The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  (Shaking his teeth out) through his mouth, his eyes all drown’d in blood:

  So through his nostrils and his mouth (that now dart-open stood)

  He breath’d his spirit. Thus had death from every Grecian chief

  A chief of Troy. For, as to kids or lambs their cruell’st thief,

  The wolf, steals in, and when he sees that by the shepherd’s sloth

  The dams are sperst about the hills, then serves his ravenous tooth

  With ease, because his prey is weak: so serv’d the Greeks their foes,

  Discerning well how shrieking flight did all their spirits dispose,

  Their biding virtues quite forgot; and now the natural spleen

  That Ajax bore to Hector still by all means would have been

  Within his bosom with a dart: but he, that knew the war

  (Well cover’d in a well-lin’d shield), did well perceive how far

  The arrows and the javelins reach’d, by being within their sounds

  And ominous singings, and observ’d the there-inclining bounds

  Of conquest, in her aid of him, and so obey’d her change,

  Took safest course for him and his, and stood to her as strange.

  And as when Jove intends a storm, he lets out of the stars,

  From steep Olympus, a black cloud that all heav’n’s splendour bars

  From men on earth: so from the hearts of all the Trojan host,

  All comfort lately found from Jove in flight and cries was lost.

  Nor made they any fair retreat; Hector’s unruly horse

  Would needs retire him; and he left engag’d his Trojan force,

  Forc’d by the steepness of the dike, that in ill place they took,

  And kept them that would fain have gone. Their horses quite forsook

  A number of the Trojan kings, and left them in the dike,

  Their chariots in their foreteams broke. Patroclus then did strike

  While steel was hot, and cheer’d his friends, nor meant his enemies good;

  Who when they once began to fly, each way receiv’d a flood,

  And chok’d themselves with drifts of dust. And now were clouds begot

  Beneath the clouds; with flight and noise the horse neglected not

  Their home intendments; and where rout was busiest, there pour’d on

  Patroclus most exhorts and threats; and then lay overthrown

  Numbers beneath their axle-trees, who (lying in flight’s stream)

  Made th’ after chariots jot and jump, in driving over them.

  Th’ immortal horse Patroclus rode did pass the dike with ease,

  And wish’d the depth and danger more: and Menetiades

  As great a spirit had to reach retiring Hector’s haste;

  But his fleet horse had too much law, and fetch’d him off too fast.

  And as in autumn the black earth is loaden with the storms

  That Jove in gluts of rain pours down, being angry with the forms

  Of judgment in authoris’d men, that in their courts maintain

  (With violent office) wrested laws, and (fearing gods nor men)

  Exile all justice, for whose faults whole fields are overflown,

  And many valleys cut away, with torrents headlong thrown

  From neighbour mountains, till the sea receive them, roaring in,

  And judg’d men’s labours then are vain, plagued for their judge’s sin:

  So now the foul defaults of some all Troy were laid upon;

  So like those torrents roar’d they back to windy Ilion;

  And so like tempests blew the horse, with ravishing back again

  Those hot assailants, all their works at fleet now render’d vain.

  Patroclus (when he had dispers’d the foremost phalanxes)

  Call’d back his forces to the fleet, and would not let them press

  As they desir’d, too near the town, but ’twixt the ships and flood,

  And their steep rampire, his hand steep’d revenge in seas of blood.

  Then Pronous was first that fell beneath his fiery lance,

  Which struck his bare breast, near his shield. The second, Thestor’s chance

  (Old Enops’ son) did make himself, who shrinking and set close

  In his fair seat (even with th’ approach Patroclus made) did lose

  All manly courage; in so much, that from his hands his reins

  Fell flowing down, and his right jaw Patroclus’ lance attains,

  Struck through his teeth, and there it stuck, and by it to him drew

  Dead Thestor to his chariot; it show’d, as when you view

  An angler from some prominent rock draw with his line and hook

  A mighty fish out of the sea: for so the Greek did pluck

  The Trojan gaping from his seat; his jaws op’d with the dart,

  Which when Patroclus drew, he fell; his life and breast did part,

  Then rush’d he on Euryalus, at whom he hurl’d a stone,

  Which strake his head so in the midst, that two were made of one;

  Two ways it fell, cleft through his casque: and then Tlepolemus,

  Epaltes, Damastorides, Evippus, Echius,

  Ipheas, bold Amphoterus, and valiant Erymas,

  And Polymelus (by his sire surnam’d Argeadas)

  He heap’d upon the much-fed earth. When Jove’s most worthy son

  (Divine Sarpedon) saw these friends thus stay’d, and others run:

  ‘O shame! Why fly ye?’ then he cried; ‘now show ye feet enow.

  On, keep your way, myself will meet the man that startles you,

  To make me understand his name, that flaunts in conquest thus,

  And hath so many able knees so soon dissolv’d to us.’

  Down jump’d he from his chariot, down leap’d his foe as light:

  And as on some far-looking rock a cast of vultures fight,

  Fly on each other, strike and truss, part, meet, and then stick by,

  Tug both with crooked beaks and seres, cry, fight, and fight and cry:

  So fiercely fought these angry kings and show’d as bitter galls.

  Jove (turning eyes to this stern fight) his wife and sister calls,

  And much mov’d for the Lycian prince, said: ‘O that to my son,

  Fate, by this day and man, should cut a thread so nobly spun.

  Two minds distract me: if I should now ravish him from fight,

  And set him safe in Lycia, or give the Fates their right.’

  ‘Austere Saturnius,’ she replied, ‘what unjust words are these?

  A mortal long since mark’d by fate wouldst thou immortalise?

  Do, but by no god be approv’d: free him, and numbers more

  (Sons of immortals) will live free, that death must taste before

  These gates of Ilion; every god will have his son a god,

  Or storm extremely. Give him then an honest period,

  In brave fight, by Patroclus’ sword, if he be dear to thee,

  And grieves thee for his danger’d life: of which, when he is free,

  Let Death and Somnus bear him hence, till Lycia’s natural womb

  Receive him from his brother’s hands, and citizens a tomb

  And column raise to him; this is the honour of the dead.’

  She said, and her speech rul’d his pow’r: but in his safety’s stead,

  For sad ostent of his near death, he steep’d his living name

  In drops of blood heaven sweat for him, which earth drunk to his fame.

  And now, as this high combat grew to this too humble end,

  Sarpedon’s death had
this state more: ’twas usher’d by his friend

  And charioteer, brave Thrasimed, whom in his belly’s rim

  Patroclus wounded with his lance, and endless ended him.

  And then another act of name foreran his princely fate:

  His first lance missing, he let fly a second that gave date

  Of violent death to Pedasus; who (as he joy’d to die

  By his so honourable hand) did (ev’n in dying) neigh.

  His ruin startled th’ other steeds, the geres crack’d, and the reins

  Strappled his fellows, whose misrule Automedon restrains

  By cutting the intangling geres, and so dissundering quite

  The brave slain beast; when both the rest obey’d, and went foreright:

  And then the royal combatants fought for the final stroke,

  When Lycia’s general miss’d again, his high-rais’d javelin took

  Above his shoulder empty way. But no such speedless flight

  Patroclus let his spear perform, that on the breast did light

  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 stretcht’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 nostrils breath.

  Patroclus (though his guard was strong) forc’d way through every doubt,

  Climb’d his high bosom with his foot, and pluck’d his javelin 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 snorting 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 Phoebus 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 every 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 president

  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 Phoebus stood inclin’d

  (In such quick bounty) to his prayers. 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 sweat

  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.

  The 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 struck 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 prize 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 prize.

  And Jove about th’ impetuous broil pernicious night pour’d out,

  As long as for his loved 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 Budaeus; 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 s
laughter 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 struck 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 caddasses: 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 targetiers of Lycia, Prince Glaucus, who to hell

  Sent Bathyclaeus, Chalcon’s son; he did in Hellas dwell,

  And shin’d for wealth and happiness amongst the Myrmidons;

  His bosom’s midst the javelin struck, 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’ Idean 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 dispatch’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. Aeneas 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,