The Iliad
The god, his eyes averting from the plain,
Laments his son, predestined to be slain,
Far from the Lycian shores, his happy native reign.
Now met in arms, the combatants appear;
Each heaved the shield, and poised the lifted spear;
From strong Patroclus’ hand the javelin fled,
And pass’d the groin of valiant Thrasymed;
The nerves unbraced no more his bulk sustain,
He falls, and falling bites the bloody 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 bloody 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 encumbered 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 shore.
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 Phœbus 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! god 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 god 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 assistance 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:
Æneas 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 outshined 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 ennobling 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 god.
Between the jaw and ear the javelin went;
The soul, exhaling, issued at the vent.
His spear Æneas at the victor threw,
Who stooping forward from the death withdrew;
The lance hiss’d harmless o’er his covering shield,
And trembling struck, and rooted in the field;
There yet scarce spent, it quivers on the plain,
Sent by the great Æneas’ arm in vain.
“Swift as thou art (the raging hero cries)
And skill’d in dancing to dispute the prize,
My spear, the destined passage 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 hell.
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:
Shields, 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 shore,
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.
Jove view’d the combat with a stern survey,
And eyes that flash’d intolerable day.
Fix’d on the field his sight, his breast debates
The vengeance due, and meditates the fates:
Whether to urge their prompt effect, and call
The force of Hector to Patroclus’ fall,
This instant see his short-lived trophies won,
And stretch him breathless on his slaughter’d son;
Or yet, with many a soul’s untimely flight,
Augment the fame and horror of the fight.
To crown Achilles’ valiant friend with praise
At length he dooms; and, that his last of days
Shall set in glory, bids him drive the foe;
Nor unattended see the shades below.
Then Hector’s mind he fills with dire dismay;
He mounts his car, and calls his hosts away;
Sunk with Troy’s heavy fates, he sees decline
The scales of Jove, and pants with awe divine.
Then, nor before, the hardy Lycians fled,
And left their monarch with the common dead:
Around, in heaps on heaps, a dreadful wall
Of carnage rises, as the heroes fall.
(So Jove decreed!) At length the Greeks obtain
The prize contested, and despoil the slain.
The radiant arms are by Patroclus borne;
Patroclus’ ships the glorious spoils adorn.
Then thus to Phœbus, in the realms above,
Spoke from his throne the cloud-compelling Jove:
“Descend, my Phœbus! on the Phrygian plain,
And from the fight convey Sarpedon slain;
Then bathe his body in the crystal flood,
With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with blood;
O’er all his limbs ambrosial odours shed,
And with celestial robes adorn the dead.
Those rites discharged, his sacred corse bequeath
To the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death.
They to his friends the immortal charge shall bear;
His friends a tomb and pyramid shall rear:
What honour mortals after death receive,
Those unavailing honours we may give!”