by Homer
Yet one womb brought not into light Hector (that slew thy friend)
And me. O do not kill me then, but let the wretched end
Of Polydor excuse my life. For half our being bred
Brothers to Hector, he (half) paid, no more is forfeited.’
Thus su’d he humbly; but he heard with this austere reply:
‘Fool, urge not ruth nor price to me, till that solemnity
Resolv’d on for Patroclus’ death pay all his rites to fate:
Till his death I did grace to Troy, and many lives did rate
At price of ransom: but none now of all the brood of Troy
(Whoever Jove throws to my hands) shall any breath enjoy
That death can beat out, specially that touch at Priam’s race.
Die, die, my friend. What tears are these? What sad looks spoil thy face?
Patroclus died, that far pass’d thee: nay, seest thou not beside,
Myself, ev’n I, a fair young man, and rarely magnified,
And (to my father, being a king) a mother have, that sits
In rank with goddesses; and yet, when thou hast spent thy spirits,
Death, and as violent a fate, must overtake ev’n me,
By twilight, morn-light, day, high noon, whenever destiny
Sets on her man to hurl a lance, or knit out of his string
An arrow that must reach my life.’ This said, a-languishing
Lycaon’s heart bent like his knees, yet left him strength t’ advance
Both hands for mercy as he kneel’d. His foe yet leaves his lance,
And forth his sword flies, which he hid in furrow of a wound
Driv’n through the jointure of his neck; flat fell he on the ground,
Stretch’d with death’s pangs, and all the earth imbru’d with timeless blood.
Then grip’t Aeacides his heel, and to the lofty flood
Flung (swinging) his unpitied corse, to see it swim and toss
Upon the rough waves, and said: ‘Go, feed fat the fish with loss
Of thy left blood; they clean will suck thy green wounds, and this saves
Thy mother tears upon thy bed. Deep Xanthus on his waves
Shall hoist thee bravely to a tomb, that in her burly breast
The sea shall open, where great fish may keep thy funeral feast
With thy white fat, and on the waves dance at thy wedding fate,
Clad in black horror, keeping close inaccessible state.
So perish Ilians, till we pluck the brows of Ilion
Down to her feet – you flying still, I flying still upon
Thus in the rear, and (as my brows were fork’d with rabid horns)
Toss ye together. This brave flood, that strengthens and adorns
Your city with his silver gulfs, to whom so many bulls
Your zeal hath offer’d, with blind zeal his sacred current gulls
With casting chariots and horse quick to his pray’d-for aid,
Shall nothing profit: perish then, till cruell’st death hath laid
All at the red feet of Revenge for my slain friend, and all
With whom the absence of my hands made yours a festival.’
This speech great Xanthus more enrag’d, and made his spirit contend
For means to shut up the op’t vein against him, and defend
The Trojans in it from his plague. In mean time Peleus’ son
(And now with that long lance he hid) for more blood set upon
Asteropaeus, the descent of Pelagon, and he
Of broad-stream’d Axius and the dame (of first nativity
To all the daughters that renown’d Acesamenus’ seed)
Bright Periboea; whom the flood (arm’d thick with lofty reed)
Compress’d. At her grandchild now went Thetis’ great son, whose foe
Stood arm’d with two darts, being set on by Xanthus, anger’d so
For those youths’ blood shed in his stream by vengeful Thetis’ son,
Without all mercy. Both being near, great Thetides begun
With this high question: ‘Of what race art thou, that dar’st oppose
Thy pow’r to mine thus? Cursed wombs they ever did disclose
That stood my anger.’ He replied: ‘What makes thy furies beat,
Talk, and seek pedigrees? Far hence lies my innative seat,
In rich Paeonia. My race from broad-stream’d Axius runs –
Axius, that gives earth purest drink, of all the wat’ry sons
Of great Oceanus, and got the famous-for-his-spear
Pelagonus, that father’d me. And these Paeonians here,
Arm’d with long lances, here I lead: and here th’ eleventh fair light
Shines on us since we enter’d Troy: come now, brave man, let’s fight.’
Thus spake he, threat’ning; and to him Pelides made reply
With shaken Pelias; but his foe with two at once let fly
(For both his hands were dexterous): one javelin struck the shield
Of Thetis’ son, but struck not through (the gold, god’s gift, repell’d
The eager point); the other lance fell lightly on the part
Of his fair right hand’s cubit; forth the black blood spun, the dart
Glanc’d over, fast’ning on the earth, and there his spleen was spent
That wish’d the body. With which wish Achilles his lance sent,
That quite miss’d, and infix’d itself fast in the steep-up shore.
Even to the midst it enter’d it; himself then fiercely bore
Upon his enemy with his sword. His foe was tugging hard
To get his lance out: thrice he pluck’d, and thrice sure Pelias barr’d
His wish’d evulsion. The fourth pluck he bow’d and meant to break
The ashen plant, but (ere that act) Achilles’ sword did check
His bent pow’r, and brake out his soul. Full in the navel stead
He ripp’d his belly up, and out his entrails fell, and dead
His breathless body: whence his arms Achilles drew, and said:
‘Lie there, and prove it dangerous to lift up adverse head
Against Jove’s sons, although a flood were ancestor to thee:
Thy vaunts urg’d him, but I may vaunt a higher pedigree
(From Jove himself): king Peleus was son to Aeacus,
Infernal Aeacus to Jove, and I to Peleus.
Thunder-voic’d Jove far passeth floods, that only murmurs raise
With earth and water, as they run with tribute to the seas:
And his seed theirs exceeds as far. A flood, a mighty flood,
Rag’d near thee now, but with no aid Jove must not be withstood.
King Achelous yields to him, and great Oceanus,
Whence all floods, all the sea, all founts, wells, all deeps humorous,
Fetch their beginnings; yet ev’n he fears Jove’s flash, and the crack
His thunder gives, when out of heav’n it tears atwo his rack.’
Thus pluck’d he from the shore his lance, and left the waves to wash
The wave-sprung entrails, about which fausens and other fish
Did shoal, to nibble at the fat which his sweet kidneys hid.
This for himself: now to his men (the well-rode Paeons) did
His rage contend, all which cold fear shook into flight, to see
Their captain slain: at whose maz’d flight (as much enrag’d) flew he,
And then fell all these – Thrasius, Mydon, Astypilus,
Great Ophelestes, Aenius, Mnesus, Thersilochus.
And on these many more had fall’n, unless t
he angry flood
Had took the figure of a man, and in a whirlpit stood,
Thus speaking to Aeacides: ‘Past all, pow’r feeds thy will
(Thou great grandchild of Aeacus), and past all th’ art in ill.
And gods themselves confederates, and Jove (the best of gods)
All deaths gives thee: all places not. Make my shores periods
To all shore service. In the field, let thy field acts run high,
Not in my waters. My sweet streams choke with mortality
Of men slain by thee. Carcasses so glut me, that I fail
To pour into the sacred sea my waves; yet still assail
Thy cruel forces. Cease, amaze affects me with thy rage,
Prince of the people.’ He replied: ‘Shall thy command assuage
(Gulf-fed Scamander) my free wrath? I’ll never leave pursu’d
Proud Ilion’s slaughters, till this hand in her fil’d walls conclude
Her flying forces, and hath tried in single fight the chance
Of war with Hector, whose event with stark death shall advance
One of our conquests.’ Thus again he like a fury flew
Upon the Trojans, when the flood his sad plaint did pursue
To bright Apollo, telling him he was too negligent
Of Jove’s high charge, importuning by all means vehement
His help of Troy, till latest ev’n should her black shadows pour
On earth’s broad breast. In all his worst, Achilles yet from shore
Leapt to his midst. Then swell’d his waves, then rag’d, then boil’d again
Against Achilles: up flew all, and all the bodies slain
In all his deeps (of which the heaps made bridges to his waves)
He belch’d out, roaring like a bull. The unslain yet he saves
In his black whirlpits vast and deep. A horrid billow stood
About Achilles. On his shield the violence of the flood
Beat so, it drove him back, and took his feet up, his fair palm
Enforc’d to catch into his stay a broad and lofty elm,
Whose roots he toss’d up with his hold, and tore up all the shore;
With this then he repell’d the waves, and those thick arms it bore
He made a bridge to bear him off (for all fell in), when he
Forth from the channel threw himself. The rage did terrify
Ev’n his great spirit, and made him add wings to his swiftest feet,
And tread the land. And yet not there the flood left his retreat,
But thrust his billows after him, and black’d them all at top
To make him fear, and fly his charge, and set the broad field ope
For Troy to ’scape in. He sprung out a dart’s cast, but came on
Again with a redoubled force; as when the swiftest flown
And strong’st of all fowls (Jove’s black hawk, the huntress) stoops upon
A much lov’d quarry: so charg’d he, his arms with horror rung
Against the black waves: yet again he was so urg’d, he flung
His body from the flood, and fled. And after him again
The waves flew roaring, as a man that finds a water-vein,
And from some black fount is to bring his streams through plants and groves,
Goes with his mattock, and all checks, set to his course, removes;
When that runs freely, under it the pebbles all give way,
And where it finds a fall, runs swift, nor can the leader stay
His current then; before himself full-pac’d it murmurs on:
So, of Achilles, evermore the strong flood vantage won.
Though most deliver, gods are still above the pow’rs of men.
As oft as th’ able god-like man endeavour’d to maintain
His charge on them that kept the flood (and charg’d, as he would try
If all the gods inhabiting the broad unreached sky
Could daunt his spirit), so oft still the rude waves charg’d him round,
Rampt on his shoulders, from whose depth his strength and spirit would bound
Up to the free air, vex’d in soul. And now the vehement flood
Made faint his knees, so overthwart his waves were, they withstood
All the denied dust, which he wish’d, and now was fain to cry,
Casting his eyes to that broad heav’n that late he long’d to try,
And said: ‘O Jove, how am I left? No god vouchsafes to free
Me, miserable man; help now, and after torture me
With any outrage. Would to heav’n, Hector (the mightiest
Bred in this region) had imbru’d his javelin in my breast
That strong might fall by strong, where now weak water’s luxury
Must make my death blush; one heav’n-born shall like a hog-herd die,
Drown’d in a dirty torrent’s rage. Yet none of you in heav’n
I blame for this, but she alone by whom this life was giv’n,
That now must die thus. She would still delude me with her tales,
Affirming Phoebus’ shafts should end within the Trojan walls
My curs’d beginning.’ In this strait, Neptune and Pallas flew
To fetch him off. In men’s shapes both close to his danger drew,
And, taking both both hands, thus spake the Shaker of the world:
‘Pelides, do not stir a foot, nor these waves, proudly curl’d
Against thy bold breast, fear a jot; thou hast us two thy friends
(Neptune and Pallas), Jove himself approving th’ aid we lend.
Tis nothing, as thou fear’st, with fate; she will not see thee drown’d:
This height shall soon down, thine own eyes shall see it set aground.
Be rul’d then, we’ll advise thee well; take not thy hand away
From putting all, indifferently, to all that it can lay
Upon the Trojans, till the walls of haughty Ilion
Conclude all in a desperate flight; and when thou hast set gone
The soul of Hector, turn to fleet: our hands shall plant a wreath
Of endless glory on thy brows. Thus to the free-from-death
Both made retreat. He (much impell’d by charge the godheads gave)
The field, that now was overcome with many a boundless wave,
He overcame: on their wild breasts they toss’d the carcasses
And arms of many a slaughter’d man. And now the winged knees
Of this great captain bore aloft: against the flood he flies
With full assault, nor could that god make shrink his rescu’d thighs:
Nor shrunk the flood, but as his foe grew powerful, he grew mad,
Thrust up a billow to the sky, and crystal Simois bade
To his assistance: ‘Simois! Ho, brother!’ out he cried.
‘Come, add thy current, and resist this man half deified,
Or Ilion he will pull down straight; the Trojans cannot stand
A minute longer. Come, assist, and instantly command
All fountains in thy rule to rise, all torrents to make in,
And stuff thy billows, with whose height engender such a din
(With trees torn up, and justling stones) as so immane a man
May shrink beneath us: whose pow’r thrives, do my pow’r all it can:
He dares things fitter for a god. But nor his form, nor force,
Nor glorious arms shall profit it: all which, and his dead corse,
I vow to roll up in my hands – nay, bury in my mud –
Nay, in the very sinks of Troy that, pour’d into my flood,
Shall make him drowning work enough: and being drown’d, I’ll set
A sort of such strong filth on him, that Greece shall never get
His bones from it. There, there shall stand Achilles’ sepulchre,
And save a burial for his friends.’ This fury did transfer
His high-ridg’d billows on the prince, roaring with blood and foam
And carcasses. The crimson stream did snatch into her womb
Surpris’d Achilles; and her height stood, held up by the hand
Of Jove himself. Then Juno cried, and call’d (to countermand
This wat’ry deity) the god that holds command in fire,
Afraid lest that gulf-stomach’d flood would satiate his desire
On great Achilles. ‘Mulciber! My best-lov’d son!’ she cried.
‘Rouse thee, for all the gods conceive this flood thus amplified
Is rais’d at thee, and shows as if his waves would drown the sky,
And put out all the sphere of fire; haste, help thy empery:
Light flames deep as his pits. Our self the west wind and the south
Will call out of the sea, and breathe in either’s full-charg’d mouth
A storm t’ enrage thy fires ’gainst Troy; which shall (in one exhal’d)
Blow flames of sweat about their brows, and make their armours scal’d.
Go thou then, and (’gainst these winds rise) make work on Xanthus’ shore,
With setting all his trees on fire: and in his own breast pour
A fervor that shall make it burn, nor let fair words or threats
Avert thy fury till I speak, and then subdue the heats
Of all thy blazes.’ Mulciber prepar’d a mighty fire,
First in the field us’d, burning up the bodies that the ire
Of great Achilles reft of souls: the quite-drown’d field it dried,
And shrunk the flood up. And as fields that have been long time cloy’d
With catching weather, when their corn lies on the gavill heap,
Are with a constant north wind dried, with which for comfort leap
Their hearts that sow’d them: so this field was dried, the bodies burn’d,
And ev’n the flood into a fire as bright as day was turn’d.
Elms, willows, tam’risks were enflam’d; the lote trees, sea-grass reeds,
And rushes, with the galingale roots (of which abundance breeds
About the sweet flood), all were fir’d; the gliding fishes flew
Upwards in flames; the grovelling eels crept upright, all which slew