The Iliad
Then, as a falcon from the rocky height,
Her quarry seen, impetuous at the sight,
Forth-springing instant, darts herself from high,
Shoots on the wing, and skims along the sky:
Such, and so swift, the power of ocean flew;
The wide horizon shut him from their view.
The inspiring god Oïleus’ active son
Perceived the first, and thus to Telamon:
“Some god, my friend, some god in human form
Favouring descends, and wills to stand the storm.
Not Calchas this, the venerable seer;
Short as he turned, I saw the power appear:
I mark’d his parting, and the steps he trod;
His own bright evidence reveals a god.
Even now some energy divine I share,
And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air!”
“With equal ardour (Telamon returns)
My soul is kindled, and my bosom burns;
New rising spirits all my force alarm,
Lift each impatient limb, and brace my arm.
This ready arm, unthinking, shakes the dart;
The blood pours back, and fortifies my heart:
Singly, methinks, yon towering chief I meet,
And stretch the dreadful Hector at my feet.”
Full of the god that urged their burning breast,
The heroes thus their mutual warmth express’d.
Neptune meanwhile the routed Greeks inspired;
Who, breathless, pale, with length of labours tired,
Pant in the ships; while Troy to conquest calls,
And swarms victorious o’er their yielding walls:
Trembling before the impending storm they lie,
While tears of rage stand burning in their eye.
Greece sunk they thought, and this their fatal hour;
But breathe new courage as they feel the power.
Teucer and Leitus first his words excite;
Then stern Peneleus rises to the fight;
Thoas, Deipyrus, in arms renown’d,
And Merion next, the impulsive fury found;
Last Nestor’s son the same bold ardour takes,
While thus the god the martial fire awakes:
“Oh lasting infamy, oh dire disgrace
To chiefs of vigorous youth, and manly race!
I trusted in the gods, and you, to see
Brave Greece victorious, and her navy free:
Ah, no—the glorious combat you disclaim,
And one black day clouds all her former fame.
Heavens! what a prodigy these eyes survey,
Unseen, unthought, till this amazing day!
Fly we at length from Troy’s oft-conquer’d bands?
And falls our fleet by such inglorious hands?
A rout undisciplined, a straggling train,
Not born to glories of the dusty plain;
Like frighted fawns from hill to hill pursued,
A prey to every savage of the wood:
Shall these, so late who trembled at your name,
Invade your camps, involve your ships in flame?
A change so shameful, say, what cause has wrought?
The soldiers’ baseness, or the general’s fault?
Fools! will ye perish for your leader’s vice;
The purchase infamy, and life the price?
’Tis not your cause, Achilles’ injured fame:
Another’s is the crime, but yours the shame.
Grant that our chief offend through rage or lust,
Must you be cowards, if your king’s unjust?
Prevent this evil, and your country save:
Small thought retrieves the spirits of the brave.
Think, and subdue! on dastards dead to fame
I waste no anger, for they feel no shame:
But you, the pride, the flower of all our host,
My heart weeps blood to see your glory lost!
Nor deem this day, this battle, all you lose;
A day more black, a fate more vile, ensues.
Let each reflect, who prizes fame or breath,
On endless infamy, on instant death:
For, lo! the fated time, the appointed shore:
Hark! the gates burst, the brazen barriers roar!
Impetuous Hector thunders at the wall;
The hour, the spot, to conquer, or to fall.”
These words the Grecians’ fainting hearts inspire,
And listening armies catch the godlike fire.
Fix’d at his post was each bold Ajax found,
With well-ranged squadrons strongly circled round:
So close their order, so disposed their fight,
As Pallas’ self might view with fix’d delight;
Or had the god of war inclined his eyes,
The god of war had own’d a just surprise.
A chosen phalanx, firm, resolved as fate,
Descending Hector and his battle wait.
An iron scene gleams dreadful o’er the fields,
Armour in armour lock’d, and shields in shields,
Spears lean on spears, on targets targets throng,
Helms stuck to helms, and man drove man along.
The floating plumes unnumber’d wave above,
As when an earthquake stirs the nodding grove;
And levell’d at the skies with pointing rays,
Their brandish’d lances at each motion blaze.
Thus breathing death, in terrible array,
The close compacted legions urged their way:
Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy;
Troy charged the first, and Hector first of Troy.
As from some mountain’s craggy forehead torn,
A rock’s round fragment flies, with fury borne,
(Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends,)
Precipitate the ponderous mass descends:
From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds;
At every shock the crackling wood resounds;
Still gathering force, it smokes; and urged amain,
Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain:
There stops—so Hector. Their whole force he proved,[230]
Resistless when he raged, and, when he stopp’d, unmoved.
On him the war is bent, the darts are shed,
And all their falchions wave around his head:
Repulsed he stands, nor from his stand retires;
But with repeated shouts his army fires.
“Trojans! be firm; this arm shall make your way
Through yon square body, and that black array:
Stand, and my spear shall rout their scattering power,
Strong as they seem, embattled like a tower;
For he that Juno’s heavenly bosom warms,
The first of gods, this day inspires our arms.”
He said; and roused the soul in every breast:
Urged with desire of fame, beyond the rest,
Forth march’d Deiphobus; but, marching, held
Before his wary steps his ample shield.
Bold Merion aim’d a stroke (nor aim’d it wide);
The glittering javelin pierced the tough bull-hide;
But pierced not through: unfaithful to his hand,
The point broke short, and sparkled in the sand.
The Trojan warrior, touch’d with timely fear,
On the raised orb to distance bore the spear.
The Greek, retreating, mourn’d his frustrate blow,
And cursed the treacherous lance that spared a foe;
Then to the ships with surly speed he went,
To seek a surer javelin in his tent.
Meanwhile with rising rage the battle glows,
The tumult thickens, and the clamour grows.
By Teucer’s arm the warlike Imbrius bleeds,
The son of Mentor, rich in generous steeds.
Ere yet to Troy the sons of Greece were led,
In fair Pedaeus’ verdant pastures bred,
The youth had dwelt, remote from war’s alarms,
And blest in bright Medesicaste’s arms:
(This nymph, the fruit of Priam’s ravish’d joy,
Allied the warrior to the house of Troy:)
To Troy, when glory call’d his arms, he came,
And match’d the bravest of her chiefs in fame:
With Priam’s sons, a guardian of the throne,
He lived, beloved and honour’d as his own.
Him Teucer pierced between the throat and ear:
He groans beneath the Telamonian spear.
As from some far-seen mountain’s airy crown,
Subdued by steel, a tall ash tumbles down,
And soils its verdant tresses on the ground;
So falls the youth; his arms the fall resound.
Then Teucer rushing to despoil the dead,
From Hector’s hand a shining javelin fled:
He saw, and shunn’d the death; the forceful dart
Sung on, and pierced Amphimachus’s heart,
Cteatus’ son, of Neptune’s forceful line;
Vain was his courage, and his race divine!
Prostrate he falls; his clanging arms resound,
And his broad buckler thunders on the ground.
To seize his beamy helm the victor flies,
And just had fastened on the dazzling prize,
When Ajax’ manly arm a javelin flung;
Full on the shield’s round boss the weapon rung;
He felt the shock, nor more was doom’d to feel,
Secure in mail, and sheath’d in shining steel.
Repulsed he yields; the victor Greeks obtain
The spoils contested, and bear off the slain.
Between the leaders of the Athenian line,
(Stichius the brave, Menestheus the divine,)
Deplored Amphimachus, sad object! lies;
Imbrius remains the fierce Ajaces’ prize.
As two grim lions bear across the lawn,
Snatch’d from devouring hounds, a slaughter’d fawn.
In their fell jaws high-lifting through the wood,
And sprinkling all the shrubs with drops of blood;
So these, the chief: great Ajax from the dead
Strips his bright arms; Oïleus lops his head:
Toss’d like a ball, and whirl’d in air away,
At Hector’s feet the gory visage lay.
The god of ocean, fired with stern disdain,
And pierced with sorrow for his grandson slain,
Inspires the Grecian hearts, confirms their hands,
And breathes destruction on the Trojan bands.
Swift as a whirlwind rushing to the fleet,
He finds the lance-famed Idomen of Crete,
His pensive brow the generous care express’d
With which a wounded soldier touch’d his breast,
Whom in the chance of war a javelin tore,
And his sad comrades from the battle bore;
Him to the surgeons of the camp he sent:
That office paid, he issued from his tent
Fierce for the fight: to whom the god begun,
In Thoas’ voice, Andræmon’s valiant son,
Who ruled where Calydon’s white rocks arise,
And Pleuron’s chalky cliffs emblaze the skies:
“Where’s now the imperious vaunt, the daring boast,
Of Greece victorious, and proud Ilion lost?”
To whom the king: “On Greece no blame be thrown;
Arms are her trade, and war is all her own.
Her hardy heroes from the well-fought plains
Nor fear withholds, nor shameful sloth detains:
’Tis heaven, alas! and Jove’s all-powerful doom,
That far, far distant from our native home
Wills us to fall inglorious! Oh, my friend!
Once foremost in the fight, still prone to lend
Or arms or counsels, now perform thy best,
And what thou canst not singly, urge the rest.”
Thus he: and thus the god whose force can make
The solid globe’s eternal basis shake:
“Ah! never may he see his native land,
But feed the vultures on this hateful strand,
Who seeks ignobly in his ships to stay,
Nor dares to combat on this signal day!
For this, behold! in horrid arms I shine,
And urge thy soul to rival acts with mine.
Together let us battle on the plain;
Two, not the worst; nor even this succour vain:
Not vain the weakest, if their force unite;
But ours, the bravest have confess’d in fight.”
This said, he rushes where the combat burns;
Swift to his tent the Cretan king returns:
From thence, two javelins glittering in his hand,
And clad in arms that lighten’d all the strand,
Fierce on the foe the impetuous hero drove,
Like lightning bursting from the arm of Jove,
Which to pale man the wrath of heaven declares,
Or terrifies the offending world with wars;
In streamy sparkles, kindling all the skies,
From pole to pole the trail of glory flies:
Thus his bright armour o’er the dazzled throng
Gleam’d dreadful, as the monarch flash’d along.
Him, near his tent, Meriones attends;
Whom thus he questions: “Ever best of friends!
O say, in every art of battle skill’d,
What holds thy courage from so brave a field?
On some important message art thou bound,
Or bleeds my friend by some unhappy wound?
Inglorious here, my soul abhors to stay,
And glows with prospects of th’ approaching day.”
“O prince! (Meriones replies) whose care
Leads forth the embattled sons of Crete to war;
This speaks my grief: this headless lance I wield;
The rest lies rooted in a Trojan shield.”
To whom the Cretan: “Enter, and receive
The wonted weapons; those my tent can give;
Spears I have store, (and Trojan lances all,)
That shed a lustre round the illumined wall,
Though I, disdainful of the distant war,
Nor trust the dart, nor aim the uncertain spear,
Yet hand to hand I fight, and spoil the slain;
And thence these trophies, and these arms I gain.
Enter, and see on heaps the helmets roll’d,
And high-hung spears, and shields that flame with gold.”
“Nor vain (said Merion) are our martial toils;
We too can boast of no ignoble spoils:
But those my ship contains; whence distant far,