The Iliad Part 50

Thestor was next, who saw the chief appear, And fell the victim of his coward fear; Shrunk up he sat, with wild and haggard eye, Nor stood to combat, nor had force to fly; Patroclus mark'd him as he shunn'd the war, And with unmanly tremblings shook the car, And dropp'd the flowing reins. Him 'twixt the jaws, The javelin sticks, and from the chariot draws.

As on a rock that overhangs the main, An angler, studious of the line and cane, Some mighty fish draws panting to the sh.o.r.e: Not with less ease the barbed javelin bore The gaping dastard; as the spear was shook, He fell, and life his heartless breast forsook.

Next on Eryalus he flies; a stone, Large as a rock, was by his fury thrown: Full on his crown the ponderous fragment flew, And burst the helm, and cleft the head in two: p.r.o.ne to the ground the breathless warrior fell, And death involved him with the shades of h.e.l.l.

Then low in dust Epaltes, Echius, lie; Ipheas, Evippus, Polymelus, die; Amphoterus and Erymas succeed; And last Tlepolemus and Pyres bleed.

Where'er he moves, the growing slaughters spread In heaps on heaps a monument of dead.

When now Sarpedon his brave friends beheld Grovelling in dust, and gasping on the field, With this reproach his flying host he warms: "Oh stain to honour! oh disgrace to arms!

Forsake, inglorious, the contended plain; This hand unaided shall the war sustain: The task be mine this hero's strength to try, Who mows whole troops, and makes an army fly."

He spake: and, speaking, leaps from off the car: Patroclus lights, and sternly waits the war.

As when two vultures on the mountain's height Stoop with resounding pinions to the fight; They cuff, they tear, they raise a screaming cry; The desert echoes, and the rocks reply: The warriors thus opposed in arms, engage With equal clamours, and with equal rage.

Jove view'd the combat: whose event foreseen, He thus bespoke his sister and his queen: "The hour draws on; the destinies ordain,(245) My G.o.dlike son shall press the Phrygian plain: Already on the verge of death he stands, His life is owed to fierce Patroclus' hands, What pa.s.sions in a parent's breast debate!

Say, shall I s.n.a.t.c.h him from impending fate, And send him safe to Lycia, distant far From all the dangers and the toils of war; Or to his doom my bravest offspring yield, And fatten, with celestial blood, the field?"

Then thus the G.o.ddess with the radiant eyes: "What words are these, O sovereign of the skies!

Short is the date prescribed to mortal man; Shall Jove for one extend the narrow span, Whose bounds were fix'd before his race began?

How many sons of G.o.ds, foredoom'd to death, Before proud Ilion must resign their breath!

Were thine exempt, debate would rise above, And murmuring powers condemn their partial Jove.

Give the bold chief a glorious fate in fight; And when the ascending soul has wing'd her flight, Let Sleep and Death convey, by thy command, The breathless body to his native land.

His friends and people, to his future praise, A marble tomb and pyramid shall raise, And lasting honours to his ashes give; His fame ('tis all the dead can have) shall live."

She said: the cloud-compeller, overcome, a.s.sents to fate, and ratifies the doom.

Then touch'd with grief, the weeping heavens distill'd A shower of blood o'er all the fatal field: The G.o.d, his eyes averting from the plain, Laments his son, predestined to be slain, Far from the Lycian sh.o.r.es, his happy native reign.

Now met in arms, the combatants appear; Each heaved the s.h.i.+eld, and poised the lifted spear; From strong Patroclus' hand the javelin fled, And pa.s.s'd the groin of valiant Thrasymed; The nerves unbraced no more his bulk sustain, He falls, and falling bites the b.l.o.o.d.y plain.

Two sounding darts the Lycian leader threw: The first aloof with erring fury flew, The next transpierced Achilles' mortal steed, The generous Pedasus of Theban breed: Fix'd in the shoulder's joint, he reel'd around, Roll'd in the b.l.o.o.d.y dust, and paw'd the slippery ground.

His sudden fall the entangled harness broke; Each axle crackled, and the chariot shook: When bold Automedon, to disengage The starting coursers, and restrain their rage, Divides the traces with his sword, and freed The enc.u.mbered chariot from the dying steed: The rest move on, obedient to the rein: The car rolls slowly o'er the dusty plain.

The towering chiefs to fiercer fight advance: And first Sarpedon whirl'd his weighty lance, Which o'er the warrior's shoulder took its course, And spent in empty air its dying force.

Not so Patroclus' never-erring dart; Aim'd at his breast it pierced a mortal part, Where the strong fibres bind the solid heart.

Then as the mountain oak, or poplar tall, Or pine (fit mast for some great admiral) Nods to the axe, till with a groaning sound It sinks, and spreads its honours on the ground, Thus fell the king; and laid on earth supine, Before his chariot stretch'd his form divine: He grasp'd the dust distain'd with streaming gore, And, pale in death, lay groaning on the sh.o.r.e.

So lies a bull beneath the lion's paws, While the grim savage grinds with foamy jaws The trembling limbs, and sucks the smoking blood; Deep groans, and hollow roars, rebellow through the wood.

Then to the leader of the Lycian band The dying chief address'd his last command; "Glaucus, be bold; thy task be first to dare The glorious dangers of destructive war, To lead my troops, to combat at their head, Incite the living, and supply the dead.

Tell them, I charged them with my latest breath Not unrevenged to bear Sarpedon's death.

What grief, what shame, must Glaucus undergo, If these spoil'd arms adorn a Grecian foe!

Then as a friend, and as a warrior fight; Defend my body, conquer in my right: That, taught by great examples, all may try Like thee to vanquish, or like me to die."

He ceased; the Fates suppress'd his labouring breath, And his eyes darken'd with the shades of death.

The insulting victor with disdain bestrode The prostrate prince, and on his bosom trod; Then drew the weapon from his panting heart, The reeking fibres clinging to the dart; From the wide wound gush'd out a stream of blood, And the soul issued in the purple flood.

His flying steeds the Myrmidons detain, Unguided now, their mighty master slain.

All-impotent of aid, transfix'd with grief, Unhappy Glaucus heard the dying chief: His painful arm, yet useless with the smart Inflicted late by Teucer's deadly dart, Supported on his better hand he stay'd: To Phoebus then ('twas all he could) he pray'd:

"All-seeing monarch! whether Lycia's coast, Or sacred Ilion, thy bright presence boast, Powerful alike to ease the wretch's smart; O hear me! G.o.d of every healing art!

Lo! stiff with clotted blood, and pierced with pain, That thrills my arm, and shoots through every vein, I stand unable to sustain the spear, And sigh, at distance from the glorious war.

Low in the dust is great Sarpedon laid, Nor Jove vouchsafed his hapless offspring aid; But thou, O G.o.d of health! thy succour lend, To guard the relics of my slaughter'd friend: For thou, though distant, canst restore my might, To head my Lycians, and support the fight."

Apollo heard; and, suppliant as he stood, His heavenly hand restrain'd the flux of blood; He drew the dolours from the wounded part, And breathed a spirit in his rising heart.

Renew'd by art divine, the hero stands, And owns the a.s.sistance of immortal hands.

First to the fight his native troops he warms, Then loudly calls on Troy's vindictive arms; With ample strides he stalks from place to place; Now fires Agenor, now Polydamas: aeneas next, and Hector he accosts; Inflaming thus the rage of all their hosts.

"What thoughts, regardless chief! thy breast employ?

Oh too forgetful of the friends of Troy!

Those generous friends, who, from their country far, Breathe their brave souls out in another's war.

See! where in dust the great Sarpedon lies, In action valiant, and in council wise, Who guarded right, and kept his people free; To all his Lycians lost, and lost to thee!

Stretch'd by Patroclus' arm on yonder plains, O save from hostile rage his loved remains!

Ah let not Greece his conquer'd trophies boast, Nor on his corse revenge her heroes lost!"

He spoke: each leader in his grief partook: Troy, at the loss, through all her legions shook.

Transfix'd with deep regret, they view o'erthrown At once his country's pillar, and their own; A chief, who led to Troy's beleaguer'd wall A host of heroes, and outs.h.i.+ned them all.

Fired, they rush on; first Hector seeks the foes, And with superior vengeance greatly glows.

But o'er the dead the fierce Patroclus stands, And rousing Ajax, roused the listening bands:

"Heroes, be men; be what you were before; Or weigh the great occasion, and be more.

The chief who taught our lofty walls to yield, Lies pale in death, extended on the field.

To guard his body Troy in numbers flies; Tis half the glory to maintain our prize.

Haste, strip his arms, the slaughter round him spread, And send the living Lycians to the dead."

The heroes kindle at his fierce command; The martial squadrons close on either hand: Here Troy and Lycia charge with loud alarms, Thessalia there, and Greece, oppose their arms.

With horrid shouts they circle round the slain; The clash of armour rings o'er all the plain.

Great Jove, to swell the horrors of the fight, O'er the fierce armies pours pernicious night, And round his son confounds the warring hosts, His fate enn.o.bling with a crowd of ghosts.

Now Greece gives way, and great Epigeus falls; Agacleus' son, from Budium's lofty walls; Who chased for murder thence a suppliant came To Peleus, and the silver-footed dame; Now sent to Troy, Achilles' arms to aid, He pays due vengeance to his kinsman's shade.

Soon as his luckless hand had touch'd the dead, A rock's large fragment thunder'd on his head; Hurl'd by Hectorean force it cleft in twain His shatter'd helm, and stretch'd him o'er the slain.

Fierce to the van of fight Patroclus came, And, like an eagle darting at his game, Sprung on the Trojan and the Lycian band.

What grief thy heart, what fury urged thy hand, O generous Greek! when with full vigour thrown, At Sthenelaus flew the weighty stone, Which sunk him to the dead: when Troy, too near That arm, drew back; and Hector learn'd to fear.

Far as an able hand a lance can throw, Or at the lists, or at the fighting foe; So far the Trojans from their lines retired; Till Glaucus, turning, all the rest inspired.

Then Bathyclaeus fell beneath his rage, The only hope of Chalcon's trembling age; Wide o'er the land was stretch'd his large domain, With stately seats, and riches blest in vain: Him, bold with youth, and eager to pursue The flying Lycians, Glaucus met and slew; Pierced through the bosom with a sudden wound, He fell, and falling made the fields resound.

The Achaians sorrow for their heroes slain; With conquering shouts the Trojans shake the plain, And crowd to spoil the dead: the Greeks oppose; An iron circle round the carcase grows.

Then brave Laogonus resign'd his breath, Despatch'd by Merion to the shades of death: On Ida's holy hill he made abode, The priest of Jove, and honour'd like his G.o.d.

Between the jaw and ear the javelin went; The soul, exhaling, issued at the vent.

His spear Aeneas at the victor threw, Who stooping forward from the death withdrew; The lance hiss'd harmless o'er his covering s.h.i.+eld, And trembling struck, and rooted in the field; There yet scarce spent, it quivers on the plain, Sent by the great Aeneas' arm in vain.

"Swift as thou art (the raging hero cries) And skill'd in dancing to dispute the prize, My spear, the destined pa.s.sage had it found, Had fix'd thy active vigour to the ground."

"O valiant leader of the Dardan host!

(Insulted Merion thus retorts the boast) Strong as you are, 'tis mortal force you trust, An arm as strong may stretch thee in the dust.

And if to this my lance thy fate be given, Vain are thy vaunts; success is still from heaven: This, instant, sends thee down to Pluto's coast; Mine is the glory, his thy parting ghost."

"O friend (Menoetius' son this answer gave) With words to combat, ill befits the brave; Not empty boasts the sons of Troy repel, Your swords must plunge them to the shades of h.e.l.l.

To speak, beseems the council; but to dare In glorious action, is the task of war."

This said, Patroclus to the battle flies; Great Merion follows, and new shouts arise: s.h.i.+elds, helmets rattle, as the warriors close; And thick and heavy sounds the storm of blows.

As through the shrilling vale, or mountain ground, The labours of the woodman's axe resound; Blows following blows are heard re-echoing wide, While crackling forests fall on every side: Thus echoed all the fields with loud alarms, So fell the warriors, and so rung their arms.

Now great Sarpedon on the sandy sh.o.r.e, His heavenly form defaced with dust and gore, And stuck with darts by warring heroes shed, Lies undistinguish'd from the vulgar dead.

His long-disputed corse the chiefs enclose, On every side the busy combat grows; Thick as beneath some shepherd's thatch'd abode (The pails high foaming with a milky flood) The buzzing flies, a persevering train, Incessant swarm, and chased return again.