The Iliad by Homer (e reader books .TXT) 📖

car, While yet he learn’d his rudiments of war.

His venturous spear first drew the hero’s gore; He struck, he wounded, but he durst no more.

Nor, though disarm’d, Patroclus’ fury stood: But swift withdrew the long-protended wood.

And turn’d him short, and herded in the crowd.

Thus, by an arm divine, and mortal spear, Wounded, at once, Patroclus yields to fear, Retires for succour to his social train, And flies the fate, which heaven decreed, in vain.

Stern Hector, as the bleeding chief he views, Breaks through the ranks, and his retreat pursues: The lance arrests him with a mortal wound; He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound.

With him all Greece was sunk; that moment all Her yet-surviving heroes seem’d to fall.

So, scorch’d with heat, along the desert score, The roaming lion meets a bristly boar,

Fast by the spring; they both dispute the flood, With flaming eyes, and jaws besmear’d with blood; At length the sovereign savage wins the strife; And the torn boar resigns his thirst and life.

Patroclus thus, so many chiefs o’erthrown, So many lives effused, expires his own.

As dying now at Hector’s feet he lies,

He sternly views him, and triumphant cries: “Lie there, Patroclus! and with thee, the joy Thy pride once promised, of subverting Troy; The fancied scenes of Ilion wrapt in flames, And thy soft pleasures served with captive dames.

Unthinking man! I fought those towers to free, And guard that beauteous race from lords like thee: But thou a prey to vultures shalt be made; Thy own Achilles cannot lend thee aid;

Though much at parting that great chief might say, And much enjoin thee, this important day.

 

‘Return not, my brave friend (perhaps he said), Without the bloody arms of Hector dead.’

He spoke, Patroclus march’d, and thus he sped.”

 

Supine, and wildly gazing on the skies, With faint, expiring breath, the chief replies: “Vain boaster! cease, and know the powers divine!

Jove’s and Apollo’s is this deed, not thine; To heaven is owed whate’er your own you call, And heaven itself disarm’d me ere my fall.

Had twenty mortals, each thy match in might, Opposed me fairly, they had sunk in fight: By fate and Phoebus was I first o’erthrown, Euphorbus next; the third mean part thy own.

But thou, imperious! hear my latest breath; The gods inspire it, and it sounds thy death: Insulting man, thou shalt be soon as I; Black fate o’erhangs thee, and thy hour draws nigh; Even now on life’s last verge I see thee stand, I see thee fall, and by Achilles’ hand.”

 

He faints: the soul unwilling wings her way, (The beauteous body left a load of clay) Flits to the lone, uncomfortable coast; A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

 

Then Hector pausing, as his eyes he fed On the pale carcase, thus address’d the dead: “From whence this boding speech, the stern decree Of death denounced, or why denounced to me?

Why not as well Achilles’ fate be given To Hector’s lance? Who knows the will of heaven?”

 

Pensive he said; then pressing as he lay His breathless bosom, tore the lance away; And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer.

But swift Automedon with loosen’d reins Rapt in the chariot o’er the distant plains, Far from his rage the immortal coursers drove; The immortal coursers were the gift of Jove.

 

{Illustration: AESCULAPIUS.}

 

BOOK XVII.

 

ARGUMENT.

 

THE SEVENTH BATTLE, FOR THE BODY OF PATROCLUS.—THE ACTS OF MENELAUS.

 

Menelaus, upon the death of Patroclus, defends his body from the enemy: Euphorbus, who attempts it, is slain. Hector advancing, Menelaus retires; but soon returns with Ajax, and drives him off. This, Glaucus objects to Hector as a flight, who thereupon puts on the armour he had won from Patroclus, and renews the battle. The Greeks give way, till Ajax rallies them: Aeneas sustains the Trojans. Aeneas and Hector Attempt the chariot of Achilles, which is borne off by Automedon. The horses of Achilles deplore the loss of Patroclus: Jupiter covers his body with a thick darkness: the noble prayer of Ajax on that occasion.

Menelaus sends Antilochus to Achilles, with the news of Patroclus’

death: then returns to the fight, where, though attacked with the utmost fury, he and Meriones, assisted by the Ajaces, bear off the body to the ships.

 

The time is the evening of the eight-and-twentieth day. The scene lies in the fields before Troy.

 

On the cold earth divine Patroclus spread, Lies pierced with wounds among the vulgar dead.

Great Menelaus, touch’d with generous woe, Springs to the front, and guards him from the foe.

Thus round her new-fallen young the heifer moves, Fruit of her throes, and first-born of her loves; And anxious (helpless as he lies, and bare) Turns, and returns her, with a mother’s care, Opposed to each that near the carcase came, His broad shield glimmers, and his lances flame.

 

The son of Panthus, skill’d the dart to send, Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend.

“This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low; Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow: To me the spoils my prowess won, resign: Depart with life, and leave the glory mine”

 

The Trojan thus: the Spartan monarch burn’d With generous anguish, and in scorn return’d: “Laugh’st thou not, Jove! from thy superior throne, When mortals boast of prowess not their own?

Not thus the lion glories in his might, Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight, Nor thus the boar (those terrors of the plain;) Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.

But far the vainest of the boastful kind, These sons of Panthus vent their haughty mind.

Yet ‘twas but late, beneath my conquering steel This boaster’s brother, Hyperenor, fell; Against our arm which rashly he defied, Vain was his vigour, and as vain his pride.

These eyes beheld him on the dust expire, No more to cheer his spouse, or glad his sire.

Presumptuous youth! like his shall be thy doom, Go, wait thy brother to the Stygian gloom; Or, while thou may’st, avoid the threaten’d fate; Fools stay to feel it, and are wise too late.”

 

Unmoved, Euphorbus thus: “That action known, Come, for my brother’s blood repay thy own.

His weeping father claims thy destined head, And spouse, a widow in her bridal bed.

On these thy conquer’d spoils I shall bestow, To soothe a consort’s and a parent’s woe.

No longer then defer the glorious strife, Let heaven decide our fortune, fame, and life.”

 

Swift as the word the missile lance he flings; The well-aim’d weapon on the buckler rings, But blunted by the brass, innoxious falls.

On Jove the father great Atrides calls, Nor flies the javelin from his arm in vain, It pierced his throat, and bent him to the plain; Wide through the neck appears the grisly wound, Prone sinks the warrior, and his arms resound.

The shining circlets of his golden hair, Which even the Graces might be proud to wear, Instarr’d with gems and gold, bestrow the shore, With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with gore.

 

As the young olive, in some sylvan scene, Crown’d by fresh fountains with eternal green, Lifts the gay head, in snowy flowerets fair, And plays and dances to the gentle air; When lo! a whirlwind from high heaven invades The tender plant, and withers all its shades; It lies uprooted from its genial bed,

A lovely ruin now defaced and dead:

Thus young, thus beautiful, Euphorbus lay, While the fierce Spartan tore his arms away.

Proud of his deed, and glorious in the prize, Affrighted Troy the towering victor flies: Flies, as before some mountain lion’s ire The village curs and trembling swains retire, When o’er the slaughter’d bull they hear him roar, And see his jaws distil with smoking gore: All pale with fear, at distance scatter’d round, They shout incessant, and the vales resound.

 

Meanwhile Apollo view’d with envious eyes, And urged great Hector to dispute the prize; (In Mentes’ shape, beneath whose martial care The rough Ciconians learn’d the trade of war;) [207]

“Forbear (he cried) with fruitless speed to chase Achilles’ coursers, of ethereal race;

They stoop not, these, to mortal man’s command, Or stoop to none but great Achilles’ hand.

Too long amused with a pursuit so vain, Turn, and behold the brave Euphorbus slain; By Sparta slain! for ever now suppress’d The fire which burn’d in that undaunted breast!”

 

Thus having spoke, Apollo wing’d his flight, And mix’d with mortals in the toils of fight: His words infix’d unutterable care

Deep in great Hector’s soul: through all the war He darts his anxious eye; and, instant, view’d The breathless hero in his blood imbued, (Forth welling from the wound, as prone he lay) And in the victor’s hands the shining prey.

Sheath’d in bright arms, through cleaving ranks he flies, And sends his voice in thunder to the skies: Fierce as a flood of flame by Vulcan sent, It flew, and fired the nations as it went.

Atrides from the voice the storm divined, And thus explored his own unconquer’d mind: “Then shall I quit Patroclus on the plain, Slain in my cause, and for my honour slain!

Desert the arms, the relics, of my friend?

Or singly, Hector and his troops attend?

Sure where such partial favour heaven bestow’d, To brave the hero were to brave the god: Forgive me, Greece, if once I quit the field; ‘Tis not to Hector, but to heaven I yield.

Yet, nor the god, nor heaven, should give me fear, Did but the voice of Ajax reach my ear: Still would we turn, still battle on the plains, And give Achilles all that yet remains

Of his and our Patroclus—” This, no more The time allow’d: Troy thicken’d on the shore.

A sable scene! The terrors Hector led.

Slow he recedes, and sighing quits the dead.

 

So from the fold the unwilling lion parts, Forced by loud clamours, and a storm of darts; He flies indeed, but threatens as he flies, With heart indignant and retorted eyes.

Now enter’d in the Spartan ranks, he turn’d His manly breast, and with new fury burn’d; O’er all the black battalions sent his view, And through the cloud the godlike Ajax knew; Where labouring on the left the warrior stood, All grim in arms, and cover’d o’er with blood; There breathing courage, where the god of day Had sunk each heart with terror and dismay.

 

To him the king: “Oh Ajax, oh my friend!

Haste, and Patroclus’ loved remains defend: The body to Achilles to restore

Demands our care; alas, we can no more!

For naked now, despoiled of arms, he lies; And Hector glories in the dazzling prize.”

He said, and touch’d his heart. The raging pair Pierced the thick battle, and provoke the war.

Already had stern Hector seized his head, And doom’d to Trojan gods the unhappy dead; But soon as Ajax rear’d his tower-like shield, Sprung to his car, and measured back the field, His train to Troy the radiant armour bear, To stand a trophy of his fame in war.

 

Meanwhile great Ajax (his broad shield display’d) Guards the dead hero with the dreadful shade; And now before, and now behind he stood: Thus in the centre of some gloomy wood, With many a step, the lioness surrounds Her tawny young, beset by men and hounds; Elate her heart, and rousing all her powers, Dark o’er the fiery balls each hanging eyebrow lours.

Fast by his side the generous Spartan glows With great revenge, and feeds his inward woes.

 

But Glaucus, leader of the Lycian aids, On Hector frowning, thus his flight upbraids: “Where now in Hector shall we Hector find?

A manly form, without a manly mind.

Is this, O chief! a