by Homer
Thus spake she, and Ulysses knew ’twas Pallas by her voice:
Ran to the runners; cast from him his mantle, which his man
And herald, grave Eurybates, the Ithacensian
That follow’d him, took up. Himself to Agamemnon went,
His incorrupted sceptre took, his sceptre of descent,
And with it went about the fleet. What prince, or man of name,
He found flight-given, he would restrain with words of gentlest blame:
‘Good sir, it fits not you to fly, or fare as one afraid;
You should not only stay yourself, but see the people stayed.
You know not clearly – though you heard the king’s words – yet his mind:
He only tries men’s spirits now, and whom his trials find
Apt to this course, he will chastise. Nor you, nor I, heard all
He spake in council; nor durst press too near our general,
Lest we incens’d him to our hurt. The anger of a king
Is mighty: he is kept of Jove, and from Jove likewise spring,
His honours; which out of the love of wise Jove, he enjoys.’
Thus he the best sort us’d: the worst, whose spirits brake out in noise,
He cudgell’d with his sceptre, chid, and said: ‘Stay, wretch; be still,
And hear thy betters; thou art base, and both in power and skill
Poor and unworthy, without name in counsel or in war.
We must not all be kings: the rule is most irregular
Where many rule: one lord, one king, propose to thee; and he
To whom wise Saturn’s son hath giv’n both law and empery,
To rule the public, is that king.’ Thus ruling, he restrain’d
The host from flight: and then again the council was maintain’d
With such a concourse, that the shore rang with the tumult made:
As when the far-resounding sea doth in his rage invade
His sandy confines, whose sides groan with his involved wave,
And make his own breast echo sighs. All sate, and audience gave;
Thersites only would speak all. A most disorder’d store
Of words he foolishly pour’d out; of which his mind held more
Than it could manage: any thing with which he could procure
Laughter, he never could contain. He should have yet been sure
To touch no kings: t’ oppose their states becomes not jesters’ parts.
But he the filthiest fellow was of all that had deserts
In Troy’s brave siege: he was squint-ey’d, and lame of either foot;
So crook-back’d, that he had no breast; sharp-headed, where did shoot
(Here and there ’spers’d) thin mossy hair. He most of all envied
Ulysses and Aeacides, whom still his spleen would chide:
Nor could the sacred king himself avoid his saucy vein;
Against whom, since he knew the Greeks did vehement hates sustain,
(Being angry for Achilles wrong) he cried out, railing thus:
‘Atrides, why complain’st thou now? What would’st thou more of us?
Thy tents are full of brass, and dames; the choice of all are thine,
With whom we must present thee first, when any towns resign
To our invasion. Want’st thou then, besides all this, more gold
From Troy’s knights to redeem their sons, whom to be dearly sold,
I or some other Greek must take? Or would’st thou yet again
Force from some other lord his prize, to soothe the lusts that reign
In thy encroaching appetite? It fits no prince to be
A prince of ill, and govern us, or lead our progeny
By rape to ruin. O base Greeks, deserving infamy,
And ills eternal! Greekish girls, not Greeks ye are: come, flee
Home with our ships; leave this man here to perish with his preys,
And try if we help’d him or not: he wrong’d a man that weighs
Far more than he himself in worth; he forc’d from Thetis’ son
And keeps his prize still: nor think I, that mighty man hath won
The style of wrathful worthily; he’s soft, he’s too remiss,
Or else, Atrides, his had been thy last of injuries.’
Thus he the people’s pastor chid: but straight stood up to him
Divine Ulysses; who with looks exceeding grave and grim,
This bitter check gave: ‘Cease, vain fool, to vent thy railing vein
On kings thus, though it serve thee well: nor think thou canst restrain,
With that thy railing faculty, their wills in least degree;
For not a worse of all this host, came with our king than thee,
To Troy’s great siege: then do not take into that mouth of thine
The names of kings; much less revile the dignities that shine
In their supreme states: wresting thus this motion for our home,
To soothe thy cowardice; since ourselves yet know not what will come
Of these designments: if it be our good to stay, or go:
Nor is it that thou stand’st on; thou revil’st our general so,
Only because he hath so much, not given by such as thou,
But our heroes. Therefore this thy rude vein makes me vow,
(Which shall be curiously observ’d) if ever I shall hear
This madness from thy mouth again, let not Ulysses bear
This head, nor be the father call’d of young Telemachus,
If to thy nakedness I take and strip thee not, and thus
Whip thee to fleet from council; send with sharp stripes weeping hence,
This glory thou affect’st – to rail.’ This said, his insolence
He settled with his sceptre; struck his back and shoulders so,
That bloody wales rose; he shrunk round, and from his eyes did flow
Moist tears, and looking filthily, he sate, fear’d, smarted, dried
His blubber’d cheeks; and all the press, though griev’d to be denied
Their wish’d retreat for home, yet laugh’d delightsomely, and spake
Either to other: ‘O ye gods, how infinitely take
Ulysses’ virtues in our good! Author of counsels, great
In ordering armies, how most well this act became his heat,
To beat from council this rude fool. I think his saucy spirit
Hereafter will not let his tongue abuse the sov’reign merit,
Exempt from such base tongues as his.’ Thus spake the people: then
The city-razer Ithacus stood up to speak again,
Holding his sceptre. Close to him gray-eyed Minerva stood;
And like a herald, silence caus’d, that all the Achive brood
(From first to last) might hear and know the counsel; when (inclin’d
To all their good) Ulysses said: ‘Atrides, now I find
These men would render thee the shame of all men; nor would pay
Their own vows to thee, when they took their free and honour’d way
From Argos hither, that till Troy were by their brave hands rac’d,
They would not turn home: yet like babes, and widows, now they haste
To that base refuge. ’Tis a spite to see men melted so
In womanish changes. Though ’tis true, that if a man do go
Only a month to sea, and leave his wife far off, and he
Tortur’d with winter’s storms, and toss’d with a tumultuous sea,
Grows heavy, and would home; us then, to whom the thrice three year
Hath fill’d his revoluble orb since our arrival he
re,
I blame not to wish home much more: yet all this time to stay,
Out of our judgments, for our end, and now to take our way
Without it, were absurd and vile. Sustain then, friends; abide
The time set to our object: try if Calchas prophesied
True of the time or not. We know, ye all can witness well,
(Whom these late death-conferring fates have fail’d to send to hell)
That when in Aulis all our fleet assembled with a freight
Of ills to Ilion and her friends, beneath the fair grown height,
A platane bore, about a fount, whence crystal water flow’d,
And near our holy altar, we upon the gods bestow’d
Accomplish’d hecatombs; and there appear’d a huge portent,
A dragon with a bloody scale, horrid to sight, and sent
To light by great Olympius; which crawling from beneath
The altar, to the platane climb’d; and ruthless crash’d to death
A sparrow’s young, in number eight, that in a top-bough lay
Hid under leaves: the dam the ninth, that hover’d every way,
Mourning her lov’d birth; till at length, the serpent watching her,
Her wing caught, and devour’d her too. This dragon, Jupiter
(That brought him forth) turn’d to a stone, and made a powerful mean
To stir our zeals up, that admir’d when of a fact so clean
Of all ill as our sacrifice, so fearful an ostent
Should be the issue. Calchas then thus prophesied th’ event:
“Why are ye dumb-struck, fair-hair’d Greeks? Wise Jove is he hath shown
This strange ostent to us. ’Twas late, and passing lately done,
But that grace it foregoes to us, for suffering all the state
Of his appearance (being so slow), nor time shall end, nor fate.
As these eight sparrows, and the dam (that made the ninth) were eat
By this stern serpent, so nine years we are t’ endure the heat
Of ravenous war, and in the tenth, take in this broad-way’d town.”
Thus he interpreted this sign; and all things have their crown
As he interpreted, till now. The rest then, to succeed,
Believe as certain: stay we all, till that most glorious deed
Of taking this rich town, our hands are honour’d with.’ This said,
The Greeks gave an unmeasur’d shout; which back the ships repaid
With terrible echoes, in applause of that persuasion
Divine Ulysses us’d; which yet held no comparison
With Nestor’s next speech, which was this: ‘O shameful thing! Ye talk
Like children all, that know not war. In what air’s region walk
Our oaths, and covenants? Now I see, the fit respects of men
Are vanish’d quite; our right hands given, our faiths, our counsels vain,
Our sacrifice with wine; all fled, in that profaned flame
We made to bind all: for thus still, we vain persuasions frame,
And strive to work our end with words, not joining stratagemes
And hands together, though thus long the power of our extremes
Hath urg’d us to them. Atreus’ son, firm as at first hour stand:
Make good thy purpose; talk no more in councils, but command
In active field. Let two or three, that by themselves advise,
Faint in their crowning; they are such as are not truly wise.
They will for Argos ere they know if that which Jove hath said
Be false or true. I tell them all, that high Jove bow’d his head
As first we went aboard our fleet, for sign we should confer
These Trojans their due fate and death; almighty Jupiter
All that day darting forth his flames, in an unmeasur’d light,
On our right hands; let therefore none once dream of coward flight,
Till (for his own) some wife of Troy he sleeps withal, the rape
Of Helen wreaking, and our sighs, enforc’d for her escape.
If any yet dare dote on home, let his dishonour’d haste
His black and well-built bark but touch, that (as he first disgrac’d
His country’s spirit) fate and death may first his spirit let go.
But be thou wise, king, do not trust thyself, but others. Know
I will not use an abject word: see all thy men array’d
In tribes and nations, that tribes tribes, nations may nations aid:
Which doing, thou shalt know what chiefs, what soldiers play the men,
And what the cowards: for they all will fight in several then,
Easy for note. And then shalt thou, if thou destroy’st not Troy,
Know if the prophecies defect, or men thou dost employ
In their approv’d arts, want in war, or lack of that brave heat
Fit for the vent’rous spirits of Greece, was cause to thy defeat.’
To this the king of men replied: ‘O father, all the sons
Of Greece thou conquer’st in the strife of consultations.
I would to Jove, Athenia, and Phoebus, I could make
(Of all) but ten such counsellors; then instantly would shake
King Priam’s city, by our hands laid hold on, and laid waste.
But Jove hath order’d I should grieve, and to that end hath cast
My life into debates past end. Myself and Thetis’ son
(Like girls) in words fought for a girl, and I th’ offence begun:
But if we ever talk as friends, Troy’s thus deferred fall
Shall never vex us more one hour. Come then, to victuals all,
That strong Mars all may bring to field; each man his lance’s steel
See sharpen’d well, his shield well lin’d, his horses meated well,
His chariot carefully made strong, that these affairs of death
We all day may hold fiercely out: no man must rest, or breath.
The bosoms of our targeters must all be steep’d in sweat.
The lancer’s arm must fall dissolv’d; our chariot-horse with heat
Must seem to melt. But if I find one soldier take the chace,
Or stir from fight, or fight not still, fix’d in his enemy’s face,
Or hid a-shipboard, all the world for force nor price shall save
His hated life; but fowls amid dogs be his abhorred grave.’
He said, and such a murmur rose, as on a lofty shore
The waves make when the south wind comes, and tumbles them before
Against a rock, grown near the strand, which diversly beset
Is never free, but here and there with varied uproars beat.
All rose then, rushing to the fleet, perfum’d their tents, and eat,
Each off’ring to th’ immortal gods, and praying to ’scape the heat
Of war and death. The king of men an ox of five years’ spring
T’ almighty Jove slew; call’d the peers, first Nestor, then the king
Idomenaeus; after them, th’ Ajaces, and the son
Of Tydeus; Ithacus the sixth, in counsel paragon
To Jove himself – All these he had, but at-a-martial-cry
Good Menelaus, since he saw his brother busily
Employ’d at that time, would not stand on invitation,
But of himself came. All about the off’ring overthrown
Stood round, took salt-cakes, and the king himself thus pray’d for all:
‘O Jove, most great, most glorious, that in that starry hall
Sitt’st drawing dark clouds
up to air, let not the sun go down,
Darkness supplying it, till my hands the palace and the town
Of Priam overthrow and burn, the arms on Hector’s breast
Dividing, spoiling with my sword thousands (in interest
Of his bad quarrel) laid by him in dust, and eating earth.’
He pray’d; Jove heard him not, but made more plentiful the birth
Of his sad toils; yet took his gifts. Prayers past, cakes on they threw:
The ox then, to the altar drawn, they kill’d, and from him drew
His hide; then cut him up; his thighs (in two hewn) dubb’d with fat;
Prick’d on the sweetbreads; and with wood, leafless, and kindled at
Apposed fire, they burn the thighs; which done, the inwards, slit,
They broil’d on coals and eat. The rest in giggots cut, they spit,
Roast cunningly, draw, sit and feast: nought lack’d to leave allay’d
Each temperate appetite; which serv’d, Nestor began and said:
‘Atrides, most grac’d king of men, now no more words allow,
Nor more defer the deed Jove vows. Let heralds summon now
The brazen-coated Greeks, and us range everywhere the host,
To stir a strong war quickly up.’ This speech no syllable lost;
The high-voic’d heralds instantly he charg’d to call to arms
The curl’d-head Greeks; they call’d; the Greeks straight answer’d their alarms.
The Jove-kept kings about the king all gather’d, with their aid
Rang’d all in tribes and nations. With them the gray-eyed maid
Great Aegis (Jove’s bright shield) sustain’d, that can be never old,
Never corrupted, fring’d about with serpents forg’d of gold,
As many as suffic’d to make an hundred fringes, worth
An hundred oxen; every snake all sprawling, all set forth
With wondrous spirit. Through the host with this the goddess ran
In fury, casting round her eyes, and furnish’d every man
With strength, exciting all to arms, and fight incessant. None
Now liked their lov’d homes like the wars. And as a fire upon
A huge wood, on the heights of hills, that far off hurls his light,
So the divine brass shin’d on these, thus thrusting on for fight:
Their splendour through the air reach’d heaven: and as about the flood
Caïster, in an Asian mead, flocks of the airy brood,