The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  To his adventure, and so near dares tempt my angry lance.’

  Thus he excited. Hector then as much strives to advance

  The hearts of his men, adding threats, affirming he would stand

  In combat with Aeacides. ‘Give fear,’ said he, ‘no hand

  Of your great hearts, brave Ilians, for Peleus’ talking son;

  I’ll fight with any god with words; but when their spears put on,

  The work runs high, their strength exceeds mortality so far.

  And they may make works crown their words, which hold not in the war

  Achilles makes; his hands have bounds; this word he shall make good,

  And leave another to the field: his worst shall be withstood

  With sole objection of myself, though in his hands he bear

  A rage like fire, though fire itself his raging fingers were

  And burning steel flew in his strength.’ Thus he incited his;

  And they rais’d lances, and to work with mixed courages,

  And up flew Clamour; but the heat in Hector Phoebus gave

  This temper: ‘Do not meet,’ said he, ‘in any single brave

  The man thou threaten’st, but in press; and in thy strength impeach

  His violence; for far off or near his sword or dart will reach.’

  The god’s voice made a difference in Hector’s own conceit

  Betwixt his and Achilles ’words, and gave such overweight

  As weigh’d him back into his strength, and curb’d his flying out.

  At all threw fierce Aeacides, and gave a horrid shout.

  The first of all he put to dart was fierce Iphition,

  Surnam’d Otryntides, whom Nais the water-nymph made son

  To town-destroyer Otrynteus. Beneath the snowy hill

  Of Tmolus in the wealthy town of Ide, at his will

  Were many able men at arms. He, rushing in, took full

  Pelides’ lance in his head’s midst, that cleft in two his skull.

  Achilles knew him, one much fam’d, and thus insulted then:

  ‘Th’ art dead, Otryntides, though call’d the terriblest of men;

  Thy race runs at Gygaeus lake, there thy inheritance lay,

  Near fishy Hillus, and the gulfs of Hermus: but this day

  Removes it to the fields of Troy.’ Thus left he night to seize

  His closed eyes, his body laid in course of all the press,

  Which Grecian horse broke with the strakes, nail’d to their chariot wheels.

  Next (through the temples) the burst eyes his deadly javelin seels

  Of great-in-Troy Antenor’s son, renown’d Demoleon,

  A mighty turner of a field. His overthrow set gone

  Hippodamas, who leap’d from horse, and as he fled before

  Aeacides, his turned back he made fell Pelias gore,

  And forth he puff’d his flying soul: and as a tortur’d bull

  (To Neptune brought for sacrifice) a troop of youngsters pull

  Down to the earth, and drag him round about the hallow’d shore

  To please the wat’ry deity, with forcing him to roar,

  And forth he pours his utmost throat: so bellow’d this slain friend

  Of flying Ilion with the breath that gave his being end.

  Then rush’d he on, and in his eye had heavenly Polydore,

  Old Priam’s son; whom last of all his fruitful princess bore;

  And for his youth (being dear to him) the king forbade to fight.

  Yet (hot of unexperienc’d blood, to show how exquisite

  He was of foot, for which of all the fifty sons he held

  The special name) he flew before the first heat of the field,

  Ev’n till he flew out breath and soul: which, through the back, the lance

  Of swift Achilles put in air, and did his head advance

  Out at his navel: on his knees the poor prince crying fell,

  And gather’d with his tender hands his entrails, that did swell

  Quite through the wide wound, till a cloud as black as death conceal’d

  Their sight, and all the world from him. When Hector had beheld

  His brother tumbled so to earth (his entrails still in hand),

  Dark sorrow overcast his eyes; not far off could he stand

  A minute longer, but like fire he brake out of the throng,

  Shook his long lance at Thetis’ son, and then came he along

  To feed th’ encounter: ‘O,’ said he, ‘here comes the man that most

  Of all the world destroys my mind, the man by whom I lost

  My dear Patroclus; now not long the crooked paths of war

  Can yield us any privy scapes: come, keep not off so far,’

  He cried to Hector. ‘Make the pain of thy sure death as short

  As one so desperate of his life hath reason.’ In no sort

  This frighted Hector, who bore close, and said: ‘Aeacides,

  Leave threats for children; I have pow’r to thunder calumnies

  As well as other, and well know thy strength superior far

  To that my nerves hold, but the gods (not nerves) determine war.

  And yet (for nerves) there will be found a strength of power in mine,

  To drive a lance home to thy life; my lance as well as thine

  Hath point and sharpness, and ’tis this. Thus brandishing his spear,

  He set it flying; which a breath of Pallas back did bear

  From Thetis’ son to Hector’s self, and at his feet it fell.

  Achilles us’d no dart, but close flew in, and thought to deal

  With no strokes but of sure dispatch; but what with all his blood

  He labour’d, Phoebus clear’d with ease, as being a god, and stood

  For Hector’s guard, as Pallas did, Aeacides, for thine.

  He rapt him from him, and a cloud of much night cast between

  His person and the point oppos’d. Achilles then exclaim’d,

  ‘O see yet more gods are at work; Apollo’s hand hath fram’d

  (Dog that thou art) thy rescue now: to whom go pay the vows

  Thy safety owes him; I shall vent in time those fatal blows

  That yet beat in my heart, on thine, if any god remain

  My equal fautor. In mean time, my anger must maintain

  His fire on other Ilians.’ Then laid he at his feet

  Great Demochus, Philetor’s son, and Dryope did greet

  With like encounter. Dardanus and strong Laogonus

  (Wise Byas’ sons) he hurl’d from horse, of one victorious

  With his close sword, the other’s life he conquer’d with his lance.

  Then Tros, Alastor’s son, made in, and sought to ’scape their chance

  With free submission. Down he fell, and pray’d about his knees

  He would not kill him, but take ruth, as one that destinies

  Made to that purpose, being a man born in the self same year

  That he himself was: O poor fool, to sue to him to bear

  A ruthful mind; he well might know he could not fashion him

  In ruth’s soft mould, he had no spirit to brook that interim

  In his hot fury. He was none of these remorseful men,

  Gentle and affable, but fierce at all times, and mad then.

  He gladly would have made a pray’r, and still so hugg’d his knee

  He could not quit him, till at last his sword was fain to free

  His fetter’d knees, that made a vent for his white liver’s blood,

  That caus’d such pitiful affects, of which it pour’d a flood
<
br />   About his bosom, which it fill’d, even till it drown’d his eyes,

  And all sense fail’d him. Forth then flew this prince of tragedies,

  Who next stoop’d Mulius, ev’n to death, with his insatiate spear:

  One ear it enter’d, and made good his pass to th’ other ear.

  Echeclus then (Agenor’s son), he struck betwixt the brows,

  Whose blood set fire upon his sword, that cool’d it till the throes

  Of his then labouring brain let out his soul to fixed fate,

  And gave cold entry to black death. Deucalion then had state

  In these men’s beings: where the nerves about the elbow knit,

  Down to his hand his spear’s steel pierc’d, and brought such pain to it

  As led death jointly, whom he saw before his fainting eyes,

  And in his neck felt, with a stroke laid on so, that off flies

  His head: one of the twice twelve bones that all the backbone make

  Let out his marrow, when the head he helm and all did take,

  And hurl’d amongst the Ilians; the body stretch’d on earth.

  Rhigmus of fruitful Thrace next fell; he was the famous birth

  Of Pireus: his belly’s midst the lance took, whose stern force

  Quite tumbled him from chariot. In turning back the horse,

  Their guider Areithous receiv’d another lance

  That threw him to his lord. No end was put to the mischance

  Achilles enter’d: but as fire, fall’n in a flash from heav’n,

  Inflames the high woods of dry hills, and with a storm is driv’n

  Through all the sylvan deeps, and raves, till down goes everywhere

  The smother’d hill: so every way Achilles and his spear

  Consum’d the champain; the black earth flow’d with the veins he tore.

  And look how oxen (yok’d and driv’n about the circular floor

  Of some fair barn) tread suddenly the thick sheaves, thin of corn,

  And all the corn consum’d with chaff: so mix’d and overborne,

  Beneath Achilles’ one-hoof’d horse, shields, spears and men lay trod,

  His axle-tree and chariot wheels all spatter’d with the blood

  Hurl’d from the steeds’ hoofs and the strakes. Thus to be magnified,

  His most inaccessible hands in human blood he dyed.

  The end of the twentieth book

  Book 21

  The Argument

  In two parts Troy’s host parted; Thetis’ son

  One to Scamander, one to Ilion

  Pursues. Twelve lords he takes alive, to end

  In sacrifice, for vengeance to his friend.

  Asteropaeus dies by his fierce hand,

  And Priam’s son, Lycaon. Over land

  The flood breaks: where, Achilles being engag’d,

  Vulcan preserves him, and with spirit enrag’d,

  Sets all the champain and the flood on fire;

  Contention then doth all the gods inspire.

  Apollo in Agenor’s shape doth stay

  Achilles’ fury; and by giving way,

  Makes him pursue, till the deceit gives leave,

  That Troy in safety might her friends receive.

  Another Argument

  Phi, at the flood’s shore, doth express

  The labours of Aeacides.

  Book 21

  And now they reach’d the goodly swelling channel of the flood,

  Gulf-eating Xanthus, whom Jove mix’d with his immortal brood:

  And there Achilles cleft the host of Ilion: one side fell

  On Xanthus, th’ other on the town: and that did he impel

  The same way that the last day’s rage put all the Greeks in rout,

  When Hector’s fury reign’d; these now Achilles pour’d about

  The scatter’d field. To stay the flight, Saturnia cast before

  Their hasty feet a standing fog, and then flight’s violence bore

  The other half full on the flood. The silver-gulfed deep

  Receiv’d them with a mighty cry: the billows vast and steep

  Roar’d at their armours, which the shores did round about resound:

  This way and that they swum, and shriek’d, as in the gulfs they drown’d.

  And as in fir’d fields locusts rise, as the unwearied blaze

  Plies still their rising, till in swarms all rush as in amaze

  (For ’scape) into some neighbour flood: so th’ Achillean stroke

  Here drave the foe; the gulfy flood with men and horse did choke.

  Then on the shore the worthy hid, and left his horrid lance

  Amids the tamrisks; then sprite-like did with his sword advance

  Up to the river; ill affairs took up his furious brain

  For Troy’s engagements: every way he doubled slain on slain.

  A most unmanly noise was made, with those he put to sword,

  Of groans and outcries; the flood blush’d to be so much engor’d

  With such base souls. And as small fish the swift-finn’d dolphin fly,

  Filling the deep pits in the ports, on whose close strength they lie,

  And there he swallows them in shoals: so here, to rocks and holes,

  About the flood, the Trojans fled; and there most lost their souls,

  Even till he tir’d his slaught’rous arm. Twelve fair young princes then

  He chose of all to take alive, to have them freshly slain

  On that most solemn day of wreak, resolv’d on for his friend.

  These led he trembling forth the flood, as fearful of their end

  As any hind calves: all their hands he pinioned behind

  With their own girdles, worn upon their rich weeds, and resign’d

  Their persons to his Myrmidons to bear to fleet; and he

  Plung’d in the stream again to take more work of tragedy.

  He met, then issuing the flood, with all intent of flight,

  Lycaon (Dardan Priam’s son), whom lately in the night

  He had surpris’d as in a wood of Priam’s he had cut

  The green arms of a wild fig-tree, to make him spokes to put

  In naves of his new chariot. An ill then, all unthought,

  Stole on him in Achilles’ shape, who took him thence, and brought

  To well-built Lemnos, selling him to famous Jason’s son,

  From whom a guest then in his house (Imbrius Eëtion)

  Redeem’d at high rate, and sent home t’ Arisba, whence he fled,

  And saw again his father’s court; eleven days banqueted

  Amongst his friends; the twelfth god thrust his hapless head again

  In t’ hands of stern Aeacides, who now must send him slain

  To Pluto’s court, and ’gainst his will. Him when Achilles knew,

  Naked of helmet, shield, sword, lance, all which for ease he threw

  To earth, being overcome with sweat, and labour wearying

  His flying knees, he storm’d, and said: ‘O heav’n, a wondrous thing

  Invades mine eyes: those Ilians that heretofore I slew

  Rise from the dark dead quick again; this man Fate makes eschew

  Her own steel fingers: he was sold in Lemnos, and the deep

  Of all seas ’twixt this Troy and that (that many a man doth keep

  From his lov’d country) bars not him; come then, he now shall taste

  The head of Pelias, and try if steel will down as fast

  As other fortunes, or kind earth can any surer seize

  On his sly person, whose strong arms have held down Hercul
es.

  His thoughts thus mov’d while he stood firm, to see if he he spied

  Would offer flight (which first he thought), but when he had descried

  He was descried, and flight was vain, fearful, he made more nigh,

  With purpose to embrace his knees, and now long’d much to fly

  His black fate, and abhorred death, by coming in. His foe

  Observ’d all this, and up he rais’d his lance as he would throw;

  And then Lycaon close ran in, fell on his breast, and took

  Achilles’ knees, whose lance (on earth now staid) did overlook

  His still turn’d back, with thirst to glut his sharp point with the blood

  That lay so ready. But that thirst Lycaon’s thirst withstood

  To save his blood; Achilles’ knee in his one hand he knit,

  His other held the long lance hard, and would not part with it,

  But thus besought: ‘I kiss thy knees, divine Aeacides!

  Respect me, and my fortunes rue; I now present th’ access

  Of a poor suppliant for thy ruth, and I am one that is

  Worthy thy ruth, O Jove’s belov’d. First hour my miseries

  Fell into any hand, ’twas thine: I tasted all my bread

  By thy gift since, O since that hour that thy surprisal led

  From forth the fair wood my sad feet, far from my lov’d allies,

  To famous Lemnos, where I found a hundred oxen’s prize

  To make my ransom, for which now I thrice the worth will raise.

  This day makes twelve since I arriv’d in Ilion, many days

  Being spent before in sufferance; and now a cruel fate

  Thrusts me again into thy hands. I should haunt Jove with hate,

  That with such set malignity gives thee my life again.

  There were but two of us for whom Laothoë suffer’d pain –

  Laothoë, old Alte’s seed – Alte, whose palace stood

  In height of upper Pedasus, near Satnius’ silver flood,

  And rul’d the war-like Lelegi. Whose seed (as many more),

  King Priam married, and begot the god-like Polydor,

  And me accurs’d: thou slaughter’dst him, and now thy hand on me

  Will prove as mortal. I did think, when here I met with thee,

  I could not ’scape thee; yet give ear, and add thy mind to it:

  I told my birth to intimate, though one sire did beget,