The Iliad Part 71

Then, grasping by the horn the mighty beast, The baffled hero thus the Greeks address'd:

"Accursed fate! the conquest I forego; A mortal I, a G.o.ddess was my foe; She urged her favourite on the rapid way, And Pallas, not Ulysses, won the day."

Thus sourly wail'd he, sputtering dirt and gore; A burst of laughter echoed through the sh.o.r.e.

Antilochus, more humorous than the rest, Takes the last prize, and takes it with a jest:

"Why with our wiser elders should we strive?

The G.o.ds still love them, and they always thrive.

Ye see, to Ajax I must yield the prize: He to Ulysses, still more aged and wise; (A green old age unconscious of decays, That proves the hero born in better days!) Behold his vigour in this active race!

Achilles only boasts a swifter pace: For who can match Achilles? He who can, Must yet be more than hero, more than man."

The effect succeeds the speech. Pelides cries, "Thy artful praise deserves a better prize.

Nor Greece in vain shall hear thy friend extoll'd; Receive a talent of the purest gold."

The youth departs content. The host admire The son of Nestor, worthy of his sire.

Next these a buckler, spear, and helm, he brings; Cast on the plain, the brazen burden rings: Arms which of late divine Sarpedon wore, And great Patroclus in short triumph bore.

"Stand forth the bravest of our host! (he cries) Whoever dares deserve so rich a prize, Now grace the lists before our army's sight, And sheathed in steel, provoke his foe to fight.

Who first the jointed armour shall explore, And stain his rival's mail with issuing gore, The sword Asteropaeus possess'd of old, (A Thracian blade, distinct with studs of gold,) Shall pay the stroke, and grace the striker's side: These arms in common let the chiefs divide: For each brave champion, when the combat ends, A sumptuous banquet at our tents attends."

Fierce at the word uprose great Tydeus' son, And the huge bulk of Ajax Telamon.

Clad in refulgent steel, on either hand, The dreadful chiefs amid the circle stand; Louring they meet, tremendous to the sight; Each Argive bosom beats with fierce delight.

Opposed in arms not long they idly stood, But thrice they closed, and thrice the charge renew'd.

A furious pa.s.s the spear of Ajax made Through the broad s.h.i.+eld, but at the corslet stay'd.

Not thus the foe: his javelin aim'd above The buckler's margin, at the neck he drove.

But Greece, now trembling for her hero's life, Bade share the honours, and surcease the strife.

Yet still the victor's due Tydides gains, With him the sword and studded belt remains.

Then hurl'd the hero, thundering on the ground, A ma.s.s of iron (an enormous round), Whose weight and size the circling Greeks admire, Rude from the furnace, and but shaped by fire.

This mighty quoit Aetion wont to rear, And from his whirling arm dismiss in air; The giant by Achilles slain, he stow'd Among his spoils this memorable load.

For this, he bids those nervous artists vie, That teach the disk to sound along the sky.

"Let him, whose might can hurl this bowl, arise; Who farthest hurls it, take it as his prize; If he be one enrich'd with large domain Of downs for flocks, and arable for grain, Small stock of iron needs that man provide; His hinds and swains whole years shall be supplied From hence; nor ask the neighbouring city's aid For ploughshares, wheels, and all the rural trade."

Stern Polypoetes stepp'd before the throng, And great Leonteus, more than mortal strong; Whose force with rival forces to oppose, Uprose great Ajax; up Epeus rose.

Each stood in order: first Epeus threw; High o'er the wondering crowds the whirling circle flew.

Leonteus next a little s.p.a.ce surpa.s.s'd; And third, the strength of G.o.dlike Ajax cast.

O'er both their marks it flew; till fiercely flung From Polypoetes' arm the discus sung: Far as a swain his whirling sheephook throws, That distant falls among the grazing cows, So past them all the rapid circle flies: His friends, while loud applauses shake the skies, With force conjoin'd heave off the weighty prize.

Those, who in skilful archery contend, He next invites the tw.a.n.ging bow to bend; And twice ten axes casts amidst the round, Ten double-edged, and ten that singly wound The mast, which late a first-rate galley bore, The hero fixes in the sandy sh.o.r.e; To the tall top a milk-white dove they tie, The trembling mark at which their arrows fly.

"Whose weapon strikes yon fluttering bird, shall bear These two-edged axes, terrible in war; The single, he whose shaft divides the cord."

He said: experienced Merion took the word; And skilful Teucer: in the helm they threw Their lots inscribed, and forth the latter flew.

Swift from the string the sounding arrow flies; But flies unbless'd! No grateful sacrifice, No firstling lambs, unheedful! didst thou vow To Phoebus, patron of the shaft and bow.

For this, thy well-aim'd arrow turn'd aside, Err'd from the dove, yet cut the cord that tied: Adown the mainmast fell the parted string, And the free bird to heaven displays her wing: Sea, sh.o.r.es, and skies, with loud applause resound, And Merion eager meditates the wound: He takes the bow, directs the shaft above, And following with his eye the soaring dove, Implores the G.o.d to speed it through the skies, With vows of firstling lambs, and grateful sacrific The dove, in airy circles as she wheels, Amid the clouds the piercing arrow feels; Quite through and through the point its pa.s.sage found, And at his feet fell b.l.o.o.d.y to the ground.

The wounded bird, ere yet she breathed her last, With flagging wings alighted on the mast, A moment hung, and spread her pinions there, Then sudden dropp'd, and left her life in air.

From the pleased crowd new peals of thunder rise, And to the s.h.i.+ps brave Merion bears the prize.

To close the funeral games, Achilles last A ma.s.sy spear amid the circle placed, And ample charger of unsullied frame, With flowers high-wrought, not blacken'd yet by flame.

For these he bids the heroes prove their art, Whose dexterous skill directs the flying dart.

Here too great Merion hopes the n.o.ble prize; Nor here disdain'd the king of men to rise.

With joy Pelides saw the honour paid, Rose to the monarch, and respectful said:

"Thee first in virtue, as in power supreme, O king of nations! all thy Greeks proclaim; In every martial game thy worth attest, And know thee both their greatest and their best.

Take then the prize, but let brave Merion bear This beamy javelin in thy brother's war."

Pleased from the hero's lips his praise to hear, The king to Merion gives the brazen spear: But, set apart for sacred use, commands The glittering charger to Talthybius' hands.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CERES.]

CERES.

BOOK XXIV.

ARGUMENT.

THE REDEMPTION OF THE BODY OF HECTOR.

The G.o.ds deliberate about the redemption of Hector's body. Jupiter sends Thetis to Achilles, to dispose him for the restoring it, and Iris to Priam, to encourage him to go in person and treat for it. The old king, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his queen, makes ready for the journey, to which he is encouraged by an omen from Jupiter. He sets forth in his chariot, with a waggon loaded with presents, under the charge of Idaeus the herald. Mercury descends in the shape of a young man, and conducts him to the pavilion of Achilles. Their conversation on the way.

Priam finds Achilles at his table, casts himself at his feet, and begs for the body of his son: Achilles, moved with compa.s.sion, grants his request, detains him one night in his tent, and the next morning sends him home with the body: the Trojans run out to meet him. The lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba, and Helen, with the solemnities of the funeral.

The time of twelve days is employed in this book, while the body of Hector lies in the tent of Achilles; and as many more are spent in the truce allowed for his interment. The scene is partly in Achilles' camp, and partly in Troy.

Now from the finish'd games the Grecian band Seek their black s.h.i.+ps, and clear the crowded strand, All stretch'd at ease the genial banquet share, And pleasing slumbers quiet all their care.

Not so Achilles: he, to grief resign'd, His friend's dear image present to his mind, Takes his sad couch, more un.o.bserved to weep; Nor tastes the gifts of all-composing sleep.

Restless he roll'd around his weary bed, And all his soul on his Patroclus fed: The form so pleasing, and the heart so kind, That youthful vigour, and that manly mind, What toils they shared, what martial works they wrought, What seas they measured, and what fields they fought; All pa.s.s'd before him in remembrance dear, Thought follows thought, and tear succeeds to tear.

And now supine, now p.r.o.ne, the hero lay, Now s.h.i.+fts his side, impatient for the day: Then starting up, disconsolate he goes Wide on the lonely beach to vent his woes.

There as the solitary mourner raves, The ruddy morning rises o'er the waves: Soon as it rose, his furious steeds he join'd!

The chariot flies, and Hector trails behind.

And thrice, Patroclus! round thy monument Was Hector dragg'd, then hurried to the tent.

There sleep at last o'ercomes the hero's eyes; While foul in dust the unhonour'd carcase lies, But not deserted by the pitying skies: For Phoebus watch'd it with superior care, Preserved from gaping wounds and tainting air; And, ignominious as it swept the field, Spread o'er the sacred corse his golden s.h.i.+eld.

All heaven was moved, and Hermes will'd to go By stealth to s.n.a.t.c.h him from the insulting foe: But Neptune this, and Pallas this denies, And th' unrelenting empress of the skies, E'er since that day implacable to Troy, What time young Paris, simple shepherd boy, Won by destructive l.u.s.t (reward obscene), Their charms rejected for the Cyprian queen.

But when the tenth celestial morning broke, To heaven a.s.sembled, thus Apollo spoke:

[Ill.u.s.tration: HECTOR'S BODY AT THE CAR OF ACHILLES.]

HECTOR'S BODY AT THE CAR OF ACHILLES.

"Unpitying powers! how oft each holy fane Has Hector tinged with blood of victims slain?

And can ye still his cold remains pursue?

Still grudge his body to the Trojans' view?

Deny to consort, mother, son, and sire, The last sad honours of a funeral fire?

Is then the dire Achilles all your care?

That iron heart, inflexibly severe; A lion, not a man, who slaughters wide, In strength of rage, and impotence of pride; Who hastes to murder with a savage joy, Invades around, and breathes but to destroy!

Shame is not of his soul; nor understood, The greatest evil and the greatest good.