Now Twilight veil’d the glaring face of Day,
And clad the dusky fields in sober gray;
What time the herald and the hoary King,
Their chariot stopping at the silver spring, 430
That circling Ilus’ ancient marble flows,
Allow’d their mules and steeds a short repose.
Thro’ the dim shade the herald first espies
A man’s approach, and thus to Priam cries:
‘I mark some foe’s advance: O King! beware; 435
This hard adventure claims thy utmost care;
For much I fear destruction hovers nigh:
Our state asks counsel. Is it best to fly?
Or, old and helpless, at his feet to fall
(Two wretched suppliants), and for mercy call?’ 440
Th’ afflicted Monarch shiver’d with despair;
Pale grew his face, and upright stood his hair;
Sunk was his heart; his colour went and came;
A sudden trembling shook his aged frame:
When Hermes, greeting, touch’d his royal hand, 445
And, gentle, thus accosts with kind demand:
‘Say whither, Father! when each mortal sight
Is seal’d in sleep, thou wander’st thro’ the night?
Why roam thy mules and steeds the plains along,
Thro’ Grecian foes, so numerous and so strong? 450
What couldst thou hope, shouldst these thy treasures view:
These, who with endless hate thy race pursue?
For what defence, alas! couldst thou provide?
Thyself not young, a weak old man thy guide.
Yet suffer not thy soul to sink with dread; 455
From me no harm shall touch thy rev’rend head:
From Greece I ‘ll guard thee too; for in those lines
The living image of my father shines.’
‘Thy words, that speak benevolence of mind,
Are true, my son!’ (the godlike Sire rejoin’d) 460
‘Great are my hazards; but the Gods survey
My steps and send thee, guardian of my way.
Hail! and be blest; for scarce of mortal kind
Appear thy form, thy feature, and thy mind.’
‘Nor true are all thy words, nor erring wide’ 465
(The sacred Messenger of Heav’n replied);
‘But say, convey’st thou thro’ the lonely plains
What yet most precious of thy store remains,
To lodge in safety with some friendly hand?
Prepared perchance to leave thy native land? 470
Or fly’st thou now? What hopes can Troy retain,
Thy matchless son, her guard and glory, slain?’
The King, alarm’d: ‘Say what, and whence thou art,
Who search the sorrows of a parent’s heart,
And know so well how godlike Hector died?’ 475
Thus Priam spoke, and Hermes thus replied:
‘You tempt me, Father, and with pity touch:
On this sad subject you inquire too much.
Oft have these eyes the godlike Hector view’d
In glorious fight, with Grecian blood imbrued: 480
I saw him, when, like Jove, his flames he toss’d
On thousand ships, and wither’d half a host:
I saw, but help’d not, stern Achilles’ ire
Forbade assistance, and enjoy’d the fire.
For him I serve, of Myrmidonian race; 485
One ship convey’d us from our native place;
Polyctor is my sire, an honour’d name,
Old, like thyself, and not unknown to fame;
Of sev’n his sons, by whom the lot was cast
To serve our Prince, it fell on me the last. 490
To watch this quarter my adventure falls;
For with the morn the Greeks attack your walls;
Sleepless they sit, impatient to engage,
And scarce their rulers check their martial rage.’
‘If then thou art of stern Pelides’ train,’ 495
(The mournful Monarch thus rejoin’d again),
‘Ah, tell me truly, where, oh! where are laid
My son’s dear relics? what befalls him dead?
Have dogs dismember’d on the naked plains,
Or yet unmangled rest, his cold remains?’ 500
‘O Favour’d of the Skies!’ (thus answer’d then
The Power that mediates between Gods and men)
‘Nor dogs, nor vultures, have thy Hector rent,
But whole he lies, neglected in the tent:
This the twelfth ev’ning since he rested there, 505
Untouch’d by worms, untainted by the air.
Still as Aurora’s ruddy beam is spread,
Round his friend’s tomb Achilles drags the dead;
Yet undisfigured, or in limb or face,
All fresh he lies, with every living grace, 510
Majestical in death! No stains are found
O’er all the corse, and closed is ev’ry wound;
Tho’ many a wound they gave. Some heav’nly care,
Some hand divine, preserves him ever fair:
Or all the Host of Heav’n, to whom he led 515
A life so grateful, still regard him dead.’
Thus spoke to Priam the celestial Guide,
And joyful thus the royal Sire replied:
Bless’d is the man who pays the Gods above
The constant tribute of respect and love! 520
Those who inhabit the Olympian bower
My son forgot not, in exalted power;
And Heav’n, that ev’ry virtue bears in mind,
Ev’n to the ashes of the just is kind.
But thou, oh gen’rous youth! this goblet take, 525
A pledge of gratitude for Hector’s sake;
And while the fav’ring Gods our steps survey,
Safe to Pelides’ tent conduct my way.’
To whom the latent God: ‘O King, forbear
To tempt my youth, for apt is youth to err: 530
But can I, absent from my Prince’s sight,
Take gifts in secret, that must shun the light?
What from our master’s interest thus we draw,
Is but a licens’d theft that ‘scapes the law.
Respecting him, my soul abjures th’ offence; 535
And, as the crime, I dread the consequence.
Thee, far as Argos, pleas’d I could convey;
Guard of thy life, and partner of thy way:
On thee attend, thy safety to maintain,
O’er pathless forests, or the roaring main.’ 540
He said, then took the chariot at a bound,
And snatch’d the reins, and whirl’d the lash around:
Before th’ inspiring God that urged them on
The coursers fly, with spirit not their own.
And now they reach’d the naval walls, and found 545
The guards repasting, while the bowls go round:
On these the virtue of his wand he tries,
And pours deep slumber on their watchful eyes:
Then heav’d the massy gates, remov’d the bars,
And o’er the trenches led the rolling cars. 550
Unseen, thro’ all the hostile camp they went,
And now approach’d Pelides’ lofty tent.
Of fir the roof was rais’d, and cover’d o’er
With reeds collected from the marshy shore;
And, fenc’d with palisades, a hall of state 555
(The work of soldiers), where the hero sat.
Large was the door, whose well-compacted strength
A solid pine-tree barr’d of wondrous length;
Scarce three strong Greeks could lift its mighty weight,
But great Achilles singly closed the gate. 560
This Hermes (such the power of Gods) set wide;
Then swift alighted the celestial guide,
And thus, reve
al’d: ‘Hear, Prince! and understand
Thou ow’st thy guidance to no mortal hand;
Hermes I am, descended from above, 565
The King of Arts, the Messenger of Jove.
Farewell: to shun Achilles’ sight I fly;
Uncommon are such favours of the sky,
Nor stand confess’d to frail mortality.
Now fearless enter, and prefer thy prayers; 570
Adjure him by his father’s silver hairs,
His son, his mother! urge him to bestow
Whatever pity that stern heart can know.’
Thus having said, he vanish’d from his eyes,
And in a moment shot into the skies: 575
The King, confirm’d from Heav’n, alighted there,
And left his aged herald on the car.
With solemn pace thro’ various rooms he went,
And found Achilles in his inner tent:
There sat the hero; Alcimus the brave, 580
And great Automedon, attendance gave;
These serv’d his person at the royal feast;
Around, at awful distance, stood the rest.
Unseen by these, the King his entry made;
And, prostrate now before Achilles laid, 585
Sudden (a venerable sight!) appears;
Embraced his knees, and bathed his hands in tears;
Those direful hands his kisses press’d, imbrued
Ev’n with the best, the dearest of his blood!
As when a wretch (who, conscious of his crime, 590
Pursued for murder, flies his native clime)
Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amazed!
All gaze, all wonder: thus Achilles gazed:
Thus stood th’ attendants stupid with surprise:
All mute, yet seem’d to question with their eyes: 595
Each look’d on other, none the silence broke,
Till thus at last the kingly suppliant spoke:
‘Ah think, thou favour’d of the Powers divine!
Think of thy father’s age, and pity mine!
In me, that father’s rev’rend image trace, 600
Those silver hairs, that venerable face;
His trembling limbs, his helpless person, see!
In all my equal, but in misery!
Yet now, perhaps, some turn of human Fate
Expels him helpless from his peaceful state; 605
Think, from some powerful foe thou see’st him fly,
And beg protection with a feeble cry.
Yet still one comfort in his soul may rise;
He hears his son still lives to glad his eyes;
And, hearing, still may hope a better day 610
May send him thee, to chase that foe away.
No comfort to my griefs, no hopes remain,
The best, the bravest of my sons are slain!
Yet what a race! ere Greece to Ilion came,
The pledge of many a lov’d and loving dame! 615
Nineteen one mother bore — Dead, all are dead!
How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled!
Still one was left, their loss to recompense;
His father’s hope, his country’s last defence.
Him too thy rage has slain! beneath thy steel, 620
Unhappy, in his country’s cause, he fell!
For him, thro’ hostile camps I bent my way,
For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay;
Large gifts, proportion’d to thy wrath, I bear:
Oh, hear the wretched, and the Gods revere! 625
Think of thy father, and this face behold!
See him in me, as helpless and as old;
Tho’ not so wretched: there he yields to me,
The first of men in sov’reign misery.
Thus forc’d to kneel, thus grov’ling to embrace 630
The scourge and ruin of my realm and race:
Suppliant my children’s murd’rer to implore,
And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore!’
These words soft pity in the Chief inspire,
Touch’d with the dear remembrance of his sire. 635
Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay)
The old man’s cheek he gently turn’d away.
Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe;
And now the mingled tides together flow:
This low on earth, that gently bending o’er, 640
A father one, and one a son deplore:
But great Achilles diff’rent passions rend,
And now his Sire he mourns, and now his Friend.
Th’ infectious softness thro’ the heroes ran;
One universal solemn shower began; 645
They bore as heroes, but they felt as man.
Satiate at length with unavailing woes,
From the high throne divine Achilles rose;
The rev’rend Monarch by the hand he rais’d;
On his white beard and form majestic gazed, 650
Not unrelenting: then serene began
With words to soothe the miserable man:
‘Alas! what weight of anguish hast thou known,
Unhappy Prince! thus guardless and alone
To pass thro’ foes, and thus undaunted face 655
The man whose fury has destroy’d thy race!
Heav’n sure has arm’d thee with a heart of steel,
A strength proportion’d to the woes you feel.
Rise then: let reason mitigate our care:
To mourn avails not: man is born to bear. 660
Such is, alas! the Gods’ severe decree;
They, only they, are blest, and only free.
Two urns by Jove’s high throne have ever stood,
The source of evil one, and one of good;
From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, 665
Blessings to these, to those distributes ills;
To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed
To taste the bad, unmix’d, is curs’d indeed:
Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driv’n,
He wanders, outcast both of earth and Heav’n. 670
The happiest taste not Happiness sincere,
But find the cordial draught is dash’d with Care.
Who more than Peleus shone in wealth and power?
What stars concurring bless’d his natal hour!
A realm, a Goddess, to his wishes giv’n, 675
Graced by the Gods with all the gifts of Heav’n!
One evil, yet, o’ertakes his latest day;
No race succeeding to imperial sway:
An only son! and he (alas!) ordain’d
To fall untimely in a foreign land! 680
See him, in Troy, the pious care decline
Of his weak age, to live the curse of thine!
Thou too, old man, hast happier days beheld;
In riches once, in children once excell’d;
Extended Phrygia own’d thy ample reign, 685
And all fair Lesbos’ blissful seats contain,
And all wide Hellespont’s unmeasured main.
But since the God his hand has pleas’d to turn,
And fill thy measure from his bitter urn,
What sees the sun, but hapless heroes’ falls? 690
War, and the blood of men, surround thy walls!
What must be, must be. Bear thy lot, nor shed
These unavailing sorrows o’er the dead;
Thou canst not call him from the Stygian shore,
But thou, alas! may’st live to suffer more!’ 695
To whom the King: ‘O favour’d of the skies!
Here let me grow to earth! since Hector lies
On the bare beach, deprived of obsequies.
O give me Hector: to my eyes restore
His corse, and take the gifts: I ask no more! 700
Thou, as thou may’st, these boundless stores enjoy;
Safe may’st thou sail, and turn thy wrath from Troy;
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So shall thy pity and forbearance give
A weak old man to see the light, and live!’
‘Move me no more’ (Achilles thus replies, 705
While kindling anger sparkled in his eyes),
‘Nor seek by tears my steady soul to bend;
To yield thy Hector I myself intend:
For know, from Jove my Goddess-mother came
(Old Ocean’s daughter, Silver-footed Dame): 710
Nor com’st thou but by Heav’n; nor com’st alone;
Some God impels with courage not thy own:
No human hand the weighty gate unbarr’d,
Nor could the boldest of our youth have dared
To pass our out-works, or elude the guard. 715
Cease; lest, neglectful of high Jove’s command,
I shew thee, King! thou tread’st on hostile land;
Release my knees, thy suppliant arts give o’er,
And shake the purpose of my soul no more.’
The Sire obey’d him, trembling and o’erawed. 720
Achilles, like a lion, rush’d abroad;
Automedon and Alcimus attend,
Whom most he honour’d, since he lost his friend;
These to unyoke the mules and horses went,
And led the hoary herald to the tent: 725
Next, heap’d on high, the numerous presents bear
(Great Hector’s ransom) from the polish’d car.
Two splendid mantles, and a carpet spread,
They leave, to cover and enwrap the dead:
Then call the handmaids, with assistant toil 730
To wash the body, and anoint with oil,
Apart from Priam; lest th’ unhappy sire,
Provok’d to passion, once more rouse to ire
The stern Pelides; and nor sacred age,
Nor Jove’s command, should check the rising rage. 735
This done, the garments o’er the corse they spread;
Achilles lifts it to the funeral bed:
Then, while the body on the car they laid,
He groans, and calls on lov’d Patroclus’ shade:
‘If, in that gloom which never light must know, 740
The deeds of mortals touch the ghosts below;
O Friend! forgive me, that I thus fulfil
(Restoring Hector) Heav’n’s unquestion’d will.
The gifts the Father gave, be ever thine,
To grace thy manes, and adorn thy shrine.’ 745
He said, and, ent’ring, took his seat of state,
Where full before him rev’rend Priam sate:
To whom, composed, the godlike Chief begun:
‘Lo! to thy prayer restor’d, thy breathless son;
Extended on the funeral couch he lies; 750
And, soon as morning paints the eastern skies,
The sight is granted to thy longing eyes.
But now the peaceful hours of sacred night
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 121