Behold, inglorious round yon city driv’n!
My heart partakes the gen’rous Hector’s pain;
Hector, whose zeal whole hecatombs has slain,
Whose grateful fumes the Gods receiv’d with joy, 225
From Ida’s summits, and the towers of Troy:
Now see him flying! to his fears resign’d,
And Fate, and fierce Achilles, close behind.
Consult, ye Powers (‘t is worthy your debate)
Whether to snatch him from impending Fate, 230
Or let him bear, by stern Pelides slain
(Good as he is), the lot imposed on man?’
Then Pallas thus: ‘Shall he whose vengeance forms
The forky bolt, and blackens Heav’n with storms,
Shall he prolong one Trojan’s forfeit breath, 235
A man a mortal, pre-ordain’d to death?
And will no murmurs fill the courts above?
No Gods indignant blame their partial Jove?’
‘Go then’ (return’d the Sire), ‘without delay;
Exert thy will: I give the Fates their way.’ 240
Swift at the mandate pleas’d Tritonia flies,
And stoops impetuous from the cleaving skies.
As thro’ the forest, o’er the vale and lawn,
The well-breathed beagle drives the flying fawn;
In vain he tries the covert of the brakes, 245
Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes:
Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews,
The certain hound his various maze pursues:
Thus step by step, where’er the Trojan wheel’d,
There swift Achilles compass’d round the field. 250
Oft as to reach the Dardan gates he bends,
And hopes th’ assistance of his pitying friends
(Whose show’ring arrows, as he cours’d below,
From the high turrets might oppress the foe),
So oft Achilles turns him to the plain: 255
He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain.
As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace
One to pursue, and one to lead the chase,
Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake,
Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake: 260
No less the lab’ring heroes pant and strain;
While that but flies, and this pursues, in vain.
What God, O Muse! assisted Hector’s force,
With Fate itself so long to hold the course?
Phæbus it was: who, in his latest hour, 265
Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power;
And great Achilles, lest some Greek’s advance
Should snatch the glory from his lifted lance,
Sign’d to the troops, to yield his foe the way,
And leave untouch’d the honours of the day. 270
Jove lifts the golden balances, that show
The fates of mortal men, and things below:
Here each contending hero’s lot he tries,
And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies.
Low sinks the scale surcharg’d with Hector’s fate; 275
Heavy with death it sinks, and Hell receives the weight.
Then Phæbus left him. Fierce Minerva flies
To stern Pelides, and, triumphing, cries:
‘Oh lov’d of Jove! this day our labours cease,
And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece. 280
Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far,
Drunk with renown, insatiable of war,
Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force nor flight
Shall more avail him, nor his God of Light.
See, where in vain he supplicates above, 285
Roll’d at the feet of unrelenting Jove!
Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on,
And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun.’
Her voice divine the Chief with joyful mind
Obey’d, and rested, on his lance reclin’d. 290
While like Deïphobus the Martial Dame
(Her face, her gesture, and her arms, the same),
In show an aid, by hapless Hector’s side
Approach’d, and greets him thus with voice belied:
‘Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight 295
Of this distress, and sorrow’d in thy flight:
It fits us now a noble stand to make,
And here, as brothers, equal fates partake.’
Then he: ‘O Prince! allied in blood and fame,
Dearer than all that own a brother’s name; 300
Of all that Hecuba to Priam bore,
Long tried, long lov’d; much lov’d, but honour’d more!
Since you of all our numerous race alone
Defend my life, regardless of your own.’
Again the Goddess: ‘Much my father’s prayer, 305
And much my mother’s, press’d me to forbear:
My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay,
But stronger love impell’d, and I obey.
Come then, the glorious conflict let us try,
Let the steel sparkle and the jav’lin fly; 310
Or let us stretch Achilles on the field,
Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield.’
Fraudful she said; then swiftly march’d before;
The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more.
Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke; 315
His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke:
‘Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view’d
Her walls thrice circled, and her Chief pursued.
But now some God within me bids me try
Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die. 320
Yet on the verge of battle let us stay,
And for a moment’s space suspend the day:
Let Heav’n’s high Powers be call’d to arbitrate
The just conditions of this stern debate
(Eternal witnesses of all below, 325
And faithful guardians of the treasured vow)!
To them I swear: if, victor in the strife,
Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life,
No vile dishonour shall thy corse pursue;
Stripp’d of its arms alone (the conqueror’s due), 330
The rest to Greece uninjur’d I ‘ll restore:
Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more.’
‘Talk not of oaths’ (the dreadful Chief replies,
While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes),
‘Detested as thou art, and ought to be, 335
Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee;
Such pacts, as lambs and rabid wolves combine,
Such leagues, as men and furious lions join,
To such I call the Gods! one constant state
Of lasting rancour and eternal hate: 340
No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife,
Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life.
Rouse then thy forces this important hour,
Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power.
No farther subterfuge, no farther chance; 345
‘T is Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my lance.
Each Grecian ghost by thee deprived of breath,
Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death.’
He spoke, and launch’d his jav’lin at the foe;
But Hector shunn’d the meditated blow: 350
He stoop’d, while o’er his head the flying spear
Sung innocent, and spent its force in air.
Minerva watch’d it falling on the land,
Then drew, and gave to great Achilles’ hand,
Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy, 355
Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy:
‘The life you boasted to that jav’lin giv’n,
Prince! you have miss’d. My fate depends on Heav’n.
To thee (presum
ptuous as thou art) unknown
Or what must prove my fortune, or thy own. 360
Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind,
And with false terrors sink another’s mind.
But know, whatever fate I am to try,
By no dishonest wound shall Hector die;
I shall not fall a fugitive at least, 365
My soul shall bravely issue from my breast.
But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart
End all my country’s woes, deep buried in thy heart!’
The weapon flew, its course unerring held;
Unerring, but the heav’nly shield repell’d 370
The mortal dart; resulting with a bound
From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground.
Hector beheld his jav’lin fall in vain,
Nor other lance nor other hope remain;
He calls Deïphobus, demands a spear, 375
In vain, for no Deïphobus was there.
All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh,
‘‘T is so — Heav’n wills it, and my hour is nigh!
I deem’d Deïphobus had heard my call,
But he secure lies guarded in the wall. 380
A God deceiv’d me; Pallas, ‘t was thy deed:
Death and black Fate approach! ‘t is I must bleed:
No refuge now, no succour from above,
Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove,
Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome Fate! 385
‘T is true I perish, yet I perish great:
Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,
Let future ages hear it, and admire!’
Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew,
And, all collected, on Achilles flew. 390
So Jove’s bold bird, high balanc’d in the air,
Stoops from the clouds to truss the quiv’ring hare.
Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares;
Before his breast the flaming shield he bears,
Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone 395
The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun,
Nodding at ev’ry step (Vulcanian frame)!
And as he mov’d, his figure seem’d on flame.
As radiant Hesper shines with keener light,
Far-beaming o’er the silver host of night, 400
When all the starry train emblaze the sphere:
So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear.
In his right hand he waves the weapon round,
Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound:
But the rich mail Patroclus lately wore, 405
Securely cased the warrior’s body o’er.
One place at length he spies, to let in Fate,
Where ‘twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate
Gave entrance: thro’ that penetrable part
Furious he drove the well-directed dart: 410
Nor pierc’d the windpipe yet, nor took the power
Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour.
Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies,
While thus, triumphing, stern Achilles cries:
‘At last is Hector stretch’d upon the plain, 415
Who fear’d no vengeance for Patroclus slain:
Then, Prince! you should have fear’d, what now you feel;
Achilles absent was Achilles still.
Yet a short space the great avenger stay’d,
Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid. 420
Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn’d,
For ever honour’d, and for ever mourn’d:
While, cast to all the rage of hostile power,
Thee birds shall mangle, and thee dogs devour.’
Then Hector, fainting at th’ approach of death: 425
‘By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath!
By all the sacred prevalence of prayer;
Ah, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear!
The common rites of sepulture bestow,
To soothe a father’s and a mother’s woe; 430
Let their large gifts procure an urn at least,
And Hector’s ashes in his country rest.’
‘No, wretch accurs’d!’ relentless he replies
(Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes),
‘Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare, 435
Nor all the sacred prevalence of prayer.
Could I myself the bloody banquet join!
No — to the dogs that carcass I resign.
Should Troy to bribe me bring forth all her store,
And, giving thousands, offer thousands more; 440
Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame,
Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame;
Their Hector on the pile they should not see,
Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee.’
Then thus the Chief his dying accents drew: 445
‘Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew:
The Furies that relentless breast have steel’d,
And curs’d thee with a heart that cannot yield.
Yet think, a day will come, when Fate’s decree
And angry Gods shall wreak this wrong on thee; 450
Phœbus and Paris shall avenge my fate,
And stretch thee here, before this Scæan gate.’
He ceas’d: the Fates suppress’d his lab’ring breath,
And his eyes stiffen’d at the hand of death;
To the dark realm the spirit wings its way 455
(The manly body left a load of clay),
And plaintive glides along the dreary coast,
A naked, wand’ring, melancholy ghost!
Achilles, musing as he roll’d his eyes
O’er the dead hero, thus (unheard) replies: 460
‘Die thou the first! when Jove and Heav’n ordain,
I follow thee.’ He said, and stripp’d the slain.
Then, forcing backward from the gaping wound
The reeking jav’lin, cast it on the ground.
The thronging Greeks behold with wond’ring eyes 465
His manly beauty and superior size:
While some, ignobler, the great dead deface
With wounds ungen’rous, or with taunts disgrace.
‘How changed that Hector! who, like Jove, of late
Sent lightning on our fleets and scatter’d Fate!’ 470
High o’er the slain the great Achilles stands,
Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands;
And thus aloud, while all the host attends:
‘Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends!
Since now at length the powerful will of Heav’n 475
The dire destroyer to our arm has giv’n,
Is not Troy fall’n already? Haste, ye Powers!
See if already their deserted towers
Are left unmann’d; or if they yet retain
The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain? 480
But what is Troy, or glory what to me?
Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee,
Divine Patroclus! Death has seal’d his eyes;
Unwept, unhonour’d, uninterr’d he lies!
Can his dear image from my soul depart, 485
Long as the vital spirit moves my heart?
If, in the melancholy shades below,
The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow,
Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay’d,
Burn on thro’ death, and animate my shade. 490
Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring
The corse of Hector, and your Pæans sing.
Be this the song, slow moving tow’rd the shore,
“Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more.” ‘
Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred 495
(Unworthy of himself, and of the dead);
The nervous ancles bored, h
is feet he bound
With thongs inserted thro’ the double wound;
These fix’d up high behind the rolling wain,
His graceful head was trail’d along the plain. 500
Proud on his car th’ insulting victor stood,
And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood.
He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies;
The sudden clouds of circling dust arise.
Now lost is all that formidable air; 505
The face divine, and long-descending hair,
Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand;
Deform’d, dishonour’d, in his native land!
Giv’n to the rage of an insulting throng!
And, in his parents’ sight, now dragg’d along. 510
The mother first beheld with sad survey;
She rent her tresses, venerably grey,
And cast far off the regal veils away.
With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans,
While the sad father answers groans with groans; 515
Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o’erflow,
And the whole city wears one face of woe:
No less than if the rage of hostile fires,
From her foundations curling to her spires,
O’er the proud citadel at length should rise, 520
And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies.
The wretched Monarch of the falling state,
Distracted, presses to the Dardan gate:
Scarce the whole people stop his desp’rate course,
While strong affliction gives the feeble force: 525
Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro,
In all the raging impotence of woe.
At length he roll’d in dust, and thus begun,
Imploring all, and naming one by one:
‘Ah! let me, let me go where sorrow calls; 530
I, only I, will issue from your walls
(Guide or companion, friends! I ask ye none),
And bow before the murd’rer, of my son:
My grief perhaps his pity may engage;
Perhaps at least he may respect my age. 535
He has a father too; a man like me;
One not exempt from age and misery
(Vig’rous no more, as when his young embrace
Begot this pest of me, and all my race).
How many valiant sons, in early bloom, 540
Has that curs’d hand sent headlong to the tomb!
Thee, Hector! last; thy loss (divinely brave)!
Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave.
Oh had thy gentle spirit pass’d in peace,
The son expiring in the sire’s embrace, 545
While both thy parents wept thy fatal hour,
And, bending o’er thee, mix’d the tender shower!
Some comfort that had been, some sad relief,
To melt in full satiety of grief!’
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 115