The race of mortals, enter’d in my breast.
Not on the ground that haughty Fury treads, 95
But prints her lofty footsteps on the heads
Of mighty men; inflicting as she goes
Long-fest’ring wounds, inextricable woes!
Of old, she stalk’d amidst the bright abodes;
And Jove himself, the sire of men and Gods, 100
The world’s great ruler, felt her venom’d dart;
Deceiv’d by Juno’s wiles and female art.
For when Alcmena’s nine long months were run,
And Jove expected his immortal son,
To Gods and Goddesses th’ unruly joy 105
He shew’d, and vaunted of his matchless boy:
“From us” (he said) “this day an infant springs,
Fated to rule, and born a King of Kings.”
Saturnia ask’d an oath, to vouch the truth,
And fix dominion on the favour’d youth. 110
The Thund’rer, unsuspicious of the fraud,
Pronounc’d those solemn words that bind a God.
The joyful Goddess, from Olympus’ height,
Swift to Achaian Argos bent her flight.
Scarce seven moons gone, lay Sthenelus’s wife; 115
She push’d her ling’ring infant into life:
Her charms Alcmena’s coming labours stay,
And stop the babe just issuing to the day.
Then bids Saturnius bear his oath in mind;
“A youth” (said she) “of Jove’s immortal kind 120
Is this day born: from Sthenelus he springs,
And claims thy promise to be King of Kings.”
Grief seiz’d the Thund’rer, by his oath engaged;
Stung to the soul, he sorrow’d and he raged.
From his ambrosial head, where perch’d she sat, 125
He snatch’d the Fury-Goddess of Debate,
The dread, th’ irrevocable oath he swore,
Th’ immortal seats should ne’er behold her more;
And whirl’d her headlong down, for ever driv’n
From bright Olympus and the starry Heav’n; 130
Thence on the nether world the Fury fell;
Ordain’d with man’s contentious race to dwell.
Full oft the God his son’s hard toils bemoan’d,
Curs’d the dire Fury, and in secret groan’d.
Ev’n thus, like Jove himself, was I misled, 135
While raging Hector heap’d our camps with dead.
What can the errors of my rage atone?
My martial troops, my treasures, are thy own:
This instant from the navy shall be sent
Whate’er Ulysses promis’d at thy tent; 140
But thou! appeas’d, propitious to our prayer,
Resume thy arms, and shine again in war.’
‘O King of Nations! whose superior sway’
(Returns Achilles) ‘all our hosts obey!
To keep or send the presents be thy care; 145
To us, ‘t is equal: all we ask is war.
While yet we talk, or but an instant shun
The fight, our glorious work remains undone.
Let ev’ry Greek who sees my spear confound
The Trojan ranks, and deal destruction round, 150
With emulation, what I act, survey,
And learn from thence the business of the day.’
The son of Peleus thus: and thus replies
The great in councils, Ithacus the wise:
‘Tho’, godlike, thou art by no toils oppress’d, 155
At least our armies claim repast and rest:
Long and laborious must the combat be,
When by the Gods inspired, and led by thee.
Strength is derived from spirits and from blood,
And those augment by gen’rous wine and food; 160
What boastful son of war, without that stay,
Can last a hero thro’ a single day?
Courage may prompt; but, ebbing out his strength
Mere unsupported man must yield at length;
Shrunk with dry famine, and with toils declin’d, 165
The drooping body will desert the mind:
But built anew, with strength-conferring fare,
With limbs and soul untamed, he tires a war.
Dismiss the people then, and give command,
With strong repast to hearten ev’ry band; 170
But let the presents to Achilles made,
In full assembly of all Greece be laid.
The King of Men shall rise in public sight,
And solemn swear (observant of the rite),
That, spotless as she came, the maid removes, 175
Pure from his arms, and guiltless of his loves.
That done, a sumptuous banquet shall be made,
And the full price of injured honour paid.
Stretch not henceforth, O Prince! thy sov’reign might,
Beyond the bounds of reason and of right; 180
‘T is the chief praise that e’er to Kings belong’d,
To right with justice whom with power they wrong’d.’
To him the Monarch: ‘Just is thy decree,
Thy words give joy, and wisdom breathes in thee.
Each due atonement gladly I prepare; 185
And Heav’n regard me as I justly swear!
Here then awhile let Greece assembled stay,
Nor great Achilles grudge this short delay;
Till from the fleet our presents be convey’d,
And, Jove attesting, the firm compact made. 190
A train of noble youth the charge shall bear;
These to select, Ulysses, be thy care;
In order rank’d let all our gifts appear,
And the train of captives close the rear:
Talthybius shall the victim boar convey, 195
Sacred to Jove, and yon bright orb of day.’
‘For this’ (the stern Æacides replies)
‘Some less important season may suffice,
When the stern fury of the war is o’er,
And wrath extinguish’d burns my breast no more. 200
By Hector slain, their faces to the sky,
All grim with gaping wounds our heroes lie:
Those call to war! and, might my voice incite,
Now, now this instant should commence the fight.
Then, when the day’s complete, let gen’rous bowls, 205
And copious banquets, glad your weary souls.
Let not my palate know the taste of food,
Till my insatiate rage be cloy’d with blood:
Pale lies my friend, with wounds disfigured o’er,
And his cold feet are pointed to the door. 210
Revenge is all my soul! no meaner care,
Int’rest, or thought, has room to harbour there;
Destruction be my feast, and mortal wounds,
And scenes of blood, and agonizing sounds.’
‘O first of Greeks!’ (Ulysses thus rejoin’d) 215
‘The best and bravest of the warrior-kind!
Thy praise it is in dreadful camps to shine,
But old experience and calm wisdom, mine.
Then hear my counsel, and to reason yield;
The bravest soon are satiate of the field; 220
Tho’ vast the heaps that strew the crimson plain,
The bloody harvest brings but little gain:
The scale of conquest ever wav’ring lies,
Great Jove but turns it, and the victor dies!
The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall, 225
And endless were the grief to weep for all.
Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?
Greece honours not with solemn fasts the dead:
Enough, when death demands the brave, to pay
The tribute of a melancholy day. 230
One Chief with patience to the grave resign’d,
Our care devol
ves on others left behind.
Let gen’rous food supplies of strength produce,
Let rising spirits flow from sprightly juice,
Let their warm heads with scenes of battle glow, 235
And pour new furies on the feebler foe.
Yet a short interval, and none shall dare
Expect a second summons to the war;
Who waits for that, the dire effect shall find,
If trembling in the ships he lags behind. 240
Embodied, to the battle let us bend,
And all at once on haughty Troy descend.’
And now the delegates Ulysses sent,
To bear the presents from the royal tent.
The sons of Nestor, Phyleus’ valiant heir, 245
Thoas and Merion, thunderbolts of war,
With Lycomedes of Creiontian strain,
And Melanippus, form’d the chosen train.
Swift as the word was giv’n, the youths obey’d;
Twice ten bright vases in the midst they laid; 250
A row of six fair tripods then succeeds;
And twice the number of high-bounding steeds;
Sev’n captives next a lovely line compose;
The eighth Briseïs, like the blooming rose,
Closed the bright band: great Ithacus before, 255
First of the train, the golden talents bore:
The rest in public view the Chiefs dispose,
A splendid scene! Then Agamemnon rose:
The boar Talthybius held: the Grecian lord
Drew the broad cutlass sheathed beside his sword; 260
The stubborn bristles from the victim’s brow
He crops, and, off’ring, meditates his vow.
His hands uplifted to th’ attesting skies,
On Heav’n’s broad marble roof were fix’d his eyes;
The solemn words a deep attention draw, 265
And Greece around sat thrill’d with sacred awe.
‘Witness, thou first! thou greatest Power above;
All-good, all-wise, and all-surveying Jove!
And mother Earth, and Heav’n’s revolving light,
And ye, fell Furies of the realms of night, 270
Who rule the dead, and horrid woes prepare
For perjured kings, and all who falsely swear!
The black-eyed maid inviolate removes,
Pure and unconscious of my manly loves.
If this be false, Heav’n all its vengeance shed, 275
And levell’d thunder strike my guilty head!’
With that, his weapon deep inflicts the wound:
The bleeding savage tumbles to the ground:
The sacred Herald rolls the victim slain
(A feast for fish) into the foaming main. 280
Then thus Achilles: ‘Hear, ye Greeks! and know
Whate’er we feel, ‘t is Jove inflicts the woe:
Not else Atrides could our rage inflame,
Nor from my arms, unwilling, force the dame.
‘T was Jove’s high will alone, o’er-ruling all, 285
That doom’d our strife, and doom’d the Greeks to fall.
Go then, ye Chiefs! indulge the genial rite:
Achilles waits ye, and expects the fight.’
The speedy council at his word adjourn’d;
To their black vessels all the Greeks return’d: 290
Achilles sought his tent. His train before
March’d onward, bending with the gifts they bore.
Those in the tents the squires industrious spread;
The foaming coursers to the stalls they led.
To their new seats the female captives move: 295
Briseïs, radiant as the Queen of Love,
Slow as she pass’d, beheld with sad survey
Where, gash’d with cruel wounds, Patroclus lay.
Prone on the body fell the heav’nly Fair,
Beat her sad breast, and tore her golden hair; 300
All-beautiful in grief, her humid eyes,
Shining with tears, she lifts, and thus she cries:
‘Ah youth! for ever dear, for ever kind,
Once tender friend of my distracted mind!
I left thee fresh in life, in beauty gay; 305
Now find thee cold, inanimated clay!
What woes my wretched race of life attend!
Sorrows on sorrows, never doom’d to end!
The first lov’d consort of my virgin bed
Before these eyes in fatal battle bled: 310
My three brave brothers in one mournful day
All trod the dark irremeable way:
Thy friendly arm uprear’d me from the plain,
And dried my sorrows for a husband slain;
Achilles’ care you promis’d I should prove, 315
The first, the dearest partner of his love;
That rites divine should ratify the band,
And make me Empress in his native land.
Accept these grateful tears! for thee they flow,
For thee, that ever felt another’s woe!’ 320
Her sister captives echoed groan for groan,
Nor mourn’d Patroclus’ fortunes, but their own.
The leaders press’d the Chief on ev’ry side;
Unmov’d he heard them, and with sighs denied:
‘If yet Achilles have a friend, whose care 325
Is bent to please him, this request forbear:
Till yonder sun descend, ah, let me pay
To grief and anguish one abstemious day.’
He spoke, and from the warriors turn’d his face:
Yet still the Brother-Kings of Atreus’ race, 330
Nestor, Idomeneus, Ulysses sage,
And Phœnix, strive to calm his grief and rage:
His rage they calm not, nor his grief control:
He groans, he raves, he sorrows from his soul.
‘Thou too, Patroclus’ (thus his heart he vents)! 335
‘Hast spread th’ inviting banquet in our tents;
Thy sweet society, thy winning care,
Oft stay’d Achilles, rushing to the war.
But now, alas! to death’s cold arms resign’d,
What banquet but revenge can glad my mind? 340
What greater sorrow could afflict my breast,
What more, if hoary Peleus were deceas’d?
Who now, perhaps, in Phthia dreads to hear
His son’s sad fate, and drops a tender tear.
What more, should Neoptolemus the brave 345
(My only offspring) sink into the grave?
If yet that offspring lives (I distant far,
Of all neglectful, wage a hateful war).
I could not this, this cruel stroke attend;
Fate claim’d Achilles, but might spare his friend. 350
I hoped Patroclus might survive to rear
My tender orphan with a parent’s care,
From Scyros’ isle conduct him o’er the main,
And glad his eyes with his paternal reign,
The lofty palace, and the large domain. 355
For Peleus breathes no more the vital air;
Or drags a wretched life of age and care,
But till the news of my sad fate invades
His hast’ning soul, and sinks him to the shades.’
Sighing he said: his grief the heroes join’d, 360
Each stole a tear, for what he left behind.
Their mingled grief the Sire of Heav’n survey’d,
And thus, with pity, to his Blue-eyed Maid:
‘Is then Achilles now no more thy care,
And dost thou thus desert the great in war? 365
Lo, where yon sails their canvas wings extend,
All comfortless he sits, and wails his friend:
Ere thirst and want his forces have oppress’d,
Haste and infuse ambrosia in his breast.’
He spoke, and sudden at the word of Jove 370
Shot the descending Godd
ess from above.
So swift thro’ ether the shrill Harpy springs,
The wide air floating to her ample wings.
To great Achilles she her flight address’d,
And pour’d divine ambrosia in his breast, 375
With nectar sweet (refection of the Gods)!
Then, swift ascending, sought the bright abodes.
Now issued from the ships the warrior train,
And like a deluge pour’d upon the plain.
As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow, 380
And scatter o’er the fields the driving snow;
From dusky clouds the fleecy winter flies,
Whose dazzling lustre whitens all the skies:
So helms succeeding helms, so shields from shields
Catch the quick beams, and brighten all the fields; 385
Broad glitt’ring breast-plates, spears with pointed rays,
Mix in one stream, reflecting blaze on blaze:
Thick beats the centre as the coursers bound,
With splendour flame the skies, and laugh the fields around.
Full in the midst, high-tow’ring o’er the rest, 390
His limbs in arms divine Achilles dress’d;
Arms which the Father of the Fire bestow’d,
Forged on th’ eternal anvils of the God.
Grief and revenge his furious heart inspire,
His glowing eye-balls roll with living fire; 395
He grinds his teeth, and furious with delay
O’erlooks th’ embattled host, and hopes the bloody day.
The silver cuishes first his thighs infold;
Then o’er his breast was braced the hollow gold:
The brazen sword a various baldric tied, 400
That, starr’d with gems, hung glitt’ring at his side;
And, like the moon, the broad refulgent shield
Blazed with long rays, and gleam’d athwart the field.
So to night-wand’ring sailors, pale with fears,
Wide o’er the wat’ry waste a light appears, 405
Which on the far-seen mountain blazing high,
Streams from some lonely watch-tower to the sky:
With mournful eyes they gaze and gaze again;
Loud howls the storm, and drives them o’er the main.
Next, his high head the helmet graced; behind 410
The sweepy crest hung floating in the wind:
Like the red star, that from his flaming hair
Shakes down diseases, pestilence, and war;
So stream’d the golden honours from his head,
Trembled the sparkling plumes, and the loose glories shed. 415
The Chief beholds himself with wond’ring eyes;
His arms he poises, and his motions tries;
Buoy’d by some inward force, he seems to swim,
And feels a pinion lifting ev’ry limb.
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 109