The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

by George Chapman

  All help to others, you can help; one that hath neither heart

  Nor soul within him, that will move or yield to any part

  That fits a man, but lion-like, uplandish, and mere wild,

  Slave to his pride, and all his nerves being naturally compil’d

  Of eminent strength, stalks out and preys upon a silly sheep.

  And so fares this man, that fit ruth that now should draw so deep

  In all the world being lost in him; and shame, a quality 1

  Of so much weight, that both it helps and hurts excessively

  Men in their manners, is not known, nor hath the pow’r to be,

  In this man’s being. Other men a greater loss than he

  Have undergone, a son, suppose, or brother of one womb;

  Yet, after dues of woes and tears, they bury in his tomb

  All their deplorings. Fates have giv’n to all that are true men

  True manly patience; but this man so soothes his bloody vein

  That no blood serves it, he must have divine-soul’d Hector bound

  To his proud chariot, and danc’d in a most barbarous round

  About his lov’d friend’s sepulchre, when he is slain. ’Tis vile,

  And draws no profit after it. But let him now awhile

  Mark but our angers; he is spent; let all his strength take heed

  It tempts not our wraths; he begets, in this outrageous deed,

  The dull earth with his fury’s hate.” White-wristed Juno said,

  Being much incens’d, “This doom is one that thou wouldst have obey’d,

  Thou bearer of the silver bow, that we in equal care

  And honour should hold Hector’s worth, with him that claims a share

  In our deservings. Hector suck’d a mortal woman’s breast,

  Æacides a Goddess’s; ourself had interest

  Both in his infant nourishment, and bringing up with state,

  And to the human Peleüs we gave his bridal mate,

  Because he had th’ Immortals’ love. To celebrate the feast

  Of their high nuptials, ev’ry God was glad to be a guest;

  And thou fedd’st of his father’s cates, touching thy harp in grace

  Of that beginning of our friend, whom thy perfidious face,

  In his perfection, blusheth not to match with Priam’s son,

  O thou that to betray and shame art still companion!”

  Jove thus receiv’d her: “Never give these broad terms to a God.

  Those two men shall not be compar’d; and yet, of all that trod

  The well-pav’d Ilion, none so dear to all the Deities

  As Hector was; at least to me, for off’rings most of prize

  His hands would never pretermit. Our altars ever stood

  Furnish’d with banquets fitting us, odours and ev’ry good

  Smok’d in our temples; and for this, foreseeing it, his fate

  We mark’d with honour, which must stand. But, to give stealth estate

  In his deliv’rance, shun we that; nor must we favour one

  To shame another. Privily, with wrong to Thetis’ son,

  We must not work out Hector’s right. There is a ransom due,

  And open course, by laws of arms; in which must humbly sue

  The friends of Hector. Which just mean if any God would stay,

  And use the other, ’twould not serve; for Thetis night and day

  Is guardian to him. But would one call Iris hither, I

  Would give directions that for gifts the Trojan king should buy

  His Hector’s body, which the son of Thetis shall resign.”

  This said, his will was done; the Dame that doth in vapours shine,

  Dewy and thin, footed with storms, jump’d to the sable seas

  ‘Twixt Samos and sharp Imber’s cliffs; the lake groan’d with the press

  Of her rough feet, and, plummet-like, put in an ox’s horn

  That bears death to the raw-fed fish, she div’d, and found forlorn

  Thetis lamenting her son’s fate, who was in Troy to have,

  Far from his country, his death serv’d. Close to her Iris stood,

  And said: “Rise, Thetis, prudent Jove, whose counsels thirst not blood,

  Calls for thee.” Thetis answer’d her with asking: “What’s the cause

  The great God calls? My sad pow’rs fear’d to break th’ immortal laws,

  In going fil’d with griefs to heav’n. But He sets snares for none

  With colour’d counsels; not a word of him but shall be done.”

  She said, and took a sable veil (a blacker never wore

  A heav’nly shoulder) and gave way. Swift Iris swum before.

  About both roll’d the brackish waves. They took their banks, and flew

  Up to Olympus; where they found Saturnius far-of-view

  Spher’d with heav’n’s ever-being States. Minerva rose, and gave

  Her place to Thetis near to Jove; and Juno did receive

  Her entry with a cup of gold, in which she drank to her,

  Grac’d her with comfort, and the cup to her hand did refer.

  She drank, resigning it; and then the Sire of men and Gods

  Thus entertain’d her: “Com’st thou up to these our blest abodes,

  Fair Goddess Thetis, yet art sad; and that in so high kind

  As passeth suff’rance? This I know, and tried thee, and now find

  Thy will by mine rul’d, which is rule to all worlds’ government.

  Besides this trial yet, this cause sent down for thy ascent,

  Nine days’ contention hath been held amongst th’ Immortals here

  For Hector’s person and thy son; and some advices were

  To have our good spy Mercury steal from thy son the corse;

  But that reproach I kept far off, to keep in future force

  Thy former love and reverence. Haste then, and tell thy son

  The Gods are angry, and myself take that wrong he hath done

  To Hector in worst part of all, the rather since he still

  Detains his person. Charge him then, if he respect my will

  For any reason, to resign slain Hector. I will send

  Iris to Priam to redeem his son, and recommend

  Fit ransom to Achilles’ grace, in which right he may joy

  And end his vain grief.” To this charge bright Thetis did employ

  Instant endeavour. From heav’n’s tops she reach’d Achilles’ tent,

  Found him still sighing, and some friends with all their complement

  Soothing his humour; other some with all contentión

  Dressing his dinner, all their pains and skills consum’d upon

  A huge wool-bearer, slaughter’d there. His rev’rend mother then

  Came near, took kindly his fair hand, and ask’d him: “Dear son, when

  Will sorrow leave thee? How long time wilt thou thus eat thy heart,

  Fed with no other food, nor rest? ‘Twere good thou wouldst divert

  Thy friend’s love to some lady, cheer thy spirits with such kind parts

  As she can quit thy grace withal. The joy of thy deserts

  I shall not long have, death is near, and thy all-conqu’ring fate,

  Whose haste thou must not haste with grief, but understand the state

  Of things belonging to thy life, which quickly order. I

  Am sent from Jove t’ advértise thee, that ev’ry Deity

  Is angry with thee, himself most, that rage thus reigns in thee

  Still to keep Hector. Quit him then, and, for fit ransom, free

  His injur’d person.” He replied: “Let him come that shall give

  The ransom, and the person take. Jove’s pleasure must deprive

  Men of all pleasures.” This good speech, and many more, the son

  And mother us’d, in ear of all the naval statión.

  And now to holy Ilion Saturnius Iris sent:

  “Go, swift-foot Iris,
bid Troy’s king bear fit gifts, and content

  Achilles for his son’s release; but let him greet alone

  The Grecian navy; not a man, excepting such a one

  As may his horse and chariot guide, a herald, or one old,

  Attending him; and let him take his Hector. Be he bold,

  Discourag’d nor with death nor fear, wise Mercury shall guide

  His passage till the prince be near; and, he gone, let him ride

  Resolv’d ev’n in Achilles’ tent. He shall not touch the state

  Of his high person, nor admit the deadliest desperate

  Of all about him; for, though fierce, he is not yet unwise,

  Nor inconsid’rate, nor a man past awe of Deities,

  But passing free and curious to do a suppliant grace,

  This said, the Rainbow to her feet tied whirlwinds, and the place

  Reach’d instantly. The heavy court Clamour and Mourning fill’d;

  The sons all set about the sire; and there stood Grief, and still’d

  Tears on their garments. In the midst the old king sate, his weed

  All wrinkled, head and neck dust-fil’d; the princesses his seed,

  The princesses his sons’ fair wives, all mourning by; the thought

  Of friends so many, and so good, being turn’d so soon to nought

  By Grecian hands, consum’d their youth, rain’d beauty from their eyes.

  Iris came near the king; her sight shook all his faculties,

  And therefore spake she soft, and said: “Be glad, Dardanides;

  Of good occurrents, and none ill, am I ambassadress.

  Jove greets thee, who, in care, as much as he is distant, deigns

  Eye to thy sorrows, pitying thee. My ambassy contains

  This charge to thee from him: He wills thou shouldst redeem thy son,

  Bear gifts t’ Achilles, cheer him so; but visit him alone,

  None but some herald let attend, thy mules and chariot

  To manage for thee. Fear nor death let daunt thee, Jove hath got

  Hermes to guide thee, who as near to Thetis’ son as needs

  Shall guard thee; and being once with him, nor his, nor others’, deeds

  Stand touch’d with, he will all contain; nor is he mad, nor vain,

  Nor impious, but with all his nerves studious to entertain

  One that submits with all fit grace.” Thus vanish’d she like wind.

  He mules and chariot calls, his sons bids see them join’d, and bind

  A trunk behind it; he himself down to his wardrobe goes,

  Built all of cedar, highly roof’d, and odoriferous,

  That much stuff, worth the sight, contain’d. To him he call’d his queen,

  Thus greeting her: “Come, hapless dame, an angel I have seen,

  Sent down from Jove, that bade me free our dear son from the fleet

  With ransom pleasing to our foe. What holds thy judgment meet?

  My strength and spirit lays high charge on all my being to bear

  The Greeks’ worst, vent’ring through their host.” The queen cried out to hear

  His vent’rous purpose, and replied: “O whither now is fled

  The late discretion that renown’d thy grave and knowing head

  In foreign and thine own rul’d realms, that thus thou dar’st assay

  Sight of that man, in whose brow sticks the horrible decay

  Of sons so many, and so strong? Thy heart is iron I think.

  If this stern man, whose thirst of blood makes cruelty his drink,

  Take, or but see, thee, thou art dead. He nothing pities woe,

  Nor honours age. Without his sight, we have enough to do

  To mourn with thought of him. Keep we our palace, weep we here,

  Our son is past our helps. Those throes, that my deliv’rers were

  Of his unhappy lineaments, told me they should be torn

  With black-foot dogs. Almighty Fate, that black hour he was born,

  Spun in his springing thread that end; far from his parents’ reach,

  This bloody fellow then ordain’d to be their mean, this wretch,

  Whose stony liver would to heav’n I might devour, my teeth

  My son’s revengers made! Curs’d Greek, he gave him not his death

  Doing an ill work; he alone fought for his country, he

  Fled not, nor fear’d, but stood his worst; and curséd policy

  Was his undoing.” He replied: “Whatever was his end

  Is not our question, we must now use all means to defend

  His end from scandal; from which act dissuade not my just will,

  Nor let me nourish in my house a bird presaging ill

  To my good actions; ’tis in vain. Had any earthly spirit

  Giv’n this suggestion, if our priests, or soothsay’rs, challenging merit

  Of prophets, I might hold it false, and be the rather mov’d

  To keep my palace, but these ears and these self eyes approv’d

  It was a Goddess. I will go; for not a word She spake

  I know was idle. If it were, and that my fate will make

  Quick riddance of me at the fleet, kill me, Achilles; come,

  When getting to thee, I shall find a happy dying room

  On Hector’s bosom, when enough thirst of my tears finds there

  Quench to his fervour.” This resolv’d, the works most fair and dear

  Of his rich screens he brought abroad; twelve veils wrought curiously;

  Twelve plain gowns; and as many suits of wealthy tapestry;

  As many mantles; horsemen’s coats; ten talents of fine gold;

  Two tripods; caldrons four; a bowl, whose value he did hold

  Beyond all price, presented by th’ ambassadors of Thrace.

  The old king nothing held too dear, to rescue from disgrace

  His gracious Hector. Forth he came. At entry of his court

  The Trojan citizens so press’d, that this opprobrious sort

  Of check he us’d: “Hence, cast-aways! Away, ye impious crew!

  Are not your griefs enough at home? What come ye here to view?

  Care ye for my griefs? Would ye see how miserable I am?

  Is’t not enough, imagine ye? Ye might know, ere ye came,

  What such a son’s loss weigh’d with me. But know this for your pains,

  Your houses have the weaker doors; the Greeks will find their gains

  The easier for his loss, be sure. But O Troy! ere I see

  Thy ruin, let the doors of hell receive and ruin me!”

  Thus with his sceptre set he on the crowding citizens,

  Who gave back, seeing him so urge. And now he entertains

  His sons as roughly, Helenus, Paris, Hippothous,

  Pammon, divine Agathones, renown’d Deiphobus,

  Agavus, and Antiphonus, and last, not least in arms,

  The strong Polites: these nine sons the violence of his harms

  Help’d him to vent in these sharp terms: “Haste, you infamous brood,

  And get my chariot. Would to heav’n that all the abject blood

  In all your veins had Hector ‘scus’d! O me, accurséd man,

  All my good sons are gone, my light the shades Cimmerian

  Have swallow’d from me. I have lost Mestor, surnam’d the fair;

  Troilus, that ready knight at arms, that made his field repair

  Ever so prompt and joyfully; and Hector, amongst men

  Esteem’d a God, not from a mortal’s seed, but of th’ Eternal strain,

  He seem’d to all eyes. These are gone, you that survive are base,

  Liars and common freebooters; all faulty, not a grace,

  But in your heels, in all your parts; dancing companions

  Ye all are excellent. Hence, ye brats! Love ye to hear my moans?

  Will ye not get my chariot? Command it quickly, fly,

  That I may perfect this dear work.” This all did terrify;

  And strai
ght his mule-drawn chariot came, to which they fast did bind

  The trunk with gifts. And then came forth, with an afflicted mind,

  Old Hecuba. In her right hand a bowl of gold she bore

  With sweet wine crown’d, stood near, and said: “Receive this, and implore,

  With sacrificing it to Jove, thy safe return. I see

  Thy mind likes still to go, though mine dislikes it utterly.

  Pray to the black-cloud-gath’ring God, Idæan Jove, that views

  All Troy, and all her miseries, that he will deign to use

  His most-lov’d bird to ratify thy hopes, that, her broad wing

  Spread on thy right hand, thou mayst know thy zealous offering

  Accepted, and thy safe return confirm’d; but if he fail,

  Fail thy intent, though never so it labours to prevail.”

  “This I refuse not,” he replied, “for no faith is so great

  In Jove’s high favour, but it must with held-up hands intreat.”

  This said, the chambermaid, that held the ewer and basin by,

  He bade pour water on his hands; when, looking to the sky,

  He took the bowl, did sacrifice, and thus implor’d: “O Jove,

  From Ida using thy commands, in all deserts above

  All other Gods, vouchsafe me safe, and pity in the sight

  Of great Achilles; and, for trust to that wish’d grace, excite

  Thy swift-wing’d Messenger, most strong, most of air’s region lov’d,

  To soar on my right hand; which sight may firmly see approv’d

  Thy former summons, and my speed.” He pray’d, and heav’n’s King heard,

  And instantly cast from his fist air’s all-commanding bird,

  The black-wing’d huntress, perfectest of all fowls, which Gods call

  Percnos, the eagle. And how broad the chamber nuptial

  Of any mighty man hath doors, such breadth cast either wing;

  Which now she us’d, and spread them wide on right hand of the king.

  All saw it, and rejoic’d, and up to chariot he arose,

  Drave forth, the portal and the porch resounding as he goes.

  His friends all follow’d him, and mourn’d as if he went to die;

  And bringing him past town to field, all left him; and the eye

  Of Jupiter was then his guard, who pitied him, and us’d

  These words to Hermes: “Mercury, thy help hath been profus’d

  Ever with most grace in consorts of travellers distress’d,

  Now cónsort Priam to the fleet; but so, that not the least

  Suspicion of him be attain’d, till at Achilles’ tent

  The convoy hath arriv’d him safe.” This charge incontinent