by Homer
To leave thee restless and thy seed. Thyself that did enjoy
(As we have heard) a happy life – what Lesbos doth contain
(In times past being a bless’d man’s seat), what the unmeasur’d main
Of Hellespontus, Phrygia holds, are all said to adorn
Thy empire, wealth and sons enow; but when the gods did turn
Thy blest state to partake with bane, war and the bloods of men
Circled thy city, never clear – sit down and suffer then,
Mourn not inevitable things; thy tears can spring no deeds
To help thee, nor recall thy son; impatience ever breeds
Ill upon ill, makes worst things worse, and therefore sit.’ He said:
‘Give me no seat, great seed of Jove, when yet unransomed
Hector lies riteless in thy tents; but deign with utmost speed
His resignation, that these eyes may see his person freed,
And thy grace satisfied with gifts. Accept what I have brought,
And turn to Phthia; ’tis enough thy conquering hand hath fought
Till Hector falter’d under it, and Hector’s father stood
With free humanity safe.’ He frown’d and said: ‘Give not my blood
Fresh cause of fury; I know well I must resign thy son,
Jove by my mother utter’d it, and what besides is done,
I know as amply; and thyself, old Priam, I know too
Some god hath brought thee: for no man durst use a thought to go
On such a service. I have guards, and I have gates to stay
Easy accesses; do not then presume thy will can sway,
Like Jove’s will, and incense again my quench’d blood: lest nor thou
Nor Jove gets the command of me.’ This made the old king bow,
And down he sate in fear. The prince leap’d like a lion forth,
Automedon and Alcimus attending; all the worth
Brought for the body, they took down and brought in; and with it
Idaeus (herald to the king); a coat embroider’d yet,
And two rich cloaks, they left to hide the person. Thetis’ son
Call’d out his women to anoint and quickly overrun
The corse with water, lifting it in private to the coach,
Lest Priam saw, and his cold blood embrac’d a fiery touch
Of anger, at the turpitude profaning it, and blew
Again his wrath’s fire to his death. This done, his women threw
The coat and cloak on, but the corse Achilles’ own hand laid
Upon a bed, and with his friends to chariot it convey’d.
For which forc’d grace (abhorring so from his free mind) he wept,
Cried out for anger, and thus pray’d: ‘O friend, do not except
Against this favour to our foe (if in the deep thou hear),
And that I give him to his sire; he gave fair ransom. Dear
In my observance is Jove’s will; and whatsoever part
Of all these gifts by any mean I fitly may convert
To thy renown here, and will there, it shall be pour’d upon
Thy honour’d sepulchre.’ This said, he went, and what was done,
Told Priam, saying: ‘Father, now thy will’s fit rites are paid,
Thy son is giv’n up; in the morn thine eyes shall see him laid
Deck’d in thy chariot on his bed: in mean space let us eat.
The rich-hair’d Niobe found thoughts that made her take her meat,
Though twelve dear children she saw slain: six daughters, six young sons.
The sons incens’d Apollo slew, the maids’ confusions
Diana wrought, since Niobe her merits durst compare
With great Latona’s, arguing, that she did only bear
Two children, and herself had twelve; for which, those only two
Slew all her twelve. Nine days they lay steep’d in their blood: her woe
Found no friend to afford them fire; Saturnius had turn’d
Humans to stones. The tenth day yet the good celestials burn’d
The trunks themselves; and Niobe, when she was tir’d with tears,
Fell to her food, and now with rocks and wild hills mix’d she bears
(In Sypilus) the gods’ wraths still, in that place where ’tis said
The goddess fairies use to dance about the funeral bed
Of Achelous, where (though turn’d with cold grief to a stone)
Heav’n gives her heat enough to feel, what plague comparison
With his pow’rs (made by earth) deserves: affect not then too far
With grief like a god, being a man; but for a man’s life care,
And take fit food: thou shalt have time beside to mourn thy son.
He shall be tearful, thou being full; not here, but Ilion
Shall find thee weeping-rooms enow.’ He said, and so arose,
And caus’d a silver-fleec’d sheep kill’d; his friends’ skills did dispose
The flaying, cutting of it up, and cookly spitted it,
Roasted, and drew it artfully. Automedon, as fit,
Was for the reverend server’s place, and all the brown joints serv’d
On wicker vessels to the board; Achilles’ own hands carv’d,
And close they fell to. Hunger stanch’d, talk and observing time
Was us’d of all hands; Priam sate amaz’d to see the prime
Of Thetis’ son, accomplish’d so with stature, looks, and grace,
In which the fashion of a god he thought had chang’d his place.
Achilles fell to him as fast, admir’d as much his years
(Told in his grave and good aspect); his speech even charm’d his ears,
So order’d, so material. With this food feasted too,
Old Priam spake thus: ‘Now (Jove’s seed) command that I may go,
And add to this feast grace of rest: these lids ne’er clos’d mine eyes
Since under thy hands fled the soul of my dear son; sighs, cries
And woes all use from food and sleep have taken; the base courts
Of my sad palace made my beds, where all the abject sorts
Of sorrow I have varied, tumbled in dust, and hid –
No bit, no drop of sustenance touch’d.’ Then did Achilles bid
His men and women see his bed laid down, and covered
With purple blankets, and on them an arras coverlid,
Waistcoats of silk plush laying by. The women straight took lights,
And two beds made with utmost speed, and all the other rites
Their lord nam’d, us’d, who pleasantly the king in hand thus bore:
‘Good father, you must sleep without, lest any counsellor
Make his access in depth of night, as oft their industry
Brings them t’ impart our war-affairs, of whom should any eye
Discern your presence, his next steps to Agamemnon fly,
And then shall I lose all these gifts. But go to, signify
(And that with truth) how many days you mean to keep the state
Of Hector’s funerals, because so long would I rebate
Mine own edge, set to sack your town, and all our host contain
From interruption of your rites.’ He answer’d: ‘If you mean
To suffer such rites to my son, you shall perform a part
Of most grace to me. But you know with how dismay’d a heart
Our host took Troy, and how much fear will therefore apprehend
Their spirits to make out again, so far as we must send
For wood to raise our heap of death,
unless I may assure
That this your high grace will stand good, and make their pass secure;
Which if you seriously confirm, nine days I mean to mourn,
The tenth, keep funeral and feast, th’ eleventh raise and adorn
My son’s fit sepulchre. The twelfth (if we must needs) we’ll fight.’
‘Be it,’ replied Aeacides. ‘Do Hector all this right;
I’ll hold war back those whole twelve days; of which, to free all fear,
Take this my right hand.’ This confirm’d, the old king rested there,
His herald lodg’d by him, and both in forepart of the tent –
Achilles in an inmost room of wondrous ornament,
Whose side bright-cheek’d Briseis warm’d. Soft sleep tam’d gods and men,
All but most useful Mercury; sleep could not lay one chain
On his quick temples, taking care for getting off again
Engaged Priam undiscern’d of those that did maintain
The sacred watch. Above his head he stood with this demand:
‘O father, sleep’st thou so secure still lying in the hand
Of so much ill, and being dismiss’d by great Aeacides?
’Tis true thou hast redeem’d the dead, but for thy life’s release
(Should Agamemnon hear thee here) three times the price now paid
Thy sons’ hands must repay for thee.’ This said, the king, afraid,
Starts from his sleep, Idaeus call’d; and (for both) Mercury
The horse and mules (before loos’d) join’d so soft and curiously,
That no ear heard, and thorough the host drave; but when they drew
To gulfy Xanthus’ bright-wav’d stream, up to Olympus flew
Industrious Mercury. And now the saffron morning rose,
Spreading her white robe over all the world, when (full of woes)
They scourg’d on with the corse to Troy, from whence no eye had seen
(Before Cassandra) their return. She (like love’s golden queen,
Ascending Pergamus) discern’d her father’s person nigh,
His herald, and her brother’s corse, and then she cast this cry
Round about Troy: ‘O Troÿans, if ever ye did greet
Hector return’d from fight alive, now look ye out, and meet
His ransom’d person. Then his worth was all your city’s joy,
Now do it honour.’ Out all rush’d, woman nor man in Troy
Was left: a most unmeasur’d cry took up their voices. Close
To Scaea’s ports they met the corse, and to it headlong goes
The reverend mother, the dear wife, upon it strow their hair,
And he entranced. Round about the people broke the air
In lamentations, and all day had stay’d the people there,
If Priam had not cried: ‘Give way, give me but leave to bear
The body home, and mourn your fills.’ Then cleft the press, and gave
Way to the chariot. To the court herald Idaeus drave,
Where on a rich bed they bestow’d the honour’d person, round
Girt it with singers that the woe with skilful voices crown’d.
A woeful elegy they sung, wept singing, and the dames
Sigh’d as they sung. Andromache the downright prose exclaims
Began to all; she on the neck of slaughter’d Hector fell,
And cried out: ‘O my husband! Thou in youth bad’st youth farewell,
Left’st me a widow, thy sole son an infant. Ourselves curs’d
In our birth, made him right our child, for all my care that nurs’d
His infancy will never give life to his youth; ere that
Troy from her top will be destroy’d. Thou guardian of our state,
Thou ev’n of all her strength the strength, thou that in care wert past
Her careful mothers of their babes, being gone, how can she last?
Soon will the swoln fleet fill her womb with all their servitude,
Myself with them, and thou with me (dear son) in labours rude
Shalt be employ’d, sternly survey’d by cruel conquerors,
Or, rage not suffering life so long, some one whose hate abhors
Thy presence (putting him in mind of his sire slain by thine,
His brother, son, or friend) shall work thy ruin before mine,
Toss’d from some tow’r, for many Greeks have eat earth from the hand
Of thy strong father: in sad fight his spirit was too much mann’d,
And therefore mourn his people – we, thy parents (my dear lord)
For that thou mak’st endure a woe, black and to be abhorr’d.
Of all yet thou hast left me worst, not dying in thy bed,
And reaching me thy last-rais’d hand, in nothing counselled,
Nothing commanded by that pow’r thou hadst of me, to do
Some deed for thy sake: O for these will never end my woe,
Never my tears cease.’ Thus wept she, and all the ladies clos’d
Her passion with a general shriek. Then Hecuba dispos’d
Her thoughts in like words: ‘O my son, of all mine much most dear;
Dear while thou liv’st too even to gods: and after death they were
Careful to save thee. Being best, thou most wert envied;
My other sons Achilles sold; but thee he left not, dead.
Imber and Samos, the false ports of Lemnos, entertain’d
Their persons; thine, no port but death, nor there in rest remain’d
Thy violated corse, the tomb of his great friend was spher’d
With thy dragg’d person; yet from death he was not therefore rear’d.
But (all his rage us’d) so the gods have tender’d thy dead state;
Thou liest as living, sweet and fresh as he that felt the fate
Of Phoebus’ holy shafts.’ These words the queen us’d for her moan,
And next her, Helen held that state of speech and passion.
‘O Hector, all my brothers more were not so lov’d of me
As thy most virtues. Not my lord I held so dear as thee,
That brought me hither; before which, I would I had been brought
To ruin, for what breeds that wish (which is the mischief wrought
By my access) yet never found one harsh taunt, one word’s ill
From thy sweet carriage. Twenty years do now their circles fill
Since my arrival, all which time thou didst not only bear
Thyself without check, but all else, that my lord’s brothers were,
Their sisters’ lords, sisters themselves, the queen my mother-in-law
(The king being never but most mild), when thy man’s spirit saw
Sour and reproachful, it would still reprove their bitterness
With sweet words and thy gentle soul. And therefore thy decease
I truly mourn for, and myself curse as the wretched cause,
All broad Troy yielding me not one that any human laws
Of pity or forgiveness mov’d t’ entreat me humanly,
But only thee; all else abhorr’d me for my destiny.’
These words made ev’n the commons mourn, to whom the king said: ‘Friends,
Now fetch wood for our funeral fire, nor fear the foe intends
Ambush, or any violence; Achilles gave his word
At my dismission, that twelve days he would keep sheath’d his sword,
And all men’s else. Thus oxen, mules, in chariots straight they put,
Went forth, and an unmeasur’d pile of sylvan matter cut,
Nine days employ’d in carri
age, but when the tenth morn shin’d
On wretched mortals, then they brought the fit-to-be-divin’d
Forth to be burn’d: Troy swum in tears. Upon the pile’s most height
They laid the person, and gave fire: all day it burn’d, all night;
But when th’ eleventh morn let on earth her rosy fingers shine,
The people flock’d about the pile, and first with blackish wine
Quench’d all the flames. His brothers then and friends the snowy bones
Gather’d into an urn of gold, still pouring on their moans.
Then wrapt they in soft purple veils the rich urn; digg’d a pit,
Grav’d it; ramm’d up the grave with stones; and quickly built to it
A sepulchre. But while that work and all the funeral rites
Were in performance, guards were held at all parts, days and nights,
For fear of false surprise before they had impos’d the crown
To these solemnities. The tomb advanc’d once, all the town
In Jove-nurs’d Priam’s court partook a passing sumptuous feast;
And so horse-taming Hector’s rites gave up his soul to rest.
Thus far the Ilian ruins I have laid
Open to English eyes. In which (repaid
With thine own value) go, unvalued book,
Live, and be lov’d. If any envious look
Hurt thy clear fame, learn that no state more high
Attends on virtue than pin’d envy’s eye.
Would thou wert worth it that the best doth wound
Which this age feeds, and which the last shall bound.
Thus, with labour enough (though with more comfort in the merits of my divine author), I have brought my translation of his Iliads to an end. If, either therein, or in the harsh utterance or matter of my Comment before, I have, for haste, scattered with my burthen (less than fifteen weeks being the whole time that the last twelve books translation stood me in), I desire my present will and (I doubt not) ability (if God give life) to reform and perfect all hereafter, may be ingenuously accepted for the absolute work – the rather, considering the most learned, with all their helps and time, have been so often, and unanswerably, miserably taken halting. In the mean time, that most assistful and unspeakable spirit, by whose thrice sacred conduct and inspiration I have finished this labour, diffuse the fruitful horn of his blessings through these goodness-thirsting watchings: without which, utterly dry and bloodless is whatsoever mortality soweth.