Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  Then had the Greeks eternal praise acquired,

  And Troy inglorious to her walls retired; 640

  But he, the God who darts ethereal flame,

  Shot down to save her, and redeem her fame.

  To young Agenor force divine he gave

  (Antenor’s offspring, haughty, bold, and brave):

  In aid of him, beside the beech he sat, 645

  And, wrapt in clouds, restrain’d the hand of Fate.

  When now the gen’rous youth Achilles spies,

  Thick beats his heart, the troubled motions rise

  (So, ere a storm, the waters heave and roll):

  He stops, and questions thus his mighty soul: 650

  ‘What! shall I fly this terror of the plain?

  Like others fly, and be like others slain?

  Vain hope! to shun him by the self-same road

  Yon line of slaughter’d Trojans lately trod.

  No: with the common heap I scorn to fall — 655

  What if they pass’d me to the Trojan wall,

  While I decline to yonder path that leads

  To Ida’s forests and surrounding shades?

  So may I reach, conceal’d, the cooling flood,

  From my tired body wash the dirt and blood, 660

  And, soon as Night her dusky veil extends,

  Return in safety to my Trojan friends.

  What if — ? But wherefore all this vain debate?

  Stand I to doubt within the reach of Fate?

  Ev’n now perhaps, ere yet I turn the wall, 665

  The fierce Achilles sees me, and I fall:

  Such is his swiftness, ‘t is in vain to fly,

  And such his valour, that who stands must die.

  Howe’er ‘t is better, fighting for the state,

  Here, and in public view, to meet my fate. 670

  Yet sure he too is mortal; he may feel

  (Like all the sons of earth) the force of steel:

  One only soul informs that dreadful frame;

  And Jove’s sole favour gives him all his fame.’

  He said, and stood, collected in his might; 675

  And all his beating bosom claim’d the fight.

  So from some deep-grown wood a panther starts,

  Rous’d from his thicket by a storm of darts:

  Untaught to fear or fly, he hears the sounds

  Of shouting hunters, and of clam’rous hounds; 680

  Tho’ struck, tho’ wounded, scarce perceives the pain,

  And the barb’d jav’lin stings his breast in vain;

  On their whole war, untamed the savage flies;

  And tears his hunter, or beneath him dies.

  Not less resolv’d Antenor’s valiant heir 685

  Confronts Achilles, and awaits the war,

  Disdainful of retreat: high-held before,

  His shield (a broad circumference) he bore;

  Then, graceful as he stood, in act to throw

  The lifted jav’lin, thus bespoke the foe: 690

  ‘How proud Achilles glories in his fame!

  And hopes this day to sink the Trojan name

  Beneath her ruins! Know, that hope is vain;

  A thousand woes, a thousand toils, remain.

  Parents and children our just arms employ, 695

  And strong, and many, are the sons of Troy:

  Great as thou art, ev’n thou may’st stain with gore

  These Phrygian fields, and press a foreign shore.’

  He said; with matchless force the jav’lin flung

  Smote on his Knee, the hollow cuishes rung 700

  Beneath the pointed steel; but safe from harms

  He stands impassive in th’ ethereal arms.

  Then, fiercely rushing on the daring foe,

  His lifted arm prepares the fatal blow;

  But, jealous of his fame, Apollo shrouds 705

  The godlike Trojan in a veil of clouds:

  Safe from pursuit, and shut from mortal view,

  Dismiss’d with fame, the favour’d youth withdrew.

  Meanwhile the God, to cover their escape,

  Assumes Agenor’s habit, voice, and shape, 710

  Flies from the furious Chief in this disguise;

  The furious Chief still follows where he flies.

  Now o’er the fields they stretch with lengthen’d strides,

  Now urge the course where swift Scamander glides:

  The God, now distant scarce a stride before, 715

  Tempts his pursuit, and wheels about the shore,

  While all the flying troops their speed employ,

  And pour on heaps into the walls of Troy:

  No stop, no stay: no thought to ask or tell,

  Who ‘scaped by flight, or who by battle fell. 720

  ‘T was tumult all, and violence of flight;

  And sudden joy confused, and mix’d affright:

  Pale Troy against Achilles shuts her gate;

  And nations breathe, deliver’d from their Fate.

  Iliad Book XXII. The Death of Hector

  THE ARGUMENT

  The Trojans being safe within the walls, Hector only stays to oppose Achilles. Priam is struck at his approach, and tries to persuade his son to re-enter the town. Hecuba joins her entreaties but in vain. Hector consults within himself what measures to take; but, at the advance of Achilles, his resolution fails him, and he flies: Achilles pursues him thrice round the walls of Troy. The Gods debate concerning the fate of Hector; at length Minerva descends to the aid of Achilles. She deludes Hector in the shape of Deïphobus; he stands the combat, and is slain. Achilles drags the dead body at his chariot, in the sight of Priam and Hecuba. Their lamentations, tears, and despair. Their cries reach the ears of Andromache, who, ignorant of this, was retired into the inner part of the palace; she mounts up to the walls, and beholds her dead husband. She swoons at the spectacle. Her excess of grief and lamentation.

  The thirtieth day still continues. The scene lies under the walls, and on the battlements of Troy.

  THUS to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear,

  The herded Ilians rush like driven deer;

  There safe, they wipe the briny drops away,

  And drown in bowls the labours of the day.

  Close to the walls, advancing o’er the fields, 5

  Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields,

  March, bending on, the Greeks’ embodied powers,

  Far-stretching in the shade of Trojan towers.

  Great Hector singly stay’d; chain’d down by Fate,

  There fix’d he stood before the Seæan gate; 10

  Still his bold arms determin’d to employ,

  The guardian still of long-defended Troy.

  Apollo now to tried Achilles turns

  (The Power confess’d in all his glory burns),

  ‘And what’ (he cries) ‘has Peleus’ son in view, 15

  With mortal speed a Godhead to pursue?

  For not to thee to know the Gods is giv’n,

  Unskill’d to trace the latent marks of Heav’n.

  What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain?

  Vain thy past labour, and thy present vain: 20

  Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow’d,

  While here thy frantic rage attacks a God.’

  The Chief incens’d: ‘Too partial God of Day!

  To check my conquest in the middle way:

  How few in Ilion else had refuge found! 25

  What gasping numbers now had bit the ground!

  Thou robb’st me of a glory justly mine,

  Powerful of Godhead, and of fraud divine:

  Mean fame, alas! for one of heav’nly strain,

  To cheat a mortal who repines in vain.’ 30

  Then to the city, terrible and strong,

  With high and haughty steps he tower’d along:

  So the proud courser, victor of the prize,

  To the near goal with double ardour flies.

  Him, a
s he blazing shot across the field, 35

  The careful eyes of Priam first beheld.

  Not half so dreadful rises to the sight,

  Thro’ the thick gloom of some tempestuous night,

  Orion’s dog (the year when autumn weighs),

  And o’er the feebler stars exerts his rays; 40

  Terrific glory! for his burning breath

  Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death.

  So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage:

  He strikes his rev’rend head, now white with age;

  He lifts his wither’d arms; obtests the skies; 45

  He calls his much-lov’d son with feeble cries:

  The son, resolv’d Achilles’ force to dare,

  Full at the Scæan gate expects the war:

  While the sad father on the rampart stands,

  And thus adjures him with extended hands: 50

  ‘Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone;

  Hector, my lov’d, my dearest, bravest son!

  Methinks already I behold thee slain,

  And stretch’d beneath that fury of the plain.

  Implacable Achilles! might’st thou be 55

  To all the Gods no dearer than to me!

  Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore,

  And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore!

  How many valiant sons I late enjoy’d,

  Valiant in vain! by thy curs’d arm destroy’d: 60

  Or, worse than slaughter’d, sold in distant isles

  To shameful bondage and unworthy toils.

  Two, while I speak, my eyes in vain explore,

  Two from one mother sprung, my Polydore,

  And loved Lycaon; now perhaps no more! 65

  Oh! if in yonder hostile camp they live,

  What heaps of gold, what treasures would I give!

  (Their grandsire’s wealth, by right of birth their own,

  Consign’d his daughter with Lelegia’s throne):

  But if (which Heav’n forbid) already lost, 70

  All pale they wander on the Stygian coast,

  What sorrows then must their sad mother know,

  What anguish I! unutterable woe!

  Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me,

  Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee. 75

  Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall;

  And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all!

  Save thy dear life: or if a soul so brave

  Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save.

  Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs; 80

  While yet thy father feels the woes he bears,

  Yet curs’d with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage

  (All trembling on the verge of helpless age)

  Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain!

  The bitter dregs of fortune’s cup to drain: 85

  To fill with scenes of death his closing eyes,

  And number all his days by miseries!

  My heroes slain, my bridal bed o’erturn’d,

  My daughters ravish’d, and my city burn’d,

  My bleeding infants dash’d against the floor; 90

  These I have yet to see, perhaps yet more!

  Perhaps ev’n I, reserv’d by angry Fate

  The last sad relic of my ruin’d state

  (Dire pomp of sovereign wretchedness!), must fall

  And stain the pavement of my regal hall; 95

  Where famish’d dogs, late guardians of my door,

  Shall lick their mangled master’s spatter’d gore.

  Yet for my sons I thank ye, Gods! ‘t was well:

  Well have they perish’d, for in fight they fell.

  Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best, 100

  Struck thro’ with wounds, all honest on the breast.

  But when the Fates, in fulness of their rage,

  Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age,

  In dust the rev’rend lineaments deform,

  And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm; 105

  This, this is misery! the last, the worst,

  That man can feel: man, fated to be curs’d!’

  He said, and acting what no words could say,

  Rent from his head the silver locks away.

  With him the mournful mother bears a part: 110

  Yet all their sorrows turn not Hector’s heart:

  The zone unbraced, her bosom she display’d;

  And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:

  ‘Have mercy on me, O my son! revere

  The words of age; attend a parent’s prayer! 115

  If ever thee in these fond arms I press’d,

  Or still’d thy infant clamours at this breast;

  Ah! do not thus our helpless years forego,

  But, by our walls secured, repel the foe.

  Against his rage if singly thou proceed, 120

  Should’st thou (but Heav’n avert it!) should’st thou bleed,

  Nor must thy corse lie honour’d on the bier,

  Nor spouse, nor mother, grace thee with a tear;

  Far from our pious rites, those dear remains

  Must feast the vultures on the naked plains.’ 125

  So they, while down their cheeks the torrents roll:

  But fix’d remains the purpose of his soul;

  Resolv’d he stands, and with a fiery glance

  Expects the hero’s terrible advance.

  So, roll’d up in his den, the swelling snake 130

  Beholds the traveller approach the brake;

  When, fed with noxious herbs, his turgid veins

  Have gather’d half the poisons of the plains;

  He burns, he stiffens with collected ire,

  And his red eyeballs glare with living fire. 135

  Beneath a turret, on his shield reclin’d,

  He stood, and question’d thus his mighty mind:

  ‘Where lies my way? To enter in the wall?

  Honour and shame th’ ungen’rous thought recall:

  Shall proud Polydamas before the gate 140

  Proclaim, his counsels are obey’d too late,

  Which timely follow’d but the former night,

  What numbers had been saved by Hector’s flight?

  That wise advice rejected with disdain,

  I feel my folly in my people slain. 145

  Methinks my suff’ring country’s voice I hear,

  But most, her worthless sons insult my ear,

  On my rash courage charge the chance of war,

  And blame those virtues which they cannot share.

  No — If I e’er return, return I must 150

  Glorious, my country’s terror laid in dust:

  Or if I perish, let her see my fall

  In field at least, and fighting for her wall.

  And yet suppose these measures I forego,

  Approach unarm’d, and parley with the foe, 155

  The warrior-shield, the helm, and lance lay down,

  And treat on terms of peace to save the town:

  The wife withheld, the treasure ill-detain’d

  (Cause of the war, and grievance of the land),

  With honourable justice to restore; 160

  And add half Ilion’s yet remaining store,

  Which Troy shall, sworn, produce; that injur’d Greece

  May share our wealth, and leave our walls in peace.

  But why this thought? unarm’d if I should go,

  What hope of mercy from this vengeful foe, 165

  But woman-like to fall, and fall without a blow?

  We greet not here, as man conversing man,

  Met at an oak, or journeying o’er a plain;

  No season now for calm, familiar talk,

  Like youths and maidens in an ev’ning walk: 170

  War is our business, but to whom is giv’n

  To die or triumph, that determine Heav’n!’

  Thus pond’ring, like a God th
e Greek drew nigh:

  His dreadful plumage nodded from on high;

  The Pelian jav’lin, in his better hand, 175

  Shot trembling rays that glitter’d o’er the land;

  And on his breast the beamy splendours shone

  Like Jove’s own lightning, or the rising sun.

  As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise,

  Struck by some God, he fears, recedes, and flies: 180

  He leaves the gates, he leaves the walls behind;

  Achilles follows like the winged wind.

  Thus at the panting dove the falcon flies

  (The swiftest racer of the liquid skies);

  Just when he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey, 185

  Obliquely wheeling thro’ th’ aærial way,

  With open beak and shrilling cries he springs,

  And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings:

  No less fore-right the rapid chase they held,

  One urged by fury, one by fear impell’d; 190

  Now circling round the walls their course maintain,

  Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain;

  Now where the fig-trees spread their umbrage broad

  (A wider compass), smoke along the road.

  Next by Scamander’s double source they bound, 195

  Where two famed fountains burst the parted ground:

  This hot thro’ scorching clefts is seen to rise,

  With exhalations steaming to the skies;

  That the green banks in summer’s heat o’erflows,

  Like crystal clear, and cold as winter snows. 200

  Each gushing fount a marble cistern fills,

  Whose polish’d bed receives the falling rills;

  Where Trojan dames (ere yet alarm’d by Greece)

  Wash’d their fair garments in the days of peace.

  By these they pass’d, one chasing, one in flight 205

  (The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might);

  Swift was the course; no vulgar prize they play,

  No vulgar victim must reward the day

  (Such as in races crown the speedy strife);

  The prize contended was great Hector’s life. 210

  As when some hero’s funerals are decreed,

  In grateful honour of the mighty dead;

  Where high rewards the vig’rous youth inflame

  (Some golden tripod, or some lovely dame),

  The panting coursers swiftly turn the goal, 215

  And with them turns the rais’d spectator’s soul:

  Thus three times round the Trojan wall they fly;

  The gazing Gods lean forward from the sky:

  To whom, while eager on the chase they look,

  The Sire of mortals and immortals spoke: 220

  ‘Unworthy sight! the man, belov’d of Heav’n,