Of his brave foe, where life’s strings close about the solid heart,
Impressing a recureless wound; his knees then left their part,
And let him fall; when like an oak, a poplar, or a pine,
New fell’d by arts-men on the hills, he stretch’d his form divine
Before his horse and chariot. And as a lion leaps
Upon a goodly yellow bull, drives all the herd in heaps,
And, under his unconquer’d jaws, the brave beast sighing dies;
So sigh’d Sarpedon underneath this prince of enemies,
Call’d Glaucus to him, his dear friend, and said: “Now, friend, thy hands
Much duty owe to fight and arms; now for my love it stands
Thy heart in much hand to approve that war is harmful; now
How active all thy forces are, this one hour’s act must show.
First call our Lycian captains up, look round, and bring up all,
And all exhort to stand, like friends, about Sarpedon’s fall,
And spend thyself thy steel for me; for be assur’d no day
Of all thy life, to thy last hour, can clear thy black dismay
In woe and infamy for me, if I be taken hence
Spoil’d of mine arms, and thy renown despoil’d of my defence.
Stand firm then, and confirm thy men.” This said, the bounds of death
Concluded all sight to his eyes, and to his nosthrils breath.
Patroclus, though his guard was strong, forc’d way through ev’ry doubt,
Climb’d his high bosom with his foot, and pluck’d his jav’lin out,
And with it drew the film and strings of his yet panting heart;
And last, together with the pile, his princely soul did part.
His horse, spoil’d both of guide and king, thick snoring and amaz’d,
And apt to flight, the Myrmidons made nimbly to, and seiz’d.
Glaucus, to hear his friend ask aid, of him past all the rest,
Though well he knew his wound uncur’d, confusion fill’d his breast
Not to have good in any pow’r, and yet so much good will.
And (laying his hand upon his wound, that pain’d him sharply still,
And was by Teucer’s hand set on from their assail’d steep wall,
In keeping hurt from other men) he did on Phœbus call,
The God of med’cines, for his cure: “Thou King of cures,” said he,
“That art perhaps in Lycia with her rich progeny,
Or here in Troy; but any where, since thou hast pow’r to hear,
O give a hurt and woeful man, as I am now, thine ear.
This arm sustains a cruel wound, whose pains shoot ev’ry way,
Afflict this shoulder, and this hand, and nothing long can stay
A flux of blood still issuing; nor therefore can I stand
With any enemy in fight, nor hardly make my hand
Support my lance; and here lies dead the worthiest of men,
Sarpedon, worthy son to Jove, whose pow’r could yet abstain
From all aid in this deadly need; give thou then aid to me,
O King of all aid to men hurt; assuage th’ extremity
Of this arm’s anguish, give it strength, that by my precedent
I may excite my men to blows, and this dead corse prevent
Of further violence.” He pray’d, and kind Apollo heard,
Allay’d his anguish, and his wound of all the black blood clear’d
That vex’d it so, infus’d fresh pow’rs into his weaken’d mind;
And all his spirits flow’d with joy that Phœbus stood inclin’d,
In such quick bounty, to his pray’rs. Then, as Sarpedon will’d,
He cast about his greedy eye; and first of all instill’d
To all his captains all the stings, that could inflame their fight
For good Sarpedon. And from them, he stretch’d his speedy pace
T’ Agenor, Hector, Venus’ son, and wise Polydamas;
And (only naming Hector) said: “Hector, you now forget
Your poor auxiliary friends, that in your toils have swet
Their friendless souls out far from home. Sarpedon, that sustain’d
With justice, and his virtues all, broad Lycia, hath not gain’d
The like guard for his person here; for yonder dead he lies
Beneath the great Patroclus’ lance. But come, let your supplies,
Good friends, stand near him. O disdain to see his corse defil’d
With Grecian fury; and his arms, by their oppressions spoil’d.
These Myrmidons are come enrag’d, that such a mighty boot
Of Greeks Troy’s darts have made at fleet.” This said, from head to foot
Grief strook their pow’rs past patience, and not to be restrain’d,
To hear news of Sarpedon’s death; who, though he appertain’d
To other cities, yet to theirs he was the very fort,
And led a mighty people there, of all whose better sort
Himself was best. This made them run in flames upon the foe;
The first man Hector, to whose heart Sarpedon’s death did go.
Patroclus stirr’d the Grecian spirits; and first th’ Ajaces, thus:
“Now, brothers, be it dear to you, to fight and succour us,
As ever heretofore ye did, with men first excellent.
The man lies slain that first did scale, and raze the battlement
That crown’d our wall, the Lycian prince. But if we now shall add
Force to his corse, and spoil his arms, a prise may more be had
Of many great ones, that for him will put on to the death.”
To this work these were prompt enough; and each side ordereth
Those phalanxes that most had rate of resolutions;
The Trojans and the Lycian pow’rs; the Greeks and Myrmidons.
These ran together for the corse, and clos’d with horrid cries,
Their armours thund’ring with the claps laid on about the prise.
And Jove, about th’ impetuous broil, pernicious night pour’d out,
As long as for his lovéd son, pernicious Labour fought.
The first of Troy the first Greeks foil’d; when, not the last indeed
Amongst the Myrmidons, was slain, the great Agacleus’ seed,
Divine Epigeus, that before had exercis’d command
In fair Budeiüs; but because he laid a bloody hand
On his own sister’s valiant son, to Peleus and his queen
He came for pardon, and obtain’d; his slaughter being the mean
He came to Troy, and so to this. He ventur’d ev’n to touch
The princely carcass; when a stone did more to him by much,
Sent out of able Hector’s hand; it cut his skull in twain,
And strook him dead. Patroclus, griev’d to see his friend so slain,
Before the foremost thrust himself. And as a falcon frays
A flock of stares or caddesses; such fear brought his assays
Amongst the Trojans and their friends; and, angry at the heart,
As well as griev’d, for him so slain, another stony dart
As good as Hector’s he let fly, that dusted in the neck
Of Sthenelaus, thrust his head to earth first, and did break
The nerves in sunder with his fall; off fell the Trojans too,
Ev’n Hector’s self, and all as far as any man can throw
(Provok’d for games, or in the wars to shed an enemy’s soul)
A light long dart. The first that turn’d, was he that did control
The targeteers of Lycia, prince Glaucus; who to hell
Sent Bathyclæus, Chalcon’s son; he did in Hellas dwell,
And shin’d for wealth and happiness amongst the Myrmidons;
His bosom’s midst the jav’lin strook, his fall gat earth with groans.
The Greeks griev’d, and the Trojans joy’d, for so renown’d a man
;
About whom stood the Grecians firm. And then the death began
On Troy’s side by Meriones; he slew one great in war,
Laogonus, Onetor’s son, the priest of Jupiter,
Created in th’ Idæan hill. Betwixt his jaw and ear
The dart stuck fast, and loos’d his soul; sad mists of hate and fear
Invading him. Anchises’ son despatch’d a brazen lance
At bold Meriones; and hop’d to make an equal chance
On him with bold Laogonus, though under his broad shield
He lay so close. But he discern’d, and made his body yield
So low, that over him it flew, and trembling took the ground,
With which Mars made it quench his thirst; and since the head could wound
No better body, and yet thrown from ne’er the worse a hand,
It turn’d from earth, and look’d awry. Æneas let it stand,
Much angry at the vain event, and told Meriones
He scap’d but hardly, nor had cause to hope for such success
Another time, though well he knew his dancing faculty,
By whose agility he scap’d; for, had his dart gone by
With any least touch, instantly he had been ever slain.
He answer’d: “Though thy strength be good, it cannot render vain
The strength of others with thy jests; nor art thou so divine,
But when my lance shall touch at thee, with equal speed to thine,
Death will share with it thy life’s pow’rs; thy confidence can shun
No more than mine what his right claims.” Menœtius’ noble son
Rebuk’d Meriones, and said: “What need’st thou use this speech?
Nor thy strength is approv’d with words, good friend, nor can we reach
The body, nor make th’ enemy yield, with these our counterbraves.
We must enforce the binding earth, to hold them in her graves.
If you will war, fight. Will you speak? Give counsel Counsel, blows,
Are th’ ends of wars and words. Talk here, the time in vain bestows.”
He said, and led; and, nothing less for any thing he said,
(His speech being season’d with such right) the worthy seconded.
And then, as in a sounding vale, near neighbour to a hill,
Wood-fellers make a far-heard noise, with chopping, chopping still,
And laying on, on blocks and trees; so they on men laid load,
And beat like noises into air, both as they strook and trode.
But, past their noise, so full of blood, of dust, of darts, lay smit
Divine Sarpedon, that a man must have an excellent wit
That could but know him, and might fail, so from his utmost head,
Ev’n to the low plants of his feet, his form was alteréd.
All thrusting near it ev’ry way, as thick as flies in spring,
That in a sheep-cote, when new milk assembles them, make wing,
And buzz about the top-full pails. Nor ever was the eye
Of Jove averted from the fight; he view’d, thought, ceaselessly
And diversly upon the death of great Achilles’ friend,
If Hector there, to wreak his son, should with his jav’lin end
His life, and force away his arms, or still augment the field;
He then concluded that the flight of much more soul should yield
Achilles’ good friend more renown, and that ev’n to their gates
He should drive Hector and his host; and so disanimates
The mind of Hector that he mounts his chariot, and takes Flight
Up with him, tempting all to her; affirming his insight
Knew evidently that the beam of Jove’s all-ord’ring scoles
Was then in sinking on their side, surcharg’d with flocks of souls.
Then not the noble Lycians stay’d, but left their slaughter’d lord
Amongst the corses’ common heap; for many more were pour’d
About and on him, while Jove’s hand held out the bitter broil.
And now they spoil’d Sarpedon’s arms, and to the ships the spoil
Was sent by Menœtiades. Then Jove thus charg’d the Sun:
“Haste, honour’d Phœbus, let no more Greek violence be done
To my Sarpedon; but his corse of all the sable blood
And jav’lins purg’d; then carry him, far hence to some clear flood,
With whose waves wash, and then embalm each thorough-cleanséd limb
With our ambrosia; which perform’d, divine weeds put on him,
And then to those swift mates and twins, sweet Sleep and Death, commit
His princely person, that with speed they both may carry it
To wealthy Lycia; where his friends and brothers will embrace,
And tomb it in some monument, as fits a prince’s place.”
Then flew Apollo to the fight, from the Idalian hill,
At all parts putting into act his great Commander’s will;
Drew all the darts, wash’d, balm’d the corse; which, deck’d with ornament,
By Sleep and Death, those feather’d twins, he into Lycia sent.
Patroclus then Automedon commands to give his steeds
Large reins, and all way to the chace; so madly he exceeds
The strict commission of his friend; which had he kept had kept
A black death from him. But Jove’s mind hath evermore outstept
The mind of man; who both affrights, and takes the victory
From any hardiest hand with ease; which he can justify,
Though he himself commands him fight, as now he put this chace
In Menœtiades’s mind. How much then weighs the grace,
Patroclus, that Jove gives thee now, in scoles put with thy death,
Of all these great and famous men the honourable breath!
Of which Adrestus first he slew, and next Autonous,
Epistora, and Perimus, Pylartes, Elasus,
Swift Menalippus, Molius; all these were overthrown
By him, and all else put in rout; and then proud Ilion
Had stoop’d beneath his glorious hand, he rag’d so with his lance,
If Phœbus had not kept the tow’r, and help’d the Ilians,
Sustaining ill thoughts ‘gainst the prince. Thrice to the prominence
Of Troy’s steep wall he bravely leap’d; thrice Phœbus thrust him thence,
Objecting his all-dazzling shield, with his resistless hand;
But fourthly, when, like one of heav’n, he would have stirr’d his stand,
Apollo threaten’d him, and said: “Cease, it exceeds thy fate,
Forward, Patroclus, to expugn with thy bold lance this state;
Nor under great Achilles’ pow’rs, to thine superior far,
Lies Troy’s grave ruin.” When he spake, Patroclus left that war,
Leap’d far back, and his anger shunn’d. Hector detain’d his horse
Within the Scæan port, in doubt to put his personal force
Amongst the rout, and turn their heads, or shun in Troy the storm.
Apollo, seeing his suspense, resum’d the goodly form
Of Hector’s uncle, Asius; the Phrygian Dymas’ son,
Who near the deep Sangarius had habitation,
Being brother to the Trojan queen. His shape Apollo took,
And ask’d of Hector, why his spirit so clear the fight forsook?
Affirming ’twas unfit for him, and wish’d his forces were
As much above his, as they mov’d in an inferior sphere.
He should, with shame to him, be gone; and so bade drive away
Against Patroclus, to approve, if He that gave them day
Would give the glory of his death to his preferréd lance.
So left he him, and to the fight did his bright head advance,
Mix’d with the multitude, and stirr’d foul tumult for the foe.
Then Hector bade Cebriones
put on; himself let go
All other Greeks within his reach, and only gave command
To front Patroclus. He at him; jump’d down; his strong left hand
A jav’lin held, his right a stone, a marble sharp and such
As his large hand had pow’r to gripe, and gave it strength as much
As he could lie to; nor stood long, in fear of that huge man
That made against him, but full on with his huge stone he ran,
Discharg’d, and drave it ‘twixt the brows of bold Cebriones.
Nor could the thick bone there prepar’d extenuate so th’ access,
But out it drave his broken eyes, which in the dust fell down,
And he div’d after; which conceit of diving took the son
Of old Menœtius, who thus play’d upon the other’s bane.
“O heav’ns! For truth, this Trojan was a passing active man!
With what exceeding ease he dives, as if at work he were
Within the fishy seas! This man alone would furnish cheer
For twenty men, though ‘twere a storm, to leap out of a sail,
And gather oysters for them all, he does it here as well,
And there are many such in Troy.” Thus jested he so near
His own grave death; and then made in, to spoil the charioteer,
“With such a lion’s force and fate, as, often ruining
Stalls of fat oxen, gets at length a mortal wound to sting
His soul out of that rav’nous breast, that was so insolent,
And so his life’s bliss proves his bane; so deadly confident
Wert thou, Patroclus, in pursuit of good Cebriones,
To whose defence now Hector leap’d. The opposite address,
These masters of the cry in war now made, was of the kind
Of two fierce kings of beasts, oppos’d in strife about a hind
Slain on the forehead of a hill, both sharp and hungry set
And to the currie never came but like two deaths they met;
Nor these two entertain’d less mind of mutual prejudice
About the body, close to which when each had press’d for prise,
Hector the head laid hand upon, which, once grip’d, never could
Be forc’d from him; Patroclus then upon the feet got hold,
And he pinch’d with as sure a nail. So both stood tugging there,
While all the rest made eager fight, and grappled ev’ry where.
And as the east and south winds strive, to make a lofty wood
Bow to their greatness, barky elms, wild ashes, beeches, bow’d
Ev’n with the earth, in whose thick arms the mighty vapours lie,
And toss by turns, all, either way, their leaves at random fly,
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 87