by John Dryden
THE WRATH of Peleus Son, O Muse, resound;
Whose dire Effects the Grecian Army found:
And many a Heroe, King, and hardy Knight,
Were sent, in early Youth, to Shades of Night:
Their Limbs a Prey to Dogs and Vultures made; 5
So was the Sov’reign Will of Jove obey’d:
From that ill-omen’d Hour when Strife begun,
Betwixt Atrides Great, and Thetis God-like Son.
What Pow’r provok’d, and for what Cause, relate,
Sow’d, in their Breasts, the Seeds of stern Debate: 10
Jove’s and Latona’s Son his Wrath express’d,
In Vengeance of his violated Priest,
Against the King of Men; who swoln with Pride.
Refus’d his Presents, and his Pray’rs deny’d.
For this the God a swift Contagion spread 15
Amid the Camp, where Heaps on Heaps lay dead.
For Venerable Chryses came to buy,
With Gold and Gifts of Price, his Daughter’s Liberty.
Suppliant before the Grecian chiefs he stood;
Awful, and arm’d with Ensigns of his God: 20
Bare was his hoary Head; one holy Hand
Held forth his Laurel Crown, and one his Sceptre of Command.
His Suit was common; but above the rest,
To both the Brother-Princes thus address’d:
Ye Sons of Atreus, and ye Grecian Pow’rs, 25
So may the Gods who dwell in Heav’nly Bow’rs
Succeed your Siege, accord the Vows you make,
And give you Troys Imperial Town to take;
So, by their happy Conduct, may you come
With Conquest back to your sweet Native Home; 30
As you receive the Ransom which I bring,
(Respecting love, and the far-shooting King,)
And break my Daughters Bonds, at my desire;
And glad with her Return her grieving Sire.
With Shouts of loud Acclaim the Greeks decree 35
To take the Gifts, to set the Damsel free.
The King of Men alone with Fury burn’d;
And haughty, these opprobrious Words return’d:
Hence, Holy Dotard, and avoid my Sight,
E’r Evil intercept thy tardy Flight: 40
Nor dare to tread this interdicted Strand,
Lest not that idle Sceptre in thy Hand,
Nor thy God’s Crown, my vow’d Revenge withstand.
Hence on thy Life: The Captive-Maid is mine;
Whom not for Price or Pray’rs I will resign: 45
Mine she shall be, till creeping Age and Time
Her Bloom have wither’d, and consum’d her Prime:
Till then my Royal Bed she shall attend;
And having first adorn’d it, late ascend:
This, for the Night; by Day, the Web and Loom 50
And homely Household-task, shall be her Doom,
Far from thy lov’d Embrace, and her sweet Native Home.
He said: The helpless Priest reply’d no more,
But sped his Steps along the hoarse-resounding Shore:
Silent he fled; secure at length he stood, 55
Devoutly curs’d his Foes, and thus invok’d his God.
O Source of Sacred Light, attend my Pray’r,
God with the Silver Bow, and Golden Hair;
Whom Chrysa, Cilla, Tenedos obeys,
And whose broad Eye their happy Soil surveys; 60
If, Smintheus, I have pour’d before thy Shrine
The Blood of Oxen, Goats, and ruddy Wine,
And Larded Thighs on loaded Altars laid,
Hear, and my just Revenge propitious aid,
Pierce the proud Greeks, and with thy Shafts attest 65
How much thy pow’r is injured in thy Priest.
He pray’d, and Phœbus hearing, urg’d his Flight,
With fury kindled, from Olympus Height;
His Quiver o’er his ample Shoulders threw;
His Bow twang’d, and his Arrows rattl’d as they flew. 70
Black as a stormy Night, he rang’d around
The Tents, and compass’d the devoted Ground.
Then with full Force his deadly Bowe he bent,
And Feather’d Fates among the Mules and Sumpters sent,
Th’ Essay of Rage, on faithful Dogs the next; 75
And last, in Humane Hearts his Arrows fix’d.
The God nine Days the Greeks at Rovers kill’d,
Nine Days the Camp with Fun’ral Fires was fill’d;
The tenth, Achilles, by the Queens Command,
Who bears Heav’ns awful Sceptre in her Hand, 80
A Council summon’d: for the Goddess griev’d
Her favour’d Hoast shou’d perish unreliev’d.
The Kings assembled, soon their Chief inclose;
Then from his Seat the Goddess-born arose,
And thus undaunted spoke: What now remains, 85
But that once more we tempt the watry Plains,
And wandring homeward, seek our Safety hence,
In Flight at least if we can find Defence?
Such Woes at once encompass us about,
The Plague within the Camp, the Sword without. 90
Consult, O King, the Prophets of th’ Event:
And whence these Ills, and what the Gods intent,
Let them by Dreams explore; for Dreams from Jove are sent.
What want of offer’d Victims, what Offence
In Fact committed cou’d the Sun incense, 95
To deal his deadly Shafts? What may remove
His settled Hate, and reconcile his Love?
That he may look propitious on our Toils;
And hungry Graves no more be glutted with our Spoils.
Thus to the King of Men the Hero spoke, 100
Then Calchas the desir’d Occasion took:
Calchas the sacred Seer, who had in view
Things present and the past; and Things to come foreknew,
Supream of Augurs, who by Phœbus taught,
The Grecian Pow’rs to Troy’s Destruction brought. 105
Skill’d in the secret Causes of their Woes,
The Reverend Priest in graceful Act arose:
And thus bespoke Pelides: Care of Jove,
Favour’d of all th’ Immortal Pow’rs above;
Wou’dst thou the Seeds deep sown of Mischief know, 110
And why, provok’d Apollo bends his bow?
Plight first thy Faith, inviolably true,
To save me from those Ills, that may ensue.
For I shall tell ungrateful Truths, to those
Whose boundless Pow’rs of Life and Death dispose. 115
And Sov’reigns, ever jealous of their State,
Forgive not those whom once they mark for Hate;
Ev’n tho’ th’ Offence they seemingly digest,
Revenge, like Embers, rak’d within their Breast,
Bursts forth in Flames; whose unresisted Pow’r 120
Will seize th’ unwary Wretch, and soon devour.
Such, and no less is he, on whom depends
The sum of Things; and whom my Tongue of force offends.
Secure me then from his foreseen Intent,
That what his Wrath may doom, thy Valour may prevent. 125
To this the stern Achilles made Reply:
Be bold; and on my plighted Faith rely,
To speak what Phœbus has inspir’d thy Soul
For common Good; and speak without controul.
His Godhead I invoke, by him I swear, 130
That while my Nostrils draw this vital Air,
None shall presume to violate those Bands;
Or touch thy Person with unhallow’d Hands:
Ev’n not the King of Men that all commands.
At this, resuming Heart, the Prophet said: 135
Nor Hecatombs unslain, nor Vows unpaid,
On Greeks, accurs’d, this dire Contagion brin
g;
Or call for Vengeance from the Bowyer King;
But he the Tyrant, whom none dares resist,
Affronts the Godhead in his injur’d Priest: 140
He keeps the Damsel Captive in his Chain,
And Presents are refus’d, and Pray’rs preferr’d in vain.
For this th’ avenging Pow’r employs his Darts;
And empties all his Quiver in our Hearts:
Thus will persist, relentless in his ire, 145
Till the fair Slave be render’d to her Syre:
And Ransom-free restor’d to his Abode,
With Sacrifice to reconcile the God:
Then he, perhaps, atton’d by Pray’r, may cease
His Vengeance justly vow’d, and give the Peace. 150
Thus having said, he sate: Thus answer’d then
Upstarting from his Throne, the King of Men,
His Breast with Fury fill’d, his Eyes with Fire;
Which rowling round, he shot in Sparkles on the Sire:
Augur of Ill, whose Tongue was never found 155
Without a Priestly Curse or boding Sound;
For not one bless’d Event foretold to me
Pass’d through that Mouth, or pass’d unwillingly.
And now thou dost with Lies the Throne invade,
By Practice harden’d in thy sland’ring Trade. 160
Obtending Heav’n, for what e’er Ills befal;
And sputtring under specious Names thy Gall.
Now Phœbus is provok’d; his Rites and Laws
Are in his Priest profan’d, and I the Cause:
Since I detain a Slave, my Sov’reign Prize; 165
And sacred Gold, your Idol-God, despise.
I love her well: And well her Merits claim,
To stand preferr’d before my Grecian Dame:
Not Clytemnestra’s self in Beauties Bloom
More charm’d, or better ply’d the various Loom: 170
Mine is the Maid; and brought in happy Hour
With every Household-grace adorn’d, to bless my Nuptial Bow’r.
Yet shall she be restor’d; since publick Good
For private Int’rest ought not to be withstood,
To save th’ Effusion of my People’s Blood. 175
But Right requires, if I resign my own,
I shou’d not suffer for your sakes alone;
Alone excluded from the Prize I gain’d,
And by your common Suffrage have obtain’d
The Slave without a Ransom shall be sent: 180
It rests for you to make th’ Equivalent.
To this the fierce Thessalian Prince reply’d:
O first in Pow’r, but passing all in Pride,
Griping, and still tenacious of thy Hold,
Would’st thou the Grecian Chiefs, though largely Sould, 185
Shou’d give the Prizes they had gain’d before,
And with their Loss thy Sacrilege restore?
Whate’er by force of Arms the Soldier got,
Is each his own, by dividend of Lot:
Which to resume, were both unjust, and base; 190
Not to be borne but by a servile Race.
But this we can: If Saturn’s Son bestows
The Sack of Troy, which he by Promise owes;
Then shall the conquering Greeks thy Loss restore,
And with large Int’rest make th’ advantage more. 195
To this Atrides answer’d, Though thy Boast
Assumes the foremost Name of all our Host,
Pretend not, mighty Man, that what is mine,
Controll’d by thee, I tamely shou’d resign.
Shall I release the Prize I gain’d by Right, 200
In taken Towns, and many a bloody Fight,
While thou detain’st Briseis in thy Bands,
By priestly glossing on the God’s Commands?
Resolve on this, (a short Alternative)
Quit mine, or, in Exchange, another give; 205
Else I, assure thy Soul, by Sov’reign Right
Will seize thy Captive in thy own Despight.
Or from stout Ajax, or Ulysses, bear
What other Prize my Fancy shall prefer:
Then softly murmur, or aloud complain, 210
Rage as you please, you shall resist in vain.
But more of this, in proper Time and Place;
To Things of greater Moment let us pass.
A Ship to sail the sacred Seas prepare;
Proud in her Trim; and put on board the Fair, 215
With Sacrifice and Gifts, and all the Pomp of Pray’r.
The Crew well chosen, the Command shall be
In Ajax; or if other I decree,
In Creta’s King, or Ithacus, or, if I please in Thee:
Most fit thy self to see perform’d th’ Intent 220
From which my Pris’ner from my Sight is sent;
(Thanks to thy pious Care) that Phœbus may relent.
At this, Achilles roul’d his furious Eyes,
Fix’d on the King askant; and thus replies:
O, Impudent, regardful of thy own, 225
Whose thoughts are center’d on thy self alone,
Advanc’d to Sovereign Sway, for better Ends
Than thus like abject Slaves to treat thy Friends.
What Greek is he, that urg’d by thy Command,
Against the Trojan Troops will lift his Hand? 230
Not I: Nor such inforc’d Respect I owe;
Nor Pergamus I hate, nor Priam is my Foe.
What Wrong from Troy remote, cou’d I sustain,
To leave my fruitful Soil, and happy Reign,
And plough the Surges of the stormy Main? 235
Thee, frontless Man, we follow’d from afar;
Thy Instruments of Death, and Tools of War.
Thine is the Triumph; ours the Toil alone:
We bear thee on our Backs, and mount thee on the Throne.
For thee we fall in Fight; for thee redress 240
Thy baffled Brother; not the Wrongs of Greece.
And now thou threaten’st with unjust Decree,
To punish thy affronting Heav’n, on me.
To seize the Prize which I so dearly bought;
By common Suffrage giv’n, confirm’d by Lot. 245
Mean Match to thine: For still above the rest,
Thy hook’d rapacious Hands usurp the best.
Though mine are first in Fight, to force the Prey;
And last sustain the Labours of the Day.
Nor grudge I thee the much the Grecians give; 250
Nor murm’ring take the little I receive.
Yet ev’n this little, thou, who woud’st ingross
The whole, Insatiate, envy’st as thy Loss.
Know, then, for Phthya fix’d is my return:
Better at home my ill-paid Pains to mourn, 255
Than from an Equal here sustain the publick Scorn.
The King, whose Brows with shining Gold were bound,
Who saw his Throne with scepter’d Slaves encompass’d round,
Thus answer’d stern: Go, at thy Pleasure, go:
We need not such a Friend, nor fear we such a Foe. 260
There will not want to follow me in Fight:
Jove will assist, and Jove assert my Right.
But thou of all the Kings, (his Care below)
Art least at my Command, and most my Foe.
Debates, Dissentions, Uproars are thy Joy; 265
Provok’d without Offence, and practis’d to destroy.
Strength is of Brutes; and not thy Boast alone;
At least ’tis lent from Heav’n; and not thy own.
Fly then, ill-manner’d, to thy Native Land,
And there, thy Ant-born Myrmidons command. 270
But mark this Menace; since I must resign
My black-ey’d Maid, to please the Pow’rs divine:
(A well-rigg’d Vessel in the Port attends,
Mann’d at my Charge, co
mmanded by my Friends)
The Ship shall waft her to her wish’d Abode, 275
Full fraught with holy Bribes to the far-shooting God.
This thus dispatch’d, I owe my self the Care,
My Fame and injur’d Honour to repair:
From thy own Tent, proud Man, in thy despight,
This Hand shall ravish thy pretended Right. 280
Briseis shall be mine, and thou shalt see,
What odds of awful Pow’r I have on thee:
That others at thy cost may learn the diff’rence of degree.
At this th’ Impatient Hero sowrly smil’d.
His Heart, impetuous in his Bosom boil’d, 285
And justled by two Tides of equal sway,
Stood, for a while, suspended in his way.
Betwixt his Reason and his Rage untam’d;
One whisper’d soft, and one aloud reclaim’d:
That only counsell’d to the safer side; 290
This to the Sword his ready Hand apply’d.
Unpunish’d to support th’ Affront was hard:
Nor easy was th’ Attempt to force the Guard.
But soon the Thirst of Vengeance fir’d his Blood:
Half shone his Faulchion, and half sheath’d it stood. 295
In that nice Moment, Pallas, from above,
Commission’d by th’ Imperial Wife of Jove,
Descended swift: (the white-arm’d Queen was loath
The Fight shou’d follow; for she favour’d both:)
Just as in Act he stood, in Clouds inshrin’d, 300
Her Hand she fasten’d on his Hair behind;
Then backward by his yellow Curls she drew;
To him and him alone confess’d in view.
Tam’d by superiour Force, he turn’d his Eyes
Aghast at first, and stupid with Surprize: 305
But by her sparkling Eyes, and ardent Look,
The Virgin-Warrior known, he thus bespoke.
Com’st thou, Celestial, to behold my Wrongs?
Then view the Vengeance which to Crimes belongs.
Thus He. The blue-ey’d Goddess thus rejoin’d: 310
I come to calm thy turbulence of Mind,
If Reason will resume her soveraign Sway,
And, sent by Juno, her Commands obey.
Equal she loves you both, and I protect:
Then give thy Guardian Gods their due respect; 315
And cease Contention; be thy Words severe,
Sharp as he merits: But the Sword forbear.
An Hour unhop’d already wings her way,