But to the King of Men thus spoke the Chief:
‘Enough, Atrides! give the troops relief: 195
Permit the mourning legions to retire,
And let the Chiefs alone attend the pyre;
The pious care be ours, the dead to burn.’
He said: the people to their ships return:
While those deputed to inter the slain, 200
Heap with a rising pyramid the plain;
A hundred foot in length, a hundred wide,
The growing structure spreads on ev’ry side;
High on the top the manly corse they lay,
And well-fed sheep and sable oxen slay: 205
Achilles cover’d with their fat the dead,
And the piled victims round the body spread;
Then jars of honey and of fragrant oil
Suspends around, low-bending o’er the pile.
Four sprightly coursers, with a deadly groan, 210
Pour forth their lives, and on the pyre are thrown.
Of nine large dogs, domestic at his board,
Fall two, selected to attend their lord.
Then last of all, and horrible to tell,
Sad sacrifice! twelve Trojan captives fell: 215
On these the rage of fire victorious preys,
Involves, and joins them in one common blaze.
Smear’d with the bloody rites he stands on high,
And calls the spirit with a dreadful cry:
‘All hail, Patroclus! let thy vengeful ghost 220
Hear and exult on Pluto’s dreary coast.
Behold Achilles’ promise fully paid,
Twelve Trojan heroes offer’d to thy shade;
But heavier fates on Hector’s corse attend,
Saved from the flames, for hungry dogs to rend.’ 225
So spake he, threat’ning: but the Gods made vain
His threat, and guard inviolate the slain:
Celestial Venus hover’d o’er his head,
And roseate unguents, heav’nly fragrance! shed:
She watch’d him all the night, and all the day, 230
And drove the bloodhounds from their destin’d prey.
Nor sacred Phœbus less employ’d his care:
He pour’d around a veil of gather’d air,
And kept the nerves undried, the flesh entire,
Against the solar beam and Sirian fire. 235
Nor yet the pile, where dead Patroclus lies,
Smokes, nor as yet the sullen flames arise;
But, fast beside, Achilles stood in prayer,
Invoked the Gods whose spirit moves the air,
And victims promis’d, and libations cast, 240
To gentle Zephyr and the Boreal blast:
He call’d th’ aërial Powers, along the skies
To breathe, and whisper to the fires to rise.
The winged Iris heard the hero’s call,
And instant hasten’d to their airy hall, 245
Where, in old Zephyr’s open courts on high,
Sat all the blust’ring brethren of the sky.
She shone amidst them, on her painted bow;
The rocky pavement glitter’d with the show.
All from the banquet rise, and each invites 250
The various Goddess to partake the rites.
‘Not so’ (the Dame replied), ‘I haste to go
To sacred Ocean, and the floods below;
Ev’n now our solemn hecatombs attend,
And Heav’n is feasting on the world’s green end, 255
With righteous Æthiops (uncorrupted train)!
Far on th’ extremest limits of the main.
But Peleus’ son entreats, with sacrifice,
The Western spirit, and the North to rise;
Let on Patroclus’ pile your blast be driv’n, 260
And bear the blazing honours high to Heav’n.’
Swift as the word, she vanish’d from their view:
Swift as the word, the winds tumultuous flew;
Forth burst the stormy band with thund’ring roar,
And heaps on heaps the clouds are toss’d before. 265
To the wide main then stooping from the skies,
The heaving deeps in wat’ry mountains rise:
Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls,
Till on the pile the gather’d tempest falls.
The structure crackles in the roaring fires, 270
And all the night the plenteous flame aspires:
All night Achilles hails Patroclus’ soul,
With large libation from the golden bowl,
As a poor father, helpless and undone,
Mourns o’er the ashes of an only son, 275
Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
And pour in tears, ere yet they close the urn:
So stay’d Achilles, circling round the shore,
So watch’d the flames, till now they flame no more.
‘T was when, emerging thro’ the shades of night, 280
The morning planet told th’ approach of light;
And, fast behind, Aurora’s warmer ray
O’er the broad ocean pour’d the golden day:
Then sunk the blaze, the pile no longer burn’d,
And to their caves the whistling winds return’d: 285
Across the Thracian seas their course they bore;
The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.
Then, parting from the pile, he ceas’d to weep,
And sunk to quiet in th’ embrace of sleep,
Exhausted with his grief: meanwhile the crowd 290
Of thronging Grecians round Achilles stood:
The tumult waked him: from his eyes he shook
Unwilling slumber, and the Chief bespoke:
‘Ye Kings and Princes of th’ Achaian name!
First let us quench the yet remaining flame 295
With sable wine; then (as the rites direct)
The hero’s bones with careful view select
(Apart, and easy to be known they lie,
Amidst the heap, and obvious to the eye:
The rest around the margins will be seen, 300
Promiscuous, steeds and immolated men).
These, wrapp’d in double cauls of fat, prepare;
And in the golden vase dispose with care;
There let them rest, with decent honour laid,
Till I shall follow to th’ infernal shade. 305
Meantime erect the tomb with pious hands,
A common structure on the humble sands;
Hereafter Greece some nobler work may raise,
And late posterity record our praise.’
The Greeks obey; where yet the embers glow, 310
Wide o’er the pile the sable wine they throw,
And deep subsides the ashy heap below.
Next the white bones his sad companions place,
With tears collected, in the golden vase.
The sacred relics to the tent they bore; 315
The urn a veil of linen cover’d o’er.
That done, they bid the sepulchre aspire,
And cast the deep foundations round the pyre;
High in the midst they heap the swelling bed
Of rising earth, memorial of the dead. 320
The swarming populace the Chief detains,
And leads amidst a wide extent of plains;
There placed them round; then from the ships proceeds
A train of oxen, mules, and stately steeds,
Vases and tripods, for the funeral games, 325
Resplendent brass, and more resplendent dames.
First stood the prizes to reward the force
Of rapid racers in the dusty course:
A woman for the first, in beauty’s bloom,
Skill’d in the needle, and the lab’ring loom; 330
And a large vase, where two bright handles rise,
Of twenty measures its capacious size.
Th
e second victor claims a mare unbroke,
Big with a mule, unknowing of the yoke;
The third, a charger yet untouch’d by flame; 335
Four ample measures held the shining frame:
Two golden talents for the fourth were placed;
An ample double bowl contents the last.
These in fair order ranged upon the plain,
The hero, rising, thus address’d the train: 340
‘Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed
To the brave rulers of the racing steed;
Prizes which none beside ourself could gain,
Should our immortal coursers take the plain
(A race unrivall’d, which from Ocean’s God 345
Peleus receiv’d, and on his son bestow’d).
But ‘t is no time our vigour to display,
Nor suit with them the games of this sad day:
Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck
Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck. 350
Sad, as they shared in human grief, they stand,
And trail those graceful honours on the sand!
Let others for the noble task prepare,
Who trust the courser, and the flying car.’
Fired at his word, the rival racers rise; 355
But, far the first, Eumelus hopes the prize;
Famed thro’ Pieria for the fleetest breed,
And skill’d to manage the high-bounding steed.
With equal ardour bold Tydides swell’d,
The steeds of Tros beneath his yoke compell’d 360
(Which late obey’d the Dardan Chief’s command,
When scarce a God redeem’d him from his hand).
Then Menelaüs his Podargus brings,
And the famed courser of the King of Kings:
Whom rich Echepolus (more rich than brave), 365
To ‘scape the wars, to Agamemnon gave
(Æthe her name), at home to end his days,
Base wealth preferring to eternal praise.
Next him Antilochus demands the course,
With beating heart, and cheers his Pylian horse. 370
Experienc’d Nestor gives his son the reins,
Directs his judgment, and his heat restrains;
Nor idly warns the hoary sire, nor hears
The prudent son with unattending ears:
‘My son! tho’ youthful ardour fire thy breast, 375
The Gods have lov’d thee, and with arts have bless’d.
Neptune and Jove on thee conferr’d the skill
Swift round the goal to turn the flying wheel.
To guide thy conduct, little precept needs;
But slow, and past their vigour, are my steeds. 380
Fear not thy rivals, tho’ for swiftness known,
Compare those rivals’ judgment, and thy own:
It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize,
And to be swift is less than to be wise:
‘T is more by art, than force of numerous strokes, 385
The dext’rous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks;
By art the pilot, thro’ the boiling deep
And howling tempests, steers the fearless ship;
And ‘t is the artist wins the glorious course,
Not those who trust in chariots and in horse. 390
In vain, unskilful, to the goal they strive,
And short, or wide, th’ ungovern’d courser drive:
While with sure skill, tho’ with inferior steeds,
The knowing racer to his end proceeds;
Fix’d on the goal his eye fore-runs the course, 395
His hand unerring steers the steady horse,
And now contracts, or now extends, the rein,
Observing still the foremost on the plain.
Mark then the goal, ‘t is easy to be found;
Yon aged trunk, a cubit from the ground; 400
Of some once-stately oak the last remains,
Or hardy fir, unperish’d with the rains:
Enclosed with stones, conspicuous from afar,
And round, a circle for the wheeling car
(Some tomb perhaps of old, the dead to grace; 405
Or then, as now, the limit of a race).
Bear close to this, and warily proceed,
A little bending to the left-hand steed;
But urge the right, and give him all the reins;
While thy strict hand his fellow’s head restrains, 410
And turns him short; till, doubling as they roll,
The wheel’s round naves appear to brush the goal;
Yet (not to break the car, or lame the horse),
Clear of the stony heap direct the course;
Lest, thro’ incaution failing, thou may’st be 415
A joy to others, a reproach to me.
So shalt thou pass the goal, secure of mind,
And leave unskilful swiftness far behind,
Tho’ thy fierce rival drove the matchless steed
Which bore Adrastus, of celestial breed; 420
Or the famed race thro’ all the regions known,
That whirl’d the car of proud Laomedon.’
Thus (nought unsaid) the much-advising sage
Concludes; then sat, stiff with unwieldly age.
Next bold Meriones was seen to rise, 425
The last, but not least ardent for the prize.
They mount their seats; the lots their place dispose
(Roll’d in his helmet, these Achilles throws);
Young Nestor leads the race; Eumelus then;
And next, the brother of the King of Men: 430
Thy lot, Meriones, the fourth was cast;
And, far the bravest, Diomed, was last.
They stand in order, an impatient train;
Pelides points the barrier on the plain,
And sends before old Phœnix to the place, 435
To mark the racers, and to judge the race.
At once the coursers from the barrier bound;
The lifted scourges all at once resound;
Their heart, their eyes, their voice, they send before;
And up the champaign thunder from the shore: 440
Thick, where they drive, the dusty clouds arise,
And the lost courser in the whirlwind flies;
Loose on their shoulders the long manes reclin’d,
Float in their speed, and dance upon the wind:
The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound, 445
Now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground;
While hot for Fame, and conquest all their care
(Each o’er his flying courser hung in air),
Erect with ardour, pois’d upon the rein,
They pant, they stretch, they shout along the plain: 450
Now (the last compass fetch’d around the goal)
At the neat prize each gathers all his soul,
Each burns with double hope, with double pain
Tears up the shore, and thunders tow’rd the main.
First flew Eumelus on Pheretian steeds; 455
With those of Tros, bold Diomed succeeds:
Close on Eumelus’ back they puff the wind,
And seem just mounting on his car behind;
Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,
And, hov’ring o’er, their stretching shadows sees. 460
Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize;
But angry Phœbus to Tydides flies,
Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain
His matchless horses’ labour on the plain.
Rage fills his eye with anguish, to survey, 465
Snatch’d from his hope, the glories of the day.
The fraud celestial Pallas sees with pain,
Springs to her knight, and gives the scourge again,
And fills his steeds with vigour. At a stroke,
She breaks his rival’s chariot from the yoke: 470
No m
ore their way the startled horses held;
The car revers’d came rattling on the field;
Shot headlong from his seat, beside the wheel,
Prone on the dust th’ unhappy master fell;
His batter’d face and elbows strike the ground: 475
Nose, mouth, and front one undistinguish’d wound:
Grief stops his voice, a torrent drowns his eyes;
Before him far the glad Tydides flies;
Minerva’s spirit drives his matchless pace,
And crowns him victor of the labour’d race. 480
The next, tho’ distant, Menelaus succeeds;
While thus young Nestor animates his steeds:
‘Now, now, my gen’rous pair, exert your force;
Not that we hope to match Tydides’ horse;
Since great Minerva wings their rapid way, 485
And gives their lord the honours of the day.
But reach Atrides! shall his mare out-go
Your swiftness? vanquish’d by a female foe?
Thro’ your neglect, if, lagging on the plain,
The last ignoble gift be all we gain, 490
No more shall Nestor’s hand your food supply;
The old man’s fury rises, and ye die.
Haste then! yon narrow road before our sight
Presents th’ occasion, could we use it right.’
Thus he. The coursers at their master’s threat 495
With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat.
And now Antilochus, with nice survey,
Observes the compass of the hollow way.
‘T was where by force of wintry torrents torn,
Fast by the road a precipice was worn: 500
Here, where but one could pass, to shun the throng,
The Spartan hero’s chariot smoked along.
Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep,
Still edging near, and bears him tow’rd the steep.
Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below, 505
And wonders at the rashness of his foe:
‘Hold, stay your steeds — what madness thus to ride
This narrow way! Take larger field’ (he cried),
‘Or both must fall.’ Atrides cried in vain;
He flies more fast, and throws up all the rein. 510
Far as an able arm the disc can send,
When youthful rivals their full force extend,
So far, Antilochus! thy chariot flew
Before the King: he, cautious, backward drew
His horse compell’d; foreboding in his fears 515
The rattling ruin of the clashing cars,
The flound’ring coursers rolling on the plain,
And conquest lost thro’ frantic haste to gain.
But thus upbraids his rival as he flies:
‘Go, furious youth! ungen’rous and unwise! 520
Go, but expect not I ‘ll the prize resign;
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 117