Of carnage rises, as the heroes fall.
(So Jove decreed!) At length the Greeks obtain 805
The prize contested, and despoil the slain.
The radiant arms are by Patroclus borne,
Patroclus’ ships the glorious spoils adorn.
Then thus to Phœbus in the realms above,
Spoke from his throne the cloud-compelling Jove: 810
‘Descend, my Phœbus! on the Phrygian plain,
And from the fight convey Sarpedon slain:
Then bathe his body in the crystal flood,
With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with blood:
O’er all his limbs ambrosial odours shed, 815
And with celestial robes adorn the dead.
Those rites discharged, his sacred corse bequeath
To the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death:
They to his friends the mournful charge shall bear
His friends a tomb and pyramid shall rear; 820
What honours mortals after death receive,
Those unavailing honours we may give.’
Apollo bows, and from Mount Ida’s height,
Swift to the field precipitates his flight;
Thence from the war the breathless hero bore, 825
Veil’d in a cloud to silver Simois’ shore;
There bathed his honourable wounds, and dress’d
His manly members in th’ immortal vest
And with perfumes of sweet ambrosial dews,
Restores his freshness, and his form renews. 830
Then Sleep and Death, two twins of winged race,
Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace,
Receiv’d Sarpedon at the God’s command,
And in a moment reach’d the Lycian land;
The corse amidst his weeping friends they laid, 835
Where endless honours wait the sacred shade.
Meanwhile Patroclus pours along the plains,
With foaming coursers, and with loosen’d reins:
Fierce on the Trojan and the Lycian crew,
Ah blind to Fate! thy headlong fury flew: 840
Against what Fate and powerful Jove ordain,
Vain was thy friend’s command, thy courage vain.
For he, the God, whose counsels uncontroll’d
Dismay the mighty, and confound the bold;
The God, who gives, resumes, and orders all, 845
He urged thee on, and urged thee on to fall.
Who first, brave hero! by that arm was slain,
Who last beneath thy vengeance press’d the plain,
When Heav’n itself thy fatal fury led,
And call’d to fill the number of the dead? 850
Adrestus first; Autonoüs then succeeds;
Echeclus follows; next young Megas bleeds;
Epistor, Menalippus, bite the ground:
The slaughter Elasus and Mulius crown’d:
Then sunk Pylartes to eternal night; 855
The rest, dispersing, trust their fates to flight.
Now Troy had stoop’d beneath his matchless power
But flaming Phœbus kept the sacred tower.
Thrice at the battlements Patroclus struck,
His blazing ægis thrice Apollo shook: 860
He tried the fourth; when, bursting from the cloud,
A more than mortal voice was heard aloud:
‘Patroclus! cease; this Heav’n-defended wall
Defies thy lance, not fated yet to fall;
Thy friend, thy greater far, it shall withstand, 865
Troy shall not stoop, ev’n to Achilles’ hand.’
So spoke the God who darts celestial fires:
The Greek obeys him, and with awe retires:
While Hector, checking at the Scæan gates
His panting coursers, in his breast debates, 870
Or in the field his forces to employ,
Or draw the troops within the walls of Troy.
Thus while he thought, beside him Phœbus stood,
In Asius’ shape, who reign’d by Sangar’s flood
(Thy brother, Hecuba! from Dymas sprung, 875
A valiant warrior, haughty, bold and young):
Thus he accosts him: ‘What a shameful sight!
Gods! is it Hector that forbears the fight?
Were thine my vigour, this successful spear
Should soon convince thee of so false a fear. 880
Turn thee, ah turn thee to the Field of Fame,
And in Patroclus’ blood efface thy shame.
Perhaps Apollo shall thy arms succeed,
And Heav’n ordains him by thy lance to bleed.’
So spoke th’ inspiring God: then took his flight, 885
And plunged amidst the tumult of the fight.
He bids Cebrion drive the rapid car;
The lash resounds, the coursers rush to war:
The God the Grecians’ sinking souls depress’d,
And pour’d swift spirits thro’ each Trojan breast. 890
Patroclus lights, impatient for the fight;
A spear his left, a stone employs his right:
With all his nerves he drives it at the foe;
Pointed above, and rough and gross below:
The falling ruin crush’d Cebrion’s head, 895
The lawless offspring of King Priam’s bed;
His front, brows, eyes, one undistinguish’d wound;
The bursting balls drop sightless to the ground.
The charioteer, while yet he held the rein,
Struck from the car, falls headlong on the plain. 900
To the dark shades the soul unwilling glides,
While the proud victor thus his fall derides:
‘Good Heav’ns! what active feats yon artist shews!
What skilful divers are our Phrygian foes!
Mark with what ease they sink into the sand! 905
Pity, that all their practice is by land!’
Then rushing sudden on his prostrate prize,
To spoil the carcass fierce Patroclus flies:
Swift as a lion, terrible and bold,
That sweeps the fields, depopulates the fold; 910
Pierc’d thro’ the dauntless heart, then tumbles slain;
And from his fatal courage finds his bane.
At once bold Hector, leaping from his car,
Defends the body, and provokes the war.
Thus for some slaughter’d hind, with equal rage, 915
Two lordly rulers of the wood engage;
Stung with fierce hunger each the prey invades,
And echoing roars rebellow thro’ the shades.
Stern Hector fastens on the warrior’s head,
And by the foot Patroclus drags the dead; 920
While all around, confusion, rage, and fright
Mix the contending hosts in mortal fight.
So, pent by hills, the wild winds roar aloud
In the deep bosom of some gloomy wood;
Leaves, arms, and trees, aloft in air are blown, 925
The broad oaks crackle, and the Sylvans groan;
This way and that the rattling thicket bends,
And the whole forest in one crash descends.
Not with less noise, with less tumultuous rage,
In dreadful shock the mingled hosts engage. 930
Darts shower’d on darts now round the carcass ring;
Now flights of arrows bounding from the string:
Stones follow stones; some clatter on the fields,
Some, hard and heavy, shake the sounding shields.
But where the rising whirlwind clouds the plains, 935
Sunk in soft dust the mighty Chief remains,
And, stretch’d in death, forgets the guiding reins!
Now, flaming from the zenith, Sol had driv’n
His fervid orb thro’ half the vault of Heav’n;
While on each host with equal tempest fell 940
The show’ring darts, and numbers
sunk to hell.
But when his evening wheels o’erhung the main,
Glad conquest rested on the Grecian train,
Then, from amidst the tumult and alarms,
They draw the conquer’d corse and radiant arms. 945
Then rash Patroclus with new fury glows,
And, breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes.
Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew,
And thrice three heroes at each onset slew.
There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine 950
The last black remnant of so bright a line;
Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way;
Death calls, and Heav’n allows no longer day!
For lo! the God in dusky clouds enshrin’d,
Approaching, dealt a stagg’ring blow behind. 955
The weighty shock his neck and shoulders feel;
His eyes flash sparkles, his stunn’d senses reel
In giddy darkness; far to distance flung,
His bounding helmet on the champaign rung.
Achilles’ plume is stain’d with dust and gore, 960
That plume which never stoop’d to earth before;
Long used, untouch’d, in fighting fields to shine,
And shade the temples of the man divine.
Jove dooms it now on Hector’s helm to nod;
Not long — for Fate pursues him, and the God. 965
His spear in shivers falls: his ample shield
Drops from his arm: his baldric strews the field:
The corslet his astonish’d breast forsakes;
Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes,
Stupid he stares, and all assistless stands: 970
Such is the force of more than mortal hands!
A Dardan youth there was, well known to fame,
From Panthus sprung, Euphorbus was his name;
Famed for the manage of the foaming horse,
Skill’d in the dart, manage of the foaming horse, 975
Full twenty knights he tumbled from the car,
While yet he learn’d his rudiments of war.
His venturous spear first drew the hero’s gore;
He struck, he wounded, but he durst no more;
Nor, tho’ disarm’d, Patroclus’ fury stood, 980
But swift withdrew the long-protended wood,
And turn’d him short, and herded in the crowd.
Thus by an arm divine, and mortal spear,
Wounded at once, Patroclus yields to fear,
Retires for succour to his social train, 985
And flies the fate which Heav’n decreed, in vain.
Stern Hector, as the bleeding Chief he views,
Breaks thro’ the ranks, and his retreat pursues:
The lance arrests him with a mortal wound;
He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound. 990
With him all Greece was sunk; that moment all
Her yet surviving heroes seem’d to fall.
So, scorch’d with heat, along the desert shore,
The roaming lion meets a bristly boar,
Fast by the spring; they both dispute the flood. 995
With flaming eyes and jaws besmear’d with blood;
At length the sov’reign savage wins the strife,
And the torn boar resigns his thirst and life.
Patroclus thus, so many Chiefs o’erthrown,
So many lives effused, expires his own. 1000
As dying now at Hector’s feet he lies,
He sternly views him, and triumphing cries:
‘Lie there, Patroclus! and with thee the joy,
Thy pride once promis’d, of subverting Troy;
The fancied scenes of Ilion wrapp’d in flames, 1005
And thy soft pleasures serv’d with captive dames!
Unthinking man! I fought those towers to free,
And guard that beauteous race from lords like thee:
But thou a prey to vultures shalt be made;
Thy own Achilles cannot lend thee aid; 1010
Tho’ much at parting that great Chief might say,
And much enjoin thee, this important day:
“Return not, my brave friend” (perhaps he said),
“Without the bloody arms of Hector dead.”
He spoke, Patroclus march’d, and thus he sped.’ 1015
Supine, and wildly gazing on the skies,
With faint expiring breath, the Chief replies:
‘Vain Boaster! cease, and know the Powers divine:
Jove’s and Apollo’s is this deed, not thine;
To Heav’n is owed whate’er your own you call, 1020
And Heav’n itself disarm’d me ere my fall.
Had twenty mortals, each thy match in might,
Opposed me fairly, they had sunk in fight:
By Fate and Phœbus was I first o’erthrown,
Euphorbus next; the third mean part thy own. 1025
But thou, Imperious! hear my latest breath;
The Gods inspire it, and it sounds thy death.
Insulting man, thou shalt be soon as I;
Black Fate hangs o’er thee, and thy hour draws nigh;
Ev’n now on life’s last verge I see thee stand. 1030
I see thee fall, and by Achilles’ hand.’
He faints; the soul unwilling wings her way
(The beauteous body left a load of clay),
Flits to the lone, uncomfortable coast;
A naked, wand’ring, melancholy ghost! 1035
Then Hector pausing, as his eyes he fed
On the pale carcass, thus address’d the dead:
‘From whence this boding speech, the stern decree
Of death denounc’d, or why denounc’d to me?
Why not as well Achilles’ fate be giv’n 1040
To Hector’s lance? who knows the will of Heav’n?’
Pensive he said: then, pressing as he lay
His breathless bosom, tore the lance away,
And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear
He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer. 1045
But swift Automedon with loosen’d reins,
Rapt in the chariot o’er the distant plains,
Far from his rage th’ immortal coursers drove;
Th’ immortal coursers were the gift of Jove.
Iliad Book XVII. The Seventh Battle, for the Body of Patroclus. — The Acts of Menelaus
THE ARGUMENT
Menelaus, upon the death of Patroclus, defends his body from the enemy: Euphorbus, who attempts it, is slain. Hector advancing, Menelaus retires; but soon returns with Ajax, and drives him off. This Glaucus objects to Hector as a flight, who thereupon puts on the armour he had won from Patroclus, and renews the battle. The Greeks give way, till Ajax rallies them: Æneas sustains the Trojans. Æneas and Hector attempt the chariot of Achilles, which is borne off by Automedon. The horses of Achilles deplore the loss of Patroclus; Jupiter covers his body with a thick darkness: the noble prayer of Ajax on that occasion. Menelaus sends Antilochus to Achilles, with the news of Patroclus’s death: then returns to the fight, where, though attacked with the utmost fury, he and Meriones, assisted by the Ajaces, bear off the body to the ships.
The time is the evening of the eight-and-twentieth day. The scene lies in the fields before Troy.
ON the cold earth divine Patroclus spread,
Lies pierc’d with wounds among the vulgar dead.
Great Menelaus, touch’d with gen’rous woe,
Springs to the front, and guards him from the foe:
Thus, round her new-fall’n young the heifer moves, 5
Fruit of her throes, and first-born of her loves;
And anxious (helpless as he lies, and bare)
Turns and re-turns her, with a mother’s care.
Opposed to each that near the carcass came,
His broad shield glimmers, and his lances flame. 10
The son of Panthus, skill’d the da
rt to send,
Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend:
‘This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low;
Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow.
To me the spoils my prowess won, resign; 15
Depart with life, and leave the glory mine.’
The Trojan thus: the Spartan Monarch burn’d
With gen’rous anguish, and in scorn return’d:
‘Laugh’st thou not, Jove! from thy superior throne,
When mortals boast of prowess not their own? 20
Not thus the lion glories in his might,
Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight;
Nor thus the boar (those terrors of the plain);
Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.
But far the vainest of the boastful kind 25
These sons of Panthus vent their haughty mind.
Yet ‘t was but late, beneath my conquering steel
This boaster’s brother, Hyperenor, fell:
Against our arm, which rashly he defied,
Vain was his vigour, and as vain his pride. 30
These eyes beheld him on the dust expire,
No more to cheer his spouse, or glad his sire.
Presumptuous youth! like his shall be thy doom,
Go, wait thy brother to the Stygian gloom;
Or, while thou may’st, avoid the threaten’d fate; 35
Fools stay to feel it, and are wise too late.’
Unmov’d, Euphorbus thus: ‘That action known,
Come, for my brother’s blood repay thy own.
His weeping father claims thy destin’d head,
And spouse, a widow in her bridal bed. 40
On these thy conquer’d spoils I shall bestow,
To soothe a consort’s and a parent’s woe.
No longer then defer the glorious strife,
Let Heav’n decide our Fortune, Fame, and Life.’
Swift as the word the missile lance he flings, 45
The well-aim’d weapon on the buckler rings,
But, blunted by the brass, innoxious falls:
On Jove, the father, great Atrides calls;
Nor flies the jav’lin from his arm in vain;
It pierc’d his throat, and bent him to the plain; 50
Wide thro’ the neck appears the grisly wound,
Prone sinks the warrior, and his arms resound.
The shining circlets of his golden hair,
Which ev’n the Graces might be proud to wear,
Instarr’d with gems and gold, bestrew the shore, 55
With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with gore.
As the young olive, in some sylvan scene,
Crown’d by fresh fountains with eternal green,
Lifts the gay head, in snowy flow’rets fair,
And plays and dances to the gentle air; 60
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 103