The Iliad by Homer (pride and prejudice read .TXT) 📖

a white-tusk’d porker, rich in fat, There lay extended, singeing o’er the fire; And blood, in torrents, flow’d around the corpse.

To Agamemnon then the Kings of Greece

The royal son of Peleus, swift of foot, Conducted; yet with him they scarce prevail’d; So fierce his anger for his comrade’s death.

But when to Agamemnon’s tent they came, He to the clear-voic’d heralds gave command An ample tripod on the fire to place;

If haply Peleus’ son he might persuade To wash away the bloody stains of war: But sternly he, and with an oath refus’d.

 

“No, by great Jove I swear, of all the Gods Highest and mightiest, water shall not touch This head of mine, till on the fun’ral pyre I see the body of Patroclus laid,

And build his tomb, and cut my votive hair; For while I live and move ‘mid mortal men, No second grief like this can pierce my soul.

Observe we now the mournful fun’ral feast; But thou, great Agamemnon, King of men, Send forth at early dawn, and to the camp Bring store of fuel, and all else prepare, That with provision meet the dead may pass Down to the realms of night; so shall the fire From out our sight consume our mighty dead, And to their wonted tasks the troops return.”

 

He said; they listen’d, and his words obey’d; Then busily the ev’ning meal prepar’d, And shar’d the social feast; nor lack’d there aught.

The rage of thirst and hunger satisfied, Each to their sev’ral tents the rest repair’d; But on the many-dashing ocean’s shore

Pelides lay, amid his Myrmidons,

With bitter groans; in a clear space he lay, Where broke the waves, continuous, on the beach.

There, circumfus’d around him, gentle sleep, Lulling the sorrows of his heart to rest, O’ercame his senses; for the hot pursuit Of Hector round the breezy heights of Troy His active limbs had wearied: as he slept, Sudden appear’d Patroclus’ mournful shade, His very self; his height, and beauteous eyes, And voice; the very garb he wont to wear: Above his head it stood, and thus it spoke: “Sleep’st thou, Achilles, mindless of thy friend, Neglecting, not the living, but the dead?

Hasten, my fun’ral rites, that I may pass Through Hades’ gloomy gates; ere those be done, The spirits and spectres of departed men Drive me far from them, nor allow to cross Th’ abhorred river; but forlorn and sad I wander through the wide-spread realms of night.

And give me now thy hand, whereon to weep; For never more, when laid upon the pyre, Shall I return from Hades; never more, Apart from all our comrades, shall we two, As friends, sweet counsel take; for me, stern Death, The common lot of man, has op’d his mouth; Thou too, Achilles, rival of the Gods, Art destin’d here beneath the walls of Troy To meet thy doom; yet one thing must I add, And make, if thou wilt grant it, one request.

Let not my bones be laid apart from thine, Achilles, but together, as our youth

Was spent together in thy father’s house, Since first my sire Menoetius me a boy From Opus brought, a luckless homicide, Who of Amphidamas, by evil chance,

Had slain the son, disputing o’er the dice: Me noble Peleus in his house receiv’d, And kindly nurs’d, and thine attendant nam’d; So in one urn be now our bones enclos’d, The golden vase, thy Goddess-mother’s gift.”

 

Whom answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Why art thou here, lov’d being? why on me These sev’ral charges lay? whate’er thou bidd’st Will I perform, and all thy mind fulfil; But draw thou near; and in one short embrace, Let us, while yet we may, our grief indulge.”

 

Thus as he spoke, he spread his longing arms, But nought he clasp’d; and with a wailing cry, Vanish’d, like smoke, the spirit beneath the earth.

Up sprang Achilles, all amaz’d, and smote His hands together, and lamenting cried: “O Heav’n, there are then, in the realms below, Spirits and spectres, unsubstantial all; For through the night Patroclus’ shade hath stood, Weeping and wailing, at my side, and told His bidding; th’ image of himself it seem’d.”

 

He said; his words the gen’ral grief arous’d: To them, as round the piteous dead they mourn’d, Appear’d the rosy-finger’d morn; and straight, From all the camp, by Agamemnon sent,

Went forth, in search of fuel, men and mules, Led by a valiant chief, Meriones,

The follower of renown’d Idomeneus.

Their felling axes in their hands they bore, And twisted ropes; their mules before them driv’n; Now up, now down, now sideways, now aslope, They journey’d on; but when they reach’d the foot Of spring-abounding Ida, they began

With axes keen to hew the lofty oaks;

They, loudly crashing, fell: the wood they clove, And bound it to the mules; these took their way Through the thick brushwood, hurrying to the plain.

The axe-men too, so bade Meriones,

The follower of renown’d Idomeneus,

Were laden all with logs, which on the beach They laid in order, where a lofty mound, In mem’ry of Patroclus and himself,

Achilles had design’d. When all the store Of wood was duly laid, the rest remain’d In masses seated; but Achilles bade

The warlike Myrmidons their armour don, And harness each his horses to his car; They rose and donn’d their arms, and on the cars Warriors and charioteers their places took.

 

First came the horse, and then a cloud of foot, Unnumber’d; in the midst Patroclus came, Borne by his comrades; all the corpse with hair They cover’d o’er, which from their heads they shore.

Behind, Achilles held his head, and mourn’d The noble friend whom to the tomb he bore.

Then on the spot by Peleus’ son assign’d, They laid him down, and pil’d the wood on high.

Then a fresh thought Achilles’ mind conceiv’d: Standing apart, the yellow locks he shore, Which as an off’ring to Sperchius’ stream, He nurs’d in rich profusion; sorrowing then Look’d o’er the dark-blue sea, as thus lie spoke: “Sperchius, all in vain to thee his pray’r My father Peleus made, and vow’d that I, Return’d in safety to my native land,

To thee should dedicate my hair, and pay A solemn hecatomb, with sacrifice

Of fifty rams, unblemish’d, to the springs Where on thy consecrated soil is plac’d Thine incense-honour’d altar; so he vow’d; But thou the boon withhold’st; since I no more My native land may see, the hair he vow’d, To brave Patroclus thus I dedicate.”

 

He said, and on his comrade’s hand he laid The locks; his act the gen’ral grief arous’d; And now the setting sun had found them still Indulging o’er the dead; but Peleus’ son Approaching, thus to Agamemnon spoke:

 

“Atrides, for to thee the people pay

Readiest obedience, mourning too prolong’d May weary; thou then from the pyre the rest Disperse, and bid prepare the morning meal; Ours be the farther charge, to whom the dead Was chiefly dear; yet let the chiefs remain.”

 

The monarch Agamemnon heard, and straight Dispers’d the crowd amid their sev’ral ships.

Th’ appointed band remain’d, and pil’d the wood.

A hundred feet each way they built the pyre, And on the summit, sorrowing, laid the dead.

Then many a sheep and many a slow-paced ox They flay’d and dress’d around the fun’ral pyre; Of all the beasts Achilles took the fat, And cover’d o’er the corpse from head to foot, And heap’d the slaughter’d carcases around; Then jars of honey plac’d, and fragrant oils, Resting upon the couch; next, groaning loud, Four pow’rful horses on the pyre he threw; Then, of nine dogs that at their master’s board Had fed, he slaughter’d two upon his pyre; Last, with the sword, by evil counsel sway’d, Twelve noble youths he slew, the sons of Troy.

The fire’s devouring might he then applied, And, groaning, on his lov’d companion call’d: “All hail, Patroclus, though in Pluto’s realm!

All that I promis’d, lo! I now perform: On twelve brave sons of Trojan sires, with thee, The flames shall feed; but Hector, Priam’s son, Not to the fire, but to the dogs I give.”

 

Such was Achilles’ threat, but him the dogs Molested not; for Venus, night and day Daughter of Jove, the rav’ning dogs restrain’d; And all the corpse o’erlaid with roseate oil, Ambrosial, that though dragg’d along the earth, The noble dead might not receive a wound.

Apollo too a cloudy veil from Heav’n

Spread o’er the plain, and cover’d all the space Where lay the dead, nor let the blazing sun The flesh upon his limbs and muscles parch.

 

Yet burnt not up Patroclus’ fun’ral pyre; Then a fresh thought Achilles’ mind conceiv’d: Standing apart, on both the “Winds he call’d, Boreas and Zephyrus, and added vows

Of costly sacrifice; and pouring forth Libations from a golden goblet, pray’d Their presence, that the wood might haste to burn, And with the fire consume the dead; his pray’r Swift Iris heard, and bore it to the Winds.

They in the hall of gusty Zephyrus

Were gather’d round the feast; in haste appearing, Swift Iris on the stony threshold stood.

They saw, and rising all, besought her each To sit beside him; she with their requests Refus’d compliance, and address’d them thus: “No seat for me; for I o’er th’ ocean stream From hence am bound to AEthiopia’s shore, To share the sacred feast, and hecatombs, Which there they offer to th’ immortal Gods; But, Boreas, thee, and loud-voic’d Zephyrus, With vows of sacrifice, Achilles calls To fan the fun’ral pyre, whereon is laid Patroclus, mourn’d by all the host of Greece.”

 

She said, and vanish’d; they, with rushing sound, Rose, and before them drove the hurrying clouds: Soon o’er the sea they swept; the stirring breeze Ruffled the waves; the fertile shores of Troy They reach’d, and falling on the fun’ral pyre, Loud roar’d the crackling flames; they all night long With current brisk together fann’d the fire.

All night Achilles from a golden bowl

Drew forth, and, in his hand a double cup, The wine outpouring, moisten’d all the earth, Still calling on his lost Patroclus’ shade.

As mourns a father o’er a youthful son, Whose early death hath wrung his parents’ hearts; So mourn’d Achilles o’er his friend’s remains, Prostrate beside the pyre, and groan’d aloud.

But when the star of Lucifer appear’d, The harbinger of light, whom following close Spreads o’er the sea the saffron-robed morn, Then pal’d the smould’ring fire, and sank the flame; And o’er the Thracian sea, that groan’d and heav’d Beneath their passage, home the Winds return’d; And weary, from the pyre a space withdrawn, Achilles lay, o’ercome by gentle sleep.

 

Anon, awaken’d by the tramp and din

Of crowds that follow’d Atreus’ royal son, He sat upright, and thus address’d his speech: “Thou son of Atreus, and ye chiefs of Greece, Far as the flames extended, quench we first With ruddy wine the embers of the pyre; And of Menoetius’ son, Patroclus, next With care distinguishing, collect the bones; Nor are they hard to know; for in the midst He lay, while round the edges of the pyre, Horses and men commix’d, the rest were burnt.

Let these, between a double layer of fat Enclos’d, and in a golden urn remain,

Till I myself shall in the tomb be laid; And o’er them build a mound, not over-large, But of proportions meet; in days to come, Ye Greeks, who after me shall here remain, Complete the work, and build it broad and high.”

 

Thus spoke Achilles; they his words obey’d: Far as the flames had reach’d, and thickly strown The embers lay, they quench’d with ruddy wine; Then tearfully their gentle comrade’s bones Collected, and with double layers of fat Enclos’d, and in a golden urn encas’d; Then in