by Homer
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.’ Menoetius’ noble son
Rebuk’d Meriones, and said: ‘What need’st thou use this speech?
Not 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-sellers make a far-heard noise with chopping, chopping still,
And laying on, on blocks and trees: so they on men laid lode,
And beat like noises into air, both as they struck and trod.
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 altered,
All thrusting near it every 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 diversely upon the death of great Achilles’ friend:
If Hector there (to wreak his son) should with his javelin 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-ordering 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 Menoetiades. Then Jove thus charg’d the Sun:
‘Haste, honour’d Phoebus, let no more Greek violence be done
To my Sarpedon, but his corse of all the sable blood
And javelins purg’d, then carry him far hence to some clear flood,
With whose waves wash, and then embalm each thorough-cleansed 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, and 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 Menoetiades’ 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 Melanippus, 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 Phoebus 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 Phoebus 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 Scaean 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, assum’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 bad, drive away
Against Patroclus, to approve if he that gave them day
Would give the glory of his death to his preferred 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 bad 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 javelin held, his right a stone, a marble sharp, and such
As his large hand had pow’r to gripe, and gave it strength so much
As he could lay 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 Menoetius, 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 all 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 ravenous 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 prize,
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 every 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,
Boughs murmur, and their bodies crack, and with perpetual din
The sylvans falter, and the storms are never to begin:
So rag’d the fight, and all from flight pluck’d her forgotten wings;
While some still stuck, still new wing’d shafts flew dancing from their strings,
Huge stones sent after, that did shake the shields about the corse,
Who now (in dust’s soft forehead stretch’d) forgat his guiding horse.
As long as Phoebus turn’d his wheels about the midst of heav’n,
So long the touch of either’s darts the falls of both made ev’n:
But when his wain drew near the west, the Greeks past measure were
The abler soldiers, and so swept the Trojan tumult clear
From off the body; out of which they drew the hurl’d-in darts,
And from his shoulders stripp’d his arms, and then to more such parts
Patroclus turn’d his striving thoughts, to do the Trojans ill:
Thrice, like the god of war, he charg’d, his voice as horrible,
And thrice nine those three charges slew, but in the fourth assay,
O then, Patroclus, show’d thy last; the dreadful Sun made way
Against that onset, yet the prince discern’d no deity,
He kept the press so; and besides, obscur’d his glorious eye
With such felt darkness. At his back he made a sudden stand,
And ’twixt his neck and shoulders laid down-right with either hand
A blow so weighty that his eyes a giddy darkness took,
And from his head his three-plum’d helm the bounding violence shook,
That rung beneath his horses’ hoofs, and, like a water-spout,
Was crush’d together with the fall – the plumes that set it out
All spatter’d with black blood and dust, when ever heretofore
It was a capital offence to have or dust or gore
Defile a triple-feather’d helm, but on the head divine
And youthful temples of their prince, it us’d untouch’d to shine.
Yet now Jove gave it Hector’s hands, the other’s death was near.
Besides whose lost and filed helm, his huge long weighty spear,
Well bound with iron, in his hand was shiver’d, and his shield
Fell from his shoulders to his feet, the bawdrick strewing the field.
His curets left him, like the rest, and all this only done
By great Apollo. Then his mind took in confusion;
The vigorous knittings of his joints dissolv’d, and (thus dismay’d)
A Dardan (one of Panthus’ sons) and one that overlaid
All Trojans of his place with darts, swift footing, skill, and force,
In noble horsemanship, and one that tumbled from their horse,
One after other, twenty men – and when he did but learn
The art of war; nay, when he first did in the field discern
A horse and chariot of his guide: this man, with all these parts
(His name Euphorbus), comes behind, and ’twixt the shoulders darts
Forlorn Patroclus, who yet liv’d, and th’ other (getting forth
His javelin) took him to his strength; nor durst he stand the worth
Of thee, Patroclus, though disarm’d, who yet (discomfited
By Phoebus and Euphorbus’ wound) the red heap of the dead
He now too late shunn’d, and retir’d. When Hector saw him yield,
And knew he yielded with a wound, he scour’d the armed field,
Came close up to him, and both sides struck quite through with his lance.
He fell, and his most weighty fall gave fit tune to his chance,
For which all Greece extremely mourn’d. And as a mighty strife
About a little fount begins and riseth to the life
Of some fell boar, resolv’d to drink, when likewise to the spring
A lion comes, alike dispos’d; the boar thirsts, and his king,
Both proud, and both will first be serv’d; and then the lion takes
Advantage of his sovereign strength, and th’ other (fainting) makes
Resign his thirst up with his blood: Patroclus (so enforc’d
When he had forc’d so much brave life) was from his own divorc’d.
And thus his great divorcer brav’d: ‘Patroclus, thy conceit
Gave thee th’ eversion of our Troy, and to thy fleet a freight
Of Trojan ladies, their free lives put all in bands by thee:
But (too much prizer of thy self) all these are propp’d by me,
For these have my horse stretch’d their hoofs to this so long a war,
And I (far best of Troy in arms) keep off from Troy as far,
Even to the last beam of my life, their necessary day.
And here (in place of us and ours) on thee shall vultures prey,
Poor wretch; nor shall thy mighty friend afford thee any aid,
That gave thy parting much deep charge; and this perhaps he said:
“Martial Patroclus, turn not face, nor see my fleet before
The curets from great Hector’s breast, all gilded with his gore,
Thou hew’st in pieces.” If thus vain were his far-stretch’d commands,
As vain was thy heart to believe his words lay in thy hands.’
He, languishing, replied: ‘This proves thy glory worse than vain,
That when two gods have giv’n thy hands what their pow’rs did obtain
(They conquering, and they spoiling me both of my arms and mind,
It being a work of ease for them), thy soul
should be so blind
To oversee their evident deeds, and take their pow’rs to thee,
When if the pow’rs of twenty such had dar’d t’ encounter me,
My lance had strew’d earth with them all. Thou only dost obtain
A third place in my death, whom first a harmful fate hath slain
Effected by Latona’s son; second, and first of men,
Euphorbus. And this one thing more concerns thee; note it then:
Thou shalt not long survive thyself; nay, now Death calls for thee,
And violent Fate; Achilles’ lance shall make this good for me.’
Thus death join’d to his words his end; his soul took instant wing,
And to the house that hath no lights descended sorrowing
For his sad fate, to leave him young, and in his ablest age.
He dead, yet Hector ask’d him why, in that prophetic rage,
He so forespake him, when none knew but great Achilles might
Prevent his death, and on his lance receive his latest light.
Thus setting on his side his foot, he drew out of his wound
His brazen lance, and upwards cast the body on the ground;
When quickly, while the dart was hot, he charg’d Automedon
(Divine guide of Achilles’ steeds) in great contention,
To seize him too: but his so swift and deathless horse, that fetch’d
Their gift to Peleus from the gods, soon rapt him from his reach.
The end of the sixteenth book
Book 17
The Argument
A dreadful fight about Patroclus’ corse,
Euphorbus slain by Menelaus’ force,
Hector in th’ armour of Aeacides,
Antilochus relating the decease
Of slain Patroclus to fair Thetis’ son,
The body from the striving Trojans won,
Th’ Ajaces making good the after field,
Make all the subject that this book doth yield.
Another Argument
In Rho, the virtuous hosts maintain
A slaughterous conflict for the same.
Book 17
Nor could his slaughter rest conceal’d from Menelaus’ ear,
Who flew amongst the foremost fights, and with his targe and spear
Circled the body, as much griev’d, and with as tender heed
To keep it theirs, as any dam about her first-born seed,