Complete Works of Homer

by Homer

  But sprang to meet Achilles, flashing fire,

  His keen spear brandishing; at sight of him

  Up leap'd Achilles, and exulting cried:

  "Lo, here the man who most hath wrung my soul,

  Who slew my lov'd companion: now, methinks,

  Upon the pass of war not long shall we

  Stand separate, nor each the other shun."

  Then, with stern glance, to godlike Hector thus:

  "Draw near, and quickly meet thy doom of death."

  To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm,

  Unterrified: "Achilles, think not me,

  As though a fool and ignorant of war,

  To daunt with lofty speech; I too could well

  With cutting words and insult answer thee.

  I know thee strong and valiant; and I know

  Myself to thee inferior; but th' event

  Is with the Gods; and I, if such their will,

  The weaker, with my spear may reach thy life:

  My point too hath, ere now, its sharpness prov'd."

  He said, and, poising, hurl'd his pond'rous spear,

  Which from Achilles Pallas turn'd aside

  With lightest breath; and back to Hector sent,

  And laid before his feet; intent to slay,

  Onward Achilles rush'd, with fearful shout;

  But Phoebus Hector from the field convey'd,

  (As Gods can only,) veil'd in thickest cloud.

  Thrice Peleus' godlike son, with brazen spear,

  His onset made; thrice struck the misty cloud;

  But when, with pow'r as of a God, he made

  His fourth essay, in fury thus he cried:

  "Yet once again, vile hound, hast thou escap'd;

  Thy doom was nigh, but thee thy God hath sav'd,

  Phoebus, to whom, amid the clash of spears,

  Well mayst thou pray! We yet shall meet again;

  When I shall end thee, if a guardian God

  I too may claim; meanwhile, from thee I turn,

  And others seek on whom my hap may light."

  He said, and drove through Dryops' neck his spear,

  And stretch'd him at his feet, and pass'd him by.

  Next with his spear he struck below the knee

  Philetor's son, Demuchus, stout and tall,

  And check'd his forward course; then rushing on

  Dealt with his mighty sword the mortal blow.

  The sons of Bias next, Laogonus

  And Dardanus, he hurl'd from off their car,

  One with the spear, and one by sword-stroke slain.

  Tros too he slew, Alastor's son, who came

  To meet him, and embrace his knees, and pray

  To spare his life, in pity of his youth:

  Little he knew how vain would be his pray'r;

  For not of temper soft, nor mild of mood

  Was he, but sternly fierce; and as he knelt

  And clasp'd his knees, and would his pray'r prefer,

  Achilles clove him with his mighty sword,

  Gash'd through the liver; as from out the wound

  His liver dropp'd, the dark blood gushing forth

  His bosom fill'd, and darkness clos'd his eyes,

  As ebb'd his life away. Then through the ear

  Mulius he thrust; at th' other ear came forth

  The brazen point. Echeclus next he met,

  Son of Agenor, and his hilted sword

  Full on the centre of his head let fall.

  The hot blood dy'd the blade; the darkling shades

  Of death, and rig'rous fate, his eyes o'erspread.

  Next, where the tendons bind the elbow-joint,

  The brazen spear transfix'd Deucalion's arm;

  With death in prospect, and disabled arm

  He stood, till on his neck Achilles' sword

  Descending, shar'd, and flung afar, both head

  And helmet; from the spine's dissever'd joints

  The marrow flow'd, as stretch'd in dust he lay.

  The noble son of Peireus next he slew,

  Rigmus, who came from Thracia's fertile plains;

  Him through the waist he struck, the brazen spear

  Plung'd in his bowels; from the car he fell;

  And as Areithous, his charioteer,

  His horses turn'd, Achilles through the neck

  His sharp spear thrusting, hurl'd him to the ground,

  The startled steeds in wild confusion thrown.

  As rage the fires amid the wooded glen

  Of some parch'd mountain's side, and fiercely burns

  The copse-wood dry, while eddying here and there

  The flames are whirl'd before the gusty wind;

  So fierce Achilles raged, on ev'ry side

  Pursuing, slaught'ring; reek'd the earth with blood.

  As when upon a well-roll'd threshing-floor,

  Two sturdy-fronted steers, together yok'd,

  Tread the white barley out; beneath their feet

  Fast flies the grain out-trodden from the husk;

  So by Achilles driv'n, his flying steeds

  His chariot bore, o'er bodies of the slain

  And broken bucklers trampling; all beneath

  Was plash'd with blood the axle, and the rails

  Around the car, as from the horses' feet

  And from the felloes of the wheels were thrown

  The bloody gouts; and onward still he press'd,

  Panting for added triumphs, deeply dyed

  With gore and carnage his unconquer'd hands.

  ARGUMENT.

  THE BATTLE IN THE RIVER SCAMANDER.

  The Trojans fly before Achilles, some towards the town, others to the river Scamander; he falls upon the latter with great slaughter, takes twelve captives alive, to sacrifice to the shade of Patroclus; and kills Lycaon and Asteropaeus. Scamander attacks him with all his waves; Neptune and Pallas assist the hero; Simois joins Scamander; at length Vulcan, by the instigation of Juno, almost dries up the river. This combat ended, the other gods engage each other. Meanwhile Achilles continues the slaughter, and drives the rest into Troy; Agenor only makes a stand, and is conveyed away in a cloud by Apollo: who (to delude Achilles) takes upon him Agenor's shape, and while he pursues him in that disguise, gives the Trojans an opportunity of retiring into their city.

  The same day continues. The scene is on the banks and in the stream of

  Scamander.

  BOOK XXI.

  But when they came to eddying Xanthus' ford,

  Fair-flowing stream, born of immortal Jove,

  Achilles cut in twain the flying host;

  Part driving tow'rd the city, o'er the plain,

  Where on the former day the routed Greeks,

  When Hector rag'd victorious, fled amain.

  On, terror-struck, they rush'd; but Juno spread,

  To baffle their retreat, before their path,

  Clouds and thick darkness: half the fugitives

  In the deep river's silv'ry eddies plung'd:

  With clamour loud they fell: the torrent roar'd;

  The banks around re-echoed; here and there,

  They, with the eddies wildly struggling, swam.

  As when, pursued by fire, a hov'ring swarm

  Of locusts riverward direct their flight,

  And, as th' insatiate flames advance, they cow'r

  Amid the waters; so a mingled mass

  Of men and horses, by Achilles driv'n,

  The deeply-whirling stream, of Xanthus chok'd.

  His spear amid the tamarisks on the bank

  The hero left; on savage deeds intent,

  Arm'd with his sword alone, a God in pow'r,

  He sprang amid the torrent; right and left

  He smote; then fearful rose the groans of men

  Slain with the sword; the stream ran red with blood.

  As fishes, flying from a dolphin, crowd

  The shoal recesses of some open bay,

  In fear, for whom he cat
ches he devours;

  So crouch'd the Trojans in the mighty stream

  Beneath the banks; and when at length his hand

  Wearied of slaughter, from the stream, alive,

  He dragg'd twelve youths, whose forfeit lives should be

  The bloody fine for slain Patroclus paid.

  Helpless from fear, as fawns, he brought them forth;

  Their hands secur'd behind them with the belts

  Which o'er their shirts of twisted mail they wore,

  And bade his comrades lead them to the ships.

  Then on again he dash'd, athirst for blood;

  And first encounter'd, flying from the stream,

  Lycaon, Priam's son; him once before

  He by a nightly onslaught had surpris'd,

  And from his father's vineyard captive borne:

  Where, as he cut, to form his chariot rail,

  A fig-tree's tender shoots, unlook'd-for ill

  O'ertook him in the form of Peleus' son.

  Thence in his ship to Lemnos' thriving isle

  He bore him, ransom'd there by Jason's son.

  His Imbrian host, Eetion, set him free

  With lib'ral gifts, and to Arisba sent:

  Escaping thence, he reach'd his native home.

  Twelve days save one, rejoicing, with his friends

  He spent, return'd from Lemnos: fate, the twelfth,

  Again consign'd him to Achilles' hands,

  From him, reluctant, to receive his death.

  Him when Achilles, swift of foot, beheld,

  No spear in hand, of helm and shield bereft,

  All flung in haste away, as from the stream,

  Reeking with sweat, and faint with toil, he fled,

  He commun'd, wrathful, with his mighty heart:

  "Ye Gods, what marvel do mine eyes behold!

  Methinks the valiant Trojans slain by me

  Ere long will from the realms of darkness rise;

  Since, death escaping, but to slav'ry sold

  In Lemnos' isle, this fellow hath return'd,

  Despite the hoary sea's impediment,

  Which many a man against his will hath stay'd:

  Now shall he taste my spear, that I may see

  If thence too he return, or if the earth

  May keep him safe, which e'en the strongest holds."

  Thus, as he stood, he mus'd; but all aghast

  Approach'd Lycaon; and would fain have clasp'd

  The Hero's knees; for longingly he sought

  Escape from bitter death and evil fate.

  Achilles rais'd his spear, in act to strike;

  He, stooping, ran beneath, and clasp'd his knees;

  Above his back the murd'rous weapon pass'd,

  And in the earth was fix'd: one suppliant hand

  Achilles' knees embrac'd; the other held,

  With unrelaxing grasp, the pointed spear;

  As he with winged words, imploring, spoke:

  "I clasp thy knees, Achilles! look then down

  With pity on my woes; and recognize,

  Illustrious chief, a suppliant's sacred claim:

  For in thy tent I first broke bread, that day,

  When, in my father's fruitful vineyard seiz'd,

  Thy captive I became, to slav'ry sold,

  Far from my sire and friends, in Lemnos' isle.

  A hundred oxen were my ransom then;

  At thrice so much I now would buy my life.

  This day is but the twelfth, since, sorely tried

  By lengthen'd suffering, back to Troy I came.

  Now to thy hands once more my cruel fate

  Consigns me; surely by the wrath of Jove

  Pursued, who gives me to thy pow'r again.

  Me, doom'd to early death, my mother bore,

  Old Altes' daughter, fair Laothoe;

  Altes, who rul'd the warlike Leleges,

  In lofty Pedasus, by Satnois' stream.

  His child of Priam's many wives was one;

  Two sons she bore, and both by thee must die.

  Already one, the godlike Polydore,

  Amid the foremost ranks thy spear hath slain;

  And now my doom hath found me; for from thee,

  Since evil fate hath plac'd me in thy hands,

  I may not hope to fly; yet hear but this,

  And weigh it in thy mind, to spare my life:

  I come not of that womb which Hector bore,

  Who slew thy comrade, gentle, kind, and brave."

  Thus Priam's noble son, imploring, spoke;

  But stern the answer fell upon his ear:

  "Thou fool! no more to me of ransom prate!

  Before Patroclus met the doom of death,

  To spare the Trojans still my soul inclin'd;

  And many captives, ta'en alive, I sold;

  But from henceforth, before the walls of Troy,

  Not one of all the Trojans, whom the Gods

  May to my hands deliver, least of all

  A son of Priam, shall escape the death.

  Thou too, my friend, must die: why vainly wail?

  Dead is Patroclus too, thy better far.

  Me too thou see'st, how stalwart, tall, and fair,

  Of noble sire, and Goddess-mother born:

  Yet must I yield to death and stubborn fate,

  Whene'er, at morn, or noon, or eve, the spear

  Or arrow from the bow may reach my life."

  He said; and sank Lycaon's limbs and heart;

  He loos'd the spear, and sat, with both his hands

  Uprais'd, imploring; but Achilles drew,

  And on his neck beside the collar-bone

  Let fall his trenchant sword; the two-edg'd blade

  Was buried deep; prone on the earth he lay;

  Forth gush'd the crimson blood, and dyed the ground.

  Him, dragging by the feet, Achilles threw

  In the mid stream, and thus with vaunting speech:

  "Lie there amid the fishes, who shall cleanse,

  But not with kindly thought, thy gory wounds:

  O'er thee, extended on thy bier, shall rise

  No mother's wail; Scamander's eddying stream

  Shall to the sea's broad bosom roll thee down;

  And, springing through the darkly rippling wave,

  Fishes shall rise, and banquet on thy flesh.

  On now the work of death! till, flying ye,

  And slaught'ring I, we reach the city wall.

  Nor this fair-flowing, silver-eddying stream,

  Shall aught avail ye, though to him ye pay

  In sacrifice the blood of countless bulls,

  And living horses in his waters sink.

  Ye all shall perish, till Patroclus' death

  Be fully aveng'd, and slaughter of the Greeks,

  Whom, in my absence, by the ships ye slew."

  He said: the mighty River at his words

  Indignant chaf'd, and ponder'd in his mind

  How best to check Achilles' warlike toil,

  And from destruction guard the Trojan host.

  Meantime Achilles with his pond'rous spear

  Asteropaeus, son of Pelegon,

  Assail'd with deadly purpose; Pelegon

  To broadly-flowing Axius ow'd his birth,

  The River-God commingling with the blood

  Of Periboea, daughter eldest born

  Of Acessamenus: on him he sprang;

  He, from the river rising, stood oppos'd.

  Two lances in his hand; his courage rous'd

  By Xanthus, who, indignant, saw his stream

  Polluted by the blood of slaughter'd youths,

  By fierce Achilles' hand, unpitying, slain.

  When near the warriors, each to other, came,

  Achilles, swift of foot, took up the word:

  "What man, and whence art thou, who dar'st to stand

  Oppos'd to me? of most unhappy sires

  The children they, who my encounter meet!"

  To wh
om th' illustrious son of Pelegon:

  "Great son of Peleus, why enquire my race?

  From far Paeonia's fertile fields I come,

  The leader of the long-spear'd Paeon host.

  Ten days have pass'd since I to Ilium came.

  From widely-flowing Axius my descent,

  Axius, the purest stream on earth that flows.

  He Pelegon begot, the spear-renown'd;

  Of Pelegon I boast me sprung; and now

  Address thee, brave Achilles, to the fight."

  Threat'ning he spoke: Achilles rais'd on high

  The Pelian spear; but, ambidexter, he

  From either hand at once a jav'lin launch'd.

  One struck, but pierc'd not through, the mighty shield,

  Stay'd by the golden plate, the gift of Heav'n;

  Achilles' right fore-arm the other graz'd:

  Forth gush'd the crimson blood; but, glancing by

  And vainly longing for the taste of flesh,

  The point behind him in the earth was fix'd.

  Then at Asteropaeus in his turn

  With deadly intent the son of Peleus threw

  His straight-directed spear; his mark he miss'd,

  But struck the lofty bank, where, deep infix'd

  To half its length, the Pelian ash remain'd.

  Then from beside his thigh Achilles drew

  His trenchant blade, and, furious, onward rush'd;

  While from the cliff Asteropaeus strove

  In vain, with stalwart hand, to wrench the spear.

  Three times he shook it with impetuous force,

  Three times relax'd his grasp; a fourth attempt

  He made to bend and break the sturdy shaft;

  But him, preventing, Peleus' godlike son

  With deadly stroke across the belly smote,

  And gush'd his bowels forth; upon the ground

  Gasping he lay, and darkness seal'd his eyes.

  Then on his breast Achilles sprang, and stripp'd

  His armour off, and thus with vaunting speech:

  "So lie thou there! 'tis hard for thee to fight,

  Though river-born, against the progeny

  Of mighty Jove; a widely-flowing stream

  Thou claim'st as author of thy parentage;

  My high descent from Jove himself I boast.

  My father Peleus, son of AEacus,

  Reigns o'er the num'rous race of Myrmidons;

  The son of Jove himself was AEacus.

  High o'er all rivers, that to th' ocean flow,

  Is Jove exalted; and in like degree

  Superior is his race in pow'r to theirs.

  A mighty River hast thou here at hand,

  If that might aught avail thee; but his pow'r

  Is impotent to strive with Saturn's son.

  With him, not Achelous, King of streams,

  Presumes to vie; nor e'en the mighty strength