by Homer
What such a son’s loss weigh’d with me. But know this for your pains,
Your houses have the weaker doors: the Greeks will find their gains
The easier for his loss, be sure: but O Troy, ere I see
Thy ruin, let the doors of hell receive and ruin me.’
Thus with his sceptre set he on the crowding citizens,
Who gave back, seeing him so urge. And now he entertains
His sons as roughly: Hellenus, Paris, Hippothous,
Pammon, divine Agathones, renown’d Deiphobus,
Agavus, and Antiphonus, and last, not least in arms,
The strong Polites; these nine sons the violence of his harms
Help’d him to vent in these sharp terms: ‘Haste, you infamous brood,
And get my chariot; would to heav’n that all the abject blood
In all your veins had Hector scus’d: O me, accursed man,
All my good sons are gone; my light the shades Cimmerian
Have swallow’d from me: I have lost Mestor, surnam’d the fair;
Troilus, that ready knight at arms, that made his field repair
Ever so prompt and joyfully; and Hector, amongst men
Esteem’d god – not from mortal’s seed, but of th’ eternal strain
He seem’d to all eyes. These are gone; you that survive are base,
Liars and common freebooters: all faulty, not a grace
But in your heels, in all your parts; dancing companions
Ye all are excellent: hence, ye brats; love ye to hear my moans?
Will ye not get my chariot? Command it quickly; fly,
That I may perfect this dear work.’ This all did terrify,
And straight his mule-drawn chariot came, to which they fast did bind
The trunk with gifts: and then came forth, with an afflicted mind,
Old Hecuba. In her right hand a bowl of gold she bore,
With sweet wine crown’d; stood near, and said: ‘Receive this, and implore
(With sacrificing it to Jove) thy safe return. I see
Thy mind likes still to go, though mine dislikes it utterly.
Pray to the black-cloud-gathering god (Idaean Jove) that views
All Troy, and all her miseries, that he will deign to use
His most lov’d bird to ratify thy hopes, that, her broad wing
Spread on thy right hand, thou mayst know thy zealous offering
Accepted, and thy safe return confirm’d; but if he fail,
Fail thy intent, though never so it labours to prevail.’
‘This I refuse not,’ he replied, ‘for no faith is so great
In Jove’s high favour, but it must with held-up hands intreat.’
This said, the chambermaid that held the ewer and basin by,
He bad pour water on his hands; when looking to the sky,
He took the bowl, did sacrifice, and thus implor’d: ‘O Jove,
From Ida using thy commands, in all deserts above
All other gods, vouchsafe me safe, and pity in the sight
Of great Achilles: and for trust to that wish’d grace, excite
Thy swift-wing’d messenger, most strong, most of air’s region lov’d,
To soar on my right hand; which sight may firmly see approv’d
Thy former summons, and my speed.’ He pray’d, and heav’n’s king heard,
And instantly cast from his fist air’s all-commanding bird,
The black-wing’d huntress, perfectest of all fowls, which gods call
Percnos, the eagle. And how broad the chamber nuptial
Of any mighty man hath doors, such breadth cast either wing,
Which now she us’d, and spread them wide on right hand of the king.
All saw it, and rejoic’d, and up to chariot he arose,
Drave forth, the portal and the porch resounding as he goes.
His friends all follow’d him, and mourn’d as if he went to die;
And bringing him past town to field, all left him, and the eye
Of Jupiter was then his guard, who pitied him, and us’d
These words to Hermes: ‘Mercury, thy help hath been profus’d
Ever with most grace, in consorts of travailers distress’d.
Now consort Priam to the fleet: but so, that not the least
Suspicion of him be attain’d, till at Achilles’ tent
Thy convoy hath arriv’d him safe.’ This charge incontinent
He put in practice. To his feet his feather’d shoes he tied,
Immortal, and made all of gold, with which he us’d to ride
The rough sea and th’ unmeasur’d earth, and equall’d in his pace
The puffs of wind. Then took he up his rod, that hath the grace
To shut what eyes he lists with sleep, and open them again,
In strongest trances. This he held, flew forth, and did attain
To Troy and Hellespontus strait: then like a fair young prince,
First-down-chinn’d, and of such a grace as makes his looks convince
Contending eyes to view him, forth he went to meet the king.
He, having pass’d the mighty tomb of Ilus, watering
His mules in Xanthus, the dark even fell on the earth; and then
Idaeus (guider of the mules) discern’d this grace of men,
And spake afraid to Priamus: ‘Beware, Dardanides,
Our states ask counsel: I discern the dangerous access
Of some man near us; now I fear we perish. Is it best
To fly, or kiss his knees, and ask his ruth of men distress’d?’
Confusion struck the king, cold fear extremely quench’d his veins;
Upright upon his languishing head his hair stood, and the chains
Of strong amaze bound all his pow’rs. To both which then came near
The prince turn’d deity, took his hand, and thus bespake the peer:
‘To what place, father, driv’st thou out through solitary night,
When others sleep? Give not the Greeks sufficient cause of fright
To these late travails, being so near, and such vow’d enemies?
Of all which, if with all this load any should cast his eyes
On thy adventures, what would then thy mind esteem thy state –
Thyself old, and thy follower old? Resistance could not rate
At any value; as for me, be sure I mind no harm
To thy grave person, but against the hurt of others arm.
Mine own lov’d father did not get a greater love in me
To his good than thou dost to thine.’ He answer’d: ‘The degree
Of danger in my course, fair son, is nothing less than that
Thou urgest; but some god’s fair hand puts in for my safe state,
That sends so sweet a guardian, in this so stern a time
Of night and danger, as thyself, that all grace in his prime
Of body and of beauty show’st, all answer’d with a mind
So knowing, that it cannot be but of some blessed kind
Thou art descended.’ ‘Not untrue,’ said Hermes, ‘thy conceit
In all this holds; but further truth relate, if of such weight
As I conceive thy carriage be, and that thy care conveys
Thy goods of most price to more guard? Or go ye all your ways,
Freighted from holy Ilion, so excellent a son
As thou hadst (being your special strength) fall’n to destruction,
Whom no Greek better’d for his fight?’ ‘O, what art thou,’ said he,
‘Most worthy youth, of what race born, that thus recoun
t’st to me
My wretched son’s death with such truth?’ ‘Now, father,’ he replied,
‘You tempt me far, in wond’ring how the death was signified
Of your divine son, to a man so mere a stranger here
As you hold me; but I am one that oft have seen him bear
His person like a god in field; and when in heaps he slew
The Greeks, all routed to their fleet, his so victorious view
Made me admire, not feel his hand, because Aeacides,
Incens’d, admitted not our fight, myself being of access
To his high person, serving him, and both to Ilion
In one ship sail’d. Besides, by birth I breathe a Myrmidon,
Polyctor (call’d the rich) my sire, declin’d with age like you.
Six sons he hath, and me a seventh, and all those six live now
In Phthia, since all casting lots, my chance did only fall
To follow hither. Now for walk I left my general.
To-morrow all the sun-burn’d Greeks will circle Troy with arms,
The princes rage to be withheld so idly; your alarms
Not giv’n half hot enough, they think, and can contain no more.’
He answer’d: ‘If you serve the prince, let me be bold t’ implore
This grace of thee, and tell me true, lies Hector here at fleet,
Or have the dogs his flesh?’ He said, ‘Nor dogs nor fowl have yet
Touch’d at his person; still he lies at fleet, and in the tent
Of our great captain, who indeed is much too negligent
Of his fit usage: but though now twelve days have spent their heat
On his cold body, neither worms with any taint have eat,
Nor putrefaction perish’d it; yet ever when the morn
Lifts her divine light from the sea, unmercifully borne
About Patroclus’ sepulchre, it bears his friend’s disdain,
Bound to his chariot; but no fits of further outrage reign
In his distemper: you would muse to see how deep a dew
Ev’n steeps the body, all the blood wash’d off, no slend’rest show
Of gore or quitture, but his wounds all clos’d, though many were
Open’d about him. Such a love the blest immortals bear,
Ev’n dead, to thy dear son, because his life show’d love to them.’
He joyful answer’d: ‘O my son, it is a grace supreme
In any man to serve the gods. And I must needs say this:
For no cause (having season fit) my Hector’s hands would miss
Advancement to the gods with gifts, and therefore do not they
Miss his remembrance after death. Now let an old man pray
Thy graces to receive this cap, and keep it for my love;
Nor leave me till the gods and thee have made my prayers approve
Achilles’ pity, by thy guide brought to his princely tent.’
Hermes replied: ‘You tempt me now, old king, to a consent
Far from me, though youth aptly errs. I secretly receive
Gifts, that I cannot broadly vouch? Take graces that will give
My lord dishonour, or what he knows not, or will esteem
Perhaps unfit? Such briberies perhaps at first may seem
Sweet and secure, but futurely they still prove sour, and breed
Both fear and danger. I could wish thy grave affairs did need
My guide to Argos, either shipp’d or lackeying by thy side,
And would be studious in thy guard, so nothing could be tried
But care in me to keep thee safe, for that I could excuse
And vouch to all men.’ These words past, he put the deeds in use
For which Jove sent him; up he leapt to Priam’s chariot,
Took scourge and reins, and blew in strength to his free steeds, and got
The naval tow’rs and deep dike straight. The guards were all at meat;
Those he enslumber’d, op’d the ports, and in he safely let
Old Priam with his wealthy prize. Forthwith they reach’d the tent
Of great Achilles. Large and high, and in his most ascent
A shaggy roof of seedy reeds mown from the meads, a hall
Of state they made their king in it, and strengthen’d it withal
Thick with fir rafters; whose approach was let in by a door
That had but one bar, but so big that three men evermore
Rais’d it to shut, three fresh take down; which yet Aeacides
Would shut and ope himself. And this with far more ease
Hermes set ope, ent’ring the king; then leap’d from horse, and said:
‘Now know, old king, that Mercury (a god) hath giv’n this aid
To thy endeavour, sent by Jove; and now away must I:
For men must envy thy estate, to see a deity
Affect a man thus: enter thou, embrace Achilles’ knee,
And by his sire, son, mother, pray his ruth and grace to thee.’
This said, he high Olympus reach’d. The king then left his coach
To grave Idaeus, and went on, made his resolv’d approach,
And enter’d in a goodly room, where with his princes, sate
Jove-lov’d Achilles at their feast; two only kept the state
Of his attendance, Alcimus and lord Automedon.
At Priam’s entry, a great time Achilles gaz’d upon
His wonder’d-at approach, nor ate; the rest did nothing see,
While close he came up, with his hands fast holding the bent knee
Of Hector’s conqueror, and kiss’d that large man-slaught’ring hand,
That much blood from his sons had drawn. And as in some strange land,
And great man’s house, a man is driv’n (with that abhorr’d dismay
That follows wilful bloodshed still, his fortune being to slay
One whose blood cries aloud for his) to plead protection
In such a miserable plight as frights the lookers on:
In such a stupified estate Achilles sate to see,
So unexpected, so in night, and so incredibly,
Old Priam’s entry; all his friends one on another star’d
To see his strange looks, seeing no cause. Thus Priam then prepar’d
His son’s redemption: ‘See in me, O god-like Thetis’ son,
Thy aged father, and perhaps even now being outrun
With some of my woes: neighbour foes (thou absent) taking time
To do him mischief, no mean left to terrify the crime
Of his oppression; yet he hears thy graces still survive,
And joys to hear it, hoping still to see thee safe arrive
From ruin’d Troy. But I (curs’d man) of all my race shall live
To see none living. Fifty sons the deities did give
My hopes to live in, all alive when near our trembling shore
The Greek ships harbour’d, and one womb nineteen of those sons bore.
Now Mars a number of their knees hath strengthless left, and he
That was (of all) my only joy, and Troy’s sole guard, by thee
(Late fighting for his country) slain, whose tender’d person now
I come to ransom. Infinite is that I offer you,
Myself conferring it, expos’d alone to all your odds,
Only imploring right of arms. Achilles, fear the gods,
Pity an old man, like thy sire, different in only this,
That I am wretcheder, and bear that weight of miseries
That never man did, my curs’d lips enforc’d to kiss that hand
That slew my children.’ This mov’d tears; his father’s name did stand
(Mention’d by Priam) in much help, to his compassion,
And mov’d Aeacides so much he could not look upon
The weeping father. With his hand he gently put away
His grave face; calm remission now did mutually display
Her pow’r in either’s heaviness: old Priam to record
His son’s death, and his deathsman see, his tears and bosom pour’d
Before Achilles. At his feet he laid his rev’rend head;
Achilles’ thoughts now with his sire, now with his friend, were fed.
Betwixt both sorrow fill’d the tent. But now Aeacides
(Satiate at all parts with the ruth of their calamities)
Starts up, and up he rais’d the king. His milk-white head and beard
With pity he beheld, and said: ‘Poor man, thy mind is scar’d
With much affliction; how durst thy person thus alone
Venture on his sight, that hath slain so many a worthy son,
And so dear to thee? Thy old heart is made of iron. Sit,
And settle we our woes, though huge, for nothing profits it.
Cold mourning wastes but our lives’ heats. The gods have destinate
That wretched mortals must live sad. ’Tis the immortal state
Of deity that lives secure. Two tuns of gifts there lie
In Jove’s gate, one of good, one ill, that our mortality
Maintain, spoil, order; which when Jove doth mix to any man,
One while he frolics, one while mourns. If of his mournful can
A man drinks only, only wrongs he doth expose him to.
Sad hunger, in th’ abundant earth, doth toss him to and fro,
Respected nor of gods nor men. The mix’d cup Peleus drank.
Ev’n from his birth, heav’n blest his life; he liv’d not that could thank
The gods for such rare benefits as set forth his estate.
He reign’d among his Myrmidons most rich, most fortunate,
And (though a mortal) had his bed deck’d with a deathless dame.
And yet with all this good, one ill god mix’d, that takes all name
From all that goodness – his name now (whose preservation here
Men count the crown of their most good) not bless’d with pow’r to bear
One blossom but myself; and I, shaken as soon as blown.
Nor shall I live to cheer his age, and give nutrition
To him that nourish’d me. Far off my rest is set in Troy,