The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

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