The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

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The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 92

by George Chapman


  Your grace with me, Polydamus, that argue for retreat

  To Troy’s old prison. Have we not enough of those tow’rs yet?

  And is not Troy yet charg’d enough, with impositions set

  Upon her citizens, to keep our men from spoil without,

  But still we must impose within? That houses with our rout

  As well as purses may be plagu’d? Before time, Priam’s town

  Traffick’d with divers-languag’d men, and all gave the renown

  Of rich Troy to it, brass and gold abounding; but her store

  Is now from ev’ry house exhaust; possessions evermore

  Are sold out into Phrygia and lovely Mæony;

  And have been ever since Jove’s wrath. And now his clemency

  Gives me the mean to quit our want with glory, and conclude

  The Greeks in sea-bords and our seas, to slack it, and extrude

  His offer’d bounty by our flight. Fool that thou art, bewray

  This counsel to no common ear, for no man shall obey;

  If any will, I’ll check his will. But what our self command,

  Let all observe. Take suppers all, keep watch of ev’ry hand.

  If any Trojan have some spoil, that takes his too much care,

  Make him dispose it publicly; ’tis better any fare

  The better for him, than the Greeks. When light then decks the skies,

  Let all arm for a fierce assault. If great Achilles rise,

  And will enforce our greater toil, it may rise so to him.

  On my back he shall find no wings, my spirit shall force my limb

  To stand his worst, and give or take. Mars is our common lord,

  And the desirous swordsman’s life he ever puts to sword.”

  This counsel gat applause of all, so much were all unwise;

  Minerva robb’d them of their brains, to like the ill advice

  The great man gave, and leave the good since by the meaner given.

  All took their suppers; but the Greeks spent all the heavy even

  About Patroclus’ mournful rites, Pelides leading all

  In all the forms of heaviness. He by his side did fall,

  And his man-slaught’ring hands impos’d into his oft-kiss’d breast,

  Sighs blew up sighs; and lion-like, grac’d with a goodly crest,

  That in his absence being robb’d by hunters of his whelps,

  Returns to his so desolate den, and, for his wanted helps,

  Beholding his unlook’d-for wants, flies roaring back again,

  Hunts the sly hunter, many a vale resounding his disdain;

  So mourn’d Pelides his late loss, so weighty were his moans,

  Which, for their dumb sounds, now gave words to all his Myrmidons:

  “O Gods,” said he, “how vain a vow I made, to cheer the mind

  Of sad Menœtius, when his son his hand to mine resign’d,

  That high-tow’r’d Opus he should see, and leave ras’d Ilion

  With spoil and honour, ev’n with me! But Jove vouchsafes to none

  Wish’d passages to all his vows; we both were destinate

  To bloody one earth here in Troy; nor any more estate

  In my return hath Peleüs or Thetis; but because

  I last must undergo the ground, I’ll keep no fun’ral laws,

  O my Patroclus, for thy corse, before I hither bring

  The arms of Hector and his head to thee for offering.

  Twelve youths, the most renown’d of Troy, I’ll sacrifice beside,

  Before thy heap of funeral, to thee unpacified.

  In mean time, by our crooked sterns lie, drawing tears from me,

  And round about thy honour’d corse, these dames of Dardanie,

  And Ilion, with the ample breasts (whom our long spears and pow’rs

  And labours purchas’d from the rich and by-us-ruin’d tow’rs,

  And cities strong and populous with divers-languag’d men)

  Shall kneel, and neither day nor night be licens’d to abstain

  From solemn watches, their toil’d eyes held ope with endless tears.”

  This passion past, he gave command to his near soldiers

  To put a tripod to the fire, to cleanse the fester’d gore

  From off the person. They obey’d, and presently did pour

  Fresh water in it, kindled wood, and with an instant flame

  The belly of the tripod girt, till fire’s hot quality came

  Up to the water. Then they wash’d, and fill’d the mortal wound

  With wealthy oil of nine years old; then wrapp’d the body round

  In largeness of a fine white sheet, and put it then in bed;

  When all watch’d all night with their lord, and spent sighs on the dead.

  Then Jove ask’d Juno: “If at length she had sufficed her spleen,

  Achilles being won to arms? Or if she had not been

  The natural mother of the Greeks, she did so still prefer

  Their quarrel?” She, incens’d, ask’d: “Why he still was taunting her,

  For doing good to those she lov’d? since man to man might show

  Kind offices, though thrall to death, and though they did not know

  Half such deep counsels as disclos’d beneath her far-seeing state,

  She, reigning queen of Goddesses, and being in generate

  Of one stock with himself, besides the state of being his wife

  And must her wrath, and ill to Troy, continue such a strife

  From time to time ‘twixt him and her?” This private speech they had.

  And now the Silver-footed Queen had her ascension made

  To that incorruptible house, that starry golden court

  Of fi’ry Vulcan, beautiful amongst th’ immortal sort,

  Which yet the lame God built himself. She found him in a sweat

  About his bellows, and in haste had twenty tripods beat.

  To set for stools about the sides of his well-builded hall,

  To whose feet little wheels of gold he put, to go withal,

  And enter his rich dining room, alone, their motion free,

  And back again go out alone, miraculous to see.

  And thus much he had done of them, yet handles were to add,

  For which he now was making studs. And while their fashion had

  Employment of his skilful hand, bright Thetis was come near;

  Whom first fair well-hair’d Charis saw, that was the nuptial fere

  Of famous Vulcan, who the hand of Thetis took, and said:

  “Why, fair-train’d, lov’d, and honour’d dame, are we thus visited

  By your kind presence? You, I think, were never here before.

  Come near, that I may banquet you, and make you visit more.”

  She led her in, and in a chair of silver (being the fruit

  Of Vulcan’s hand) she made her sit, a footstool of a suit

  Apposing to her crystal feet; and call’d the God of fire,

  For Thetis was arriv’d, she said, and entertain’d desire

  Of some grace that his art might grant. “Thetis to me,” said he,

  “Is mighty, and most reverend, as one that nourish’d me,

  When grief consum’d me, being cast from heaven by want of shame

  In my proud mother, who, because she brought me forth so lame,

  Would have me made away; and then, had I been much distress’d

  Had Thetis and Eurynome in either’s silver breast

  Not rescu’d me; Eurynome that to her father had

  Reciprocal Oceanus. Nine years with them I made

  A number of well-arted things, round bracelets, buttons brave,

  Whistles, and carquenets. My forge stood in a hollow cave,

  About which, murmuring with foam, th’ unmeasur’d ocean

  Was ever beating; my abode known nor to God nor man,

  But Thetis and Eurynome, and they would see me still,

  They were my loving g
uardians. Now then the starry hill,

  And our particular roof, thus grac’d with bright-hair’d Thetis here,

  It fits me always to repay, a recompense as dear

  To her thoughts, as my life to me. Haste, Charis, and appose

  Some dainty guest-rites to our friend, while I my bellows loose

  From fire, and lay up all my tools.” Then from an anvil rose

  Th’ unwieldy monster, halt’d down, and all awry he went.

  He took his bellows from the fire, and ev’ry instrument

  Lock’d safe up in a silver chest. Then with a sponge he drest

  His face all over, neck and hands, and all his hairy breast;

  Put on his coat, his sceptre took, and then went halting forth,

  Handmaids of gold attending him, resembling in all worth

  Living young damsels, fill’d with minds and wisdom, and were train’d

  In all immortal ministry, virtue and voice contain’d,

  And mov’d with voluntary pow’rs; and these still wait’d on

  Their fi’ry sov’reign, who (not apt to walk) sate near the throne

  Of fair-hair’d Thetis, took her hand, and thus he court’d her:

  “For what affair, O fair-train’d queen, rev’rend to me, and dear,

  Is our court honour’d with thy state, that hast not heretofore

  Perform’d this kindness? Speak thy thoughts, thy suit can be no more

  Than my mind gives me charge to grant. Can my pow’r get it wrought?

  Or that it have not only pow’r of only act in thought?”

  She thus: “O Vulcan, is there one, of all that are of heav’n,

  That in her never-quiet mind Saturnius hath giv’n

  So much affliction as to me: whom only he subjects,

  Of all the sea-nymphs, to a man; and makes me bear th’ affects

  Of his frail bed; and all against the freedom of my will;

  And he worn to his root with age? From him another ill

  Ariseth to me; Jupiter, you know, hath giv’n a son,

  The excellent’st of men, to me; whose education

  On my part well hath answered his own worth, having grown

  As in a fruitful soil a tree, that puts not up alone

  His body to a naked height, but jointly gives his growth

  A thousand branches; yet to him so short a life I brought,

  That never I shall see him more return’d to Peleus’ court.

  And all that short life he hath spent in most unhappy sort;

  For first he won a lovely dame, and had her by the hands

  Of all the Grecians, yet this dame Atrides countermands;

  For which in much disdain he mourn’d, and almost pin’d away.

  And yet for this wrong he receiv’d some honour, I must say;

  The Greeks, being shut up at their ships, not suffer’d to advance

  A head out of their batter’d sterns; and mighty suppliance

  By all their grave men hath been made, gifts, honours, all propos’d

  For his reflection; yet he still kept close, and saw enclos’d

  Their whole host in this gen’ral plague. But now his friend put on

  His arms, being sent by him to field, and many a Myrmidon

  In conduct of him. All the day, they fought before the gates

  Of Scæa, and, most certainly, that day had seen the dates

  Of all Troy’s honours in her dust, if Phœbus (having done

  Much mischief more) the envied life of good Menœtius’ son

  Had not with partial hands enforc’d, and all the honour giv’n

  To Hector, who hath pris’d his arms. And therefore I am driv’n

  T’ embrace thy knees for new defence to my lov’d son. Alas!

  His life, prefix’d so short a date, had need spent that with grace.

  A shield then for him, and a helm, fair greaves, and curets, such

  As may renown thy workmanship, and honour him as much,

  I sue for at thy famous hands.” “Be confident,” said he,

  “Let these wants breed thy thoughts no care. I would it lay in me

  To hide him from his heavy death, when fate shall seek for him,

  As well as with renownéd arms to fit his goodly limb;

  Which thy hands shall convey to him; and all eyes shall admire,

  See, and desire again to see, thy satisfied desire.”

  This said, he left her there, and forth did to his bellows go,

  Appos’d them to the fire again, commanding them to blow.

  Through twenty holes made to his hearth at once blew twenty pair,

  That fir’d his coals, sometimes with soft, sometimes with vehement, air,

  As he will’d, and his work requir’d. Amids the flame he cast

  Tin, silver, precious gold, and brass; and in a stock he plac’d

  A mighty anvil; his right hand a weighty hammer held,

  His left his tongs. And first he forg’d a strong and spacious shield

  Adorn’d with twenty sev’ral hues; about whose verge he beat

  A ring, three-fold and radiant, and on the back he set

  A silver handle; five-fold were the equal lines he drew

  About the whole circumference, in which his hand did shew

  (Directed with a knowing mind) a rare variety;

  For in it he presented Earth; in it the Sea and Sky;

  In it the never-wearied Sun, the Moon exactly round,

  And all those Stars with which the brows of ample heav’n are crown’d,

  Orion, all the Pleiades, and those sev’n Atlas got,

  The close-beam’d Hyades, the Bear, surnam’d the Chariot,

  That turns about heav’n’s axle-tree, holds ope a constant eye

  Upon Orion, and, of all the cressets in the sky,

  His golden forehead never bows to th’ Ocean empery.

  Two cities in the spacious shield he built, with goodly state

  Of divers-languag’d men. The one did nuptials celebrate,

  Observing at them solemn feasts, the brides from forth their bow’rs

  With torches usher’d through the streets, a world of paramours

  Excited by them; youths and maids in lovely circles danc’d,

  To whom the merry pipe and harp their spritely sounds advanc’d,

  The matrons standing in their doors admiring. Other where

  A solemn court of law was kept, where throngs or people were.

  The case in question was a fine, impos’d on one that slew

  The friend of him that follow’d it, and for the fine did sue;

  Which th’ other pleaded he had paid. The adverse part denied,

  And openly affirm’d he had no penny satisfied.

  Both put it to arbitrement. The people cried ’twas best

  For both parts, and th’ assistants too gave their dooms like the rest.

  The heralds made the people peace. The seniors then did bear

  The voiceful heralds’ sceptres, sat within a sacred sphere,

  On polish’d stones, and gave by turns their sentence. In the court

  Two talents’ gold were cast, for him that judg’d in justest sort.

  The other city other wars employ’d as busily;

  Two armies glittering in arms, of one confed’racy,

  Besieg’d it; and a parlè had with those within the town.

  Two ways they stood resolv’d; to see the city overthrown,

  Or that the citizens should heap in two parts all their wealth,

  And give them half. They neither lik’d, but arm’d themselves by stealth,

  Left all their old men, wives, and boys, behind to man their walls,

  And stole out to their enemy’s town. The Queen of martials,

  And Mars himself, conducted them; both which, being forg’d of gold,

  Must needs have golden furniture, and men might so behold

  They were presented Deities. The people, Vulcan forg’d


  Of meaner metal. When they came, where that was to be urg’d

  For which they went, within a vale close to a flood, whose stream

  Us’d to give all their cattle drink, they there enambush’d them,

  And sent two scouts out to descry, when th’ enemy’s herds and sheep

  Were setting out. They straight came forth, with two that us’d to keep

  Their passage always; both which pip’d, and went on merrily,

  Nor dream’d of ambuscadoes there. The ambush then let fly,

  Slew all their white-fleec’d sheep, and neat, and by them laid their guard.

  When those in siege before the town so strange an uproar heard,

  Behind, amongst their flocks and herds (being then in council set)

  They then start up, took horse, and soon their subtle enemy met,

  Fought with them on the river’s shore, where both gave mutual blows

  With well-pil’d darts. Amongst them all perverse Contention rose,

  Amongst them Tumult was enrag’d, amongst them ruinous Fate

  Had her red-finger; some they took in an unhurt estate,

  Some hurt yet living, some quite slain, and those they tugg’d to them

  By both the feet, stripp’d off and took their weeds, with all the stream

  Of blood upon them that their steels had manfully let out.

  They far’d as men alive indeed drew dead indeed about.

  To these the fi’ry Artizan did add a new-ear’d field,

  Large and thrice plough’d, the soil being soft, and of a wealthy yield;

  And many men at plough he made, that drave earth here and there,

  And turn’d up stitches orderly; at whose end when they were,

  A fellow ever gave their hands full cups of luscious wine;

  Which emptied, for another stitch, the earth they undermine,

  And long till th’ utmost bound be reach’d of all the ample close.

  The soil turn’d up behind the plough, all black like earth arose,

  Though forg’d of nothing else but gold, and lay in show as light

  As if it had been plough’d indeed, miraculous to sight.

  There grew by this a field of corn, high, ripe, where reapers wrought,

  And let thick handfuls fall to earth, for which some bought

  Bands, and made sheaves. Three binders stood, and took the handfuls reap’d

  From boys that gather’d quickly up, and by them armfuls heap’d.

  Amongst these at furrow’s end, the king stood pleas’d at heart,

  Said no word, but his sceptre show’d. And from him, much apart,

 

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