

  BOOK XXIII.

  Such mourning was in Troy; meantime the Greeks

  Their galleys and the shores of Hellespont

  Regaining, each to his own ship retired.

  But not the Myrmidons; Achilles them

  Close rank'd in martial order still detain'd,

  And thus his fellow-warriors brave address'd.

  Ye swift-horsed Myrmidons, associates dear!

  Release not from your chariots yet your steeds

  Firm-hoof'd, but steeds and chariots driving near,

  Bewail Patroclus, as the rites demand

  Of burial; then, satiate with grief and tears,

  We will release our steeds, and take repast.

  He ended, and, himself leading the way,

  His numerous band all mourn'd at once the dead.

  Around the body thrice their glossy steeds,

  Mourning they drove, while Thetis in their hearts

  The thirst of sorrow kindled; they with tears

  The sands bedew'd, with tears their radiant arms,

  Such deep regret of one so brave they felt.

  Then, placing on the bosom of his friend

  His homicidal hands, Achilles thus

  The shade of his Patroclus, sad, bespake.

  Hail, oh Patroclus, even in Ades hail!

  For I will now accomplish to the full

  My promise pledged to thee, that I would give

  Hector dragg'd hither to be torn by dogs

  Piecemeal, and would before thy funeral pile

  The necks dissever of twelve Trojan youths

  Of noblest rank, resentful of thy death.

  He said, and meditating foul disgrace

  To noble Hector, stretch'd him prone in dust

  Beside the bier of Menœtiades.

  Then all the Myrmidons their radiant arms

  Put off, and their shrill-neighing steeds released.

  A numerous band beside the bark they sat

  Of swift Æacides, who furnish'd forth

  Himself a feast funereal for them all.

  Many a white ox under the ruthless steel

  Lay bleeding, many a sheep and blatant goat,

  With many a saginated boar bright-tusk'd,

  Amid fierce flames Vulcanian stretch'd to roast.

  Copious the blood ran all around the dead.

  And now the Kings of Greece conducted thence

  To Agamemnon's tent the royal son

  Of Peleus, loth to go, and won at last

  With difficulty, such his anger was

  And deep resentment of his slaughter'd friend.

  Soon then as Agamemnon's tent they reach'd,

  The sovereign bade his heralds kindle fire

  Around an ample vase, with purpose kind

  Moving Achilles from his limbs to cleanse

  The stains of battle; but he firm refused

  That suit, and bound refusal with an oath —

  No; by the highest and the best of all,

  By Jove I will not. Never may it be

  That brazen bath approach this head of mine,

  Till I shall first Patroclus' body give

  To his last fires, till I shall pile his tomb,

  And sheer my locks in honor of my friend;

  For, like to this, no second wo shall e'er

  My heart invade, while vital breath I draw.

  But, all unwelcome as it is, repast

  Now calls us. Agamemnon, King of men!

  Give thou command that at the dawn they bring

  Wood hither, such large portion as beseems

  The dead, descending to the shades, to share,

  That hungry flames consuming out of sight

  His body soon, the host may war again.

  He spake; they, hearing, readily obey'd.

  Then, each his food preparing with dispatch,

  They ate, nor wanted any of the guests

  Due portion, and their appetites sufficed

  To food and wine, all to their tents repair'd

  Seeking repose; but on the sands beside

  The billowy deep Achilles groaning lay

  Amidst his Myrmidons, where space he found

  With blood unstain'd beside the dashing wave.

  There, soon as sleep, deliverer of the mind,

  Wrapp'd him around (for much his noble limbs

  With chase of Hector round the battlements

  Of wind-swept Ilium wearied were and spent)

  The soul came to him of his hapless friend,

  In bulk resembling, in expressive eyes

  And voice Patroclus, and so clad as he.

  Him, hovering o'er his head, the form address'd.

  Sleep'st thou, Achilles! of thy friend become

  Heedless? Him living thou didst not neglect

  Whom thou neglectest dead. Give me a tomb

  Instant, that I may pass the infernal gates.

  For now, the shades and spirits of the dead

  Drive me afar, denying me my wish

  To mingle with them on the farthest shore,

  And in wide-portal'd Ades sole I roam.

  Give me thine hand, I pray thee, for the earth

  I visit never more, once burnt with fire;

  We never shall again close council hold

  As we were wont, for me my fate severe,

  Mine even from my birth, hath deep absorb'd.

  And oh Achilles, semblance of the
Gods!

  Thou too predestined art beneath the wall

  To perish of the high-born Trojan race.

  But hear my last injunction! ah, my friend!

  My bones sepulchre not from thine apart,

  But as, together we were nourish'd both

  Beneath thy roof (what time from Opoëis

  Menœtius led me to thy father's house,

  Although a child, yet fugitive for blood,

  Which, in a quarrel at the dice, I spilt,

  Killing my playmate by a casual blow,

  The offspring of Amphidamas, when, like

  A father, Peleus with all tenderness

  Received and cherish'd me, and call'd me thine)

  So, let one vase inclose, at last, our bones,

  The golden vase, thy Goddess mother's gift.

  To whom Achilles, matchless in the race.

  Ah, loved and honor'd! wherefore hast thou come!

  Why thus enjoin'd me? I will all perform

  With diligence that thou hast now desired.

  But nearer stand, that we may mutual clasp

  Each other, though but with a short embrace,

  And sad satiety of grief enjoy.

  He said, and stretch'd his arms toward the shade,

  But him seized not; shrill-clamoring and light

  As smoke, the spirit pass'd into the earth.

  Amazed, upsprang Achilles, clash'd aloud

  His palms together, and thus, sad, exclaim'd.

  Ah then, ye Gods! there doubtless are below

  The soul and semblance both, but empty forms;

  For all night long, mourning, disconsolate,

  The soul of my Patroclus, hapless friend!

  Hath hover'd o'er me, giving me in charge

  His last requests, just image of himself.

  So saying, he call'd anew their sorrow forth,

  And rosy-palm'd Aurora found them all

  Mourning afresh the pitiable dead.

  Then royal Agamemnon call'd abroad

  Mules and mule-drivers from the tents in haste

  To gather wood. Uprose a valiant man,

  Friend of the virtuous Chief Idomeneus,

  Meriones, who led them to the task.

  They, bearing each in hand his sharpen'd axe

  And twisted cord, thence journey'd forth, the mules

  Driving before them; much uneven space

  They measured, hill and dale, right onward now,

  And now circuitous; but at the groves

  Arrived at length, of Ida fountain-fed,

  Their keen-edged axes to the towering oaks

  Dispatchful they applied; down fell the trees

  With crash sonorous. Splitting, next, the trunks,

  They bound them on the mules; they, with firm hoofs

  The hill-side stamping, through the thickets rush'd