The Iliads of Homer Translated according to the Greek · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
This vent her grief affords: “Brother (if I may call you so, that had been better born A dog, than such a horrid dame, as all men curse and scorn, A mischief-maker, a man-plague) O would to God, the day, That first gave light to me, had been a whirlwind in my way, And borne me to some desert hill, or hid me in the rage Of earth’s most far-resounding seas, ere I should thus engage The dear lives of so many friends! Yet since the Gods have been Helpless foreseers of my plagues, they might have likewise seen That he they put in yoke with me, to bear out their award, Had been a man of much more spirit, and, or had noblier dar’d To shield mine honour with this deed, or with his mind had known Much better the upbraids of men, that so he might have shown (More like a man) some sense of grief for both my shame and his. But he is senseless, nor conceives what any manhood is, Nor now, nor ever after will; and therefore hangs, I fear, A plague above him.
But come near, good brother; rest you here, Who, of the world of men, stands charg’d with most unrest for me, (Vile wretch) and for my lover’s wrong; on whom a destiny So bitter is impos’d by Jove, that all succeeding times Will put, to our unended shames, in all men’s mouths our crimes.” He answer’d: “Helen, do not seek to make me sit with thee; I must not stay, though well I know thy honour’d love of me. My mind calls forth to aid our friends, in whom my absence breeds Longings to see me; for whose sakes, importune thou to deeds This man by all means, that your care may make his own make hast, And meet me in the open town, that all may see at last He minds his lover. I myself will now go home, and see My household, my dear wife, and son, that little hope of me; For, sister, ’tis without my skill, if I shall evermore Return, and see them, or to earth, her right in me, restore. The Gods may stoop me by the Greeks.” This said, he went to see The virtuous princess, his true wife, white-arm’d Andromache.
She, with her infant son and maid, was climb’d the tow’r about The sight of him that sought for her, weeping and crying out. Hector, not finding her at home, was going forth; retir’d; Stood in the gate; her woman call’d, and curiously inquir’d Where she was gone; bad tell him true, if she were gone to see His sisters, or his brothers’ wives; or whether she should be At temple with the other dames, t’ implore Minerva’s ruth. Her woman answer’d: Since he ask’d, and urg’d so much the truth, The truth was she was neither gone, to see his brothers’ wives, His sisters, nor t’ implore the ruth of Pallas on their lives; But she (advertis’d of the bane Troy suffer’d, and how vast Conquest had made herself for Greece) like one distraught, made hast To ample Ilion with her son, and nurse, and all the way Mourn’d, and dissolv’d in tears for him. Then Hector made no stay, But trod her path, and through the streets, magnificently built, All the great city pass’d, and came where, seeing how blood was spilt, Andromache might see him come: who made as he would pass The ports without saluting her, not knowing where she was.
She, with his sight, made breathless haste, to meet him; she, whose grace Brought him withal so great a dow’r; she that of all the race Of king Aëtion only liv’d; Aëtion, whose house stood Beneath the mountain Placius, environ’d with the wood Of Theban Hypoplace, being court to the Cilician land. She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of heart and hand, Her son, borne in his nurse’s arms; when, like a heav’nly sign, Compact of many golden stars, the princely child did shine, Whom Hector call’d Scamandrius, but whom the town did name Astyanax, because his sire did only prop the same. Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet smil’d upon his joy. Andromache cried out, mix’d hands, and to the strength of Troy Thus wept forth her affectión: “O noblest in desire! Thy mind, inflam’d with others’ good, will set thyself on fire. Nor pitiest thou thy son, nor wife, who must thy widow be, If now thou issue; all the field will only run on thee. Better my shoulders underwent the earth, than thy decease; For then would earth bear joys no more; then comes the black increase Of griefs (like Greeks on Ilion). Alas! What one survives To be my refuge?
One black day bereft sev’n brothers’ lives, By stern Achilles; by his hand my father breath’d his last, His high-wall’d rich Cilician Thebes[5] sack’d by him, and laid wast; The royal body yet he left unspoil’d; religion charm’d That act of spoil; and all in fire he burn’d him cómplete arm’d; Built over him a royal tomb; and to the monument He left of him, th’ Oreades (that are the high descent Of Ægis-bearing Jupiter) another of their own Did add to it, and set it round with elms; by which is shown, In theirs, the barrenness of death; yet might it serve beside To shelter the sad monument from all the ruffinous pride Of storms and tempests, us’d to hurt things of that noble kind, The short life yet my mother liv’d he sav’d, and serv’d his mind With all the riches of the realm; which not enough esteem’d He kept her pris’ner; whom small time, but much more wealth, redeem’d, And she, in sylvan Hypoplace, Cilicia rul’d again, But soon was over-rul’d by death; Diana’s chaste disdain Gave her a lance, and took her life. Yet, all these gone from me, Thou amply render’st all; thy life makes still my father be, My mother, brothers; and besides thou art my husband too, Most lov’d, most worthy.
Pity them, dear love, and do not go, For thou gone, all these go again; pity our common joy, Lest, of a father’s patronage, the bulwark of all Troy, Thou leav’st him a poor widow’s charge. Stay, stay then, in this tow’r, And call up to the wild fig-tree all thy retiréd pow’r; For there the wall is easiest scal’d, and fittest for surprise, And there, th’ Ajaces, Idomen, th’ Atrides, Diomed, thrice Have both survey’d and made attempt; I know not if induc’d By some wise augury, or the fact was naturally infus’d Into their wits, or courages.” To this, great Hector said: “Be well assur’d, wife, all these things in my kind cares are weigh’d. But what a shame, and fear, it is to think how Troy would scorn (Both in her husbands, and her wives, whom long-train’d gowns adorn) That I should cowardly fly off! The spirit I first did breath Did never teach me that; much less, since the contempt of death Was settled in me, and my mind knew what a worthy was, Whose office is to lead in fight, and give no danger pass Without improvement. In this fire must Hector’s trial shine; Here must his country, father, friends, be, in him, made divine.
And such a stormy day shall come (in mind and soul I know) When sacred Troy shall shed her tow’rs, for tears of overthrow; When Priam, all his birth and pow’r, shall in those tears be drown’d. But neither Troy’s posterity so much my soul doth wound, Priam, nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brothers’ woes, (Who though so many, and so good, must all be food for foes) As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence, These free days clouded, and a night of captive violence Loading thy temples, out of which thine eyes must never see, But spin the Greek wives’ webs of task, and their fetch water be To Argos, from Messeides, or clear Hyperia’s spring;[6] Which howsoever thou abhorr’st, Fate’s such a shrewish thing She will be mistress; whose curs’d hands, when they shall crush out cries From thy oppressions (being beheld by other enemies) Thus they will nourish thy extremes: ‘This dame was Hector’s wife, A man that, at the wars of Troy, did breathe the worthiest life Of all their army.’ This again will rub thy fruitful wounds, To miss the man that to thy bands could give such narrow bounds.
But that day shall not wound mine eyes; the solid heap of night Shall interpose, and stop mine ears against thy plaints, and plight.” This said, he reach’d to take his son; who, of his arms afraid, And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid, Nodded so horribly, he cling’d back to his nurse, and cried. Laughter affected his great sire, who doff’d, and laid aside His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about it light; Then took and kiss’d his loving son, and (balancing his weight In dancing him) these loving vows to living Jove he us’d And all the other bench of Gods: “O you that have infus’d Soul to this infant, now set down this blessing on his star;— Let his renown be clear as mine; equal his strength in war; And make his reign so strong in Troy, that years to come may yield His facts this fame, when, rich in spoils, he leaves the conquer’d field Sown with his slaughters: ‘These high deeds exceed his father’s worth.’ And let this echo’d praise supply the comforts to come forth Of his kind mother with my life.”
This said, th’ heroic sire Gave him his mother; whose fair eyes fresh streams of love’s salt fire Billow’d on her soft cheeks, to hear the last of Hector’s speech, In which his vows compris’d the sum of all he did beseech In her wish’d comfort. So she took into her od’rous breast Her husband’s gift; who, mov’d to see her heart so much oppress’d, He dried her tears, and thus desir’d: “Afflict me not, dear wife, With these vain griefs. He doth not live, that can disjoin my life And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate, whose wings can fly? Noble, ignoble, fate controls. Once born, the best must die, Go home, and set thy housewif’ry on these extremes of thought; And drive war from them with thy maids; keep them from doing nought. These will be nothing; leave the cares of war to men, and me In whom, of all the Ilion race, they take their high’st degree.” On went his helm; his princess home, half cold with kindly fears; When ev’ry fear turn’d back her looks, and ev’ry look shed tears.
Foe-slaught’ring Hector’s house soon reach’d, her many women there Wept all to see her: in his life great Hector’s fun’rals were; Never look’d any eye of theirs to see their lord safe home, ‘Scap’d from the gripes and pow’rs of Greece. And now was Paris come From his high tow’rs; who made no stay, when once he had put on His richest armour, but flew forth; the flints he trod upon Sparkled with lustre of his arms; his long-ebb’d spirits now flow’d The higher for their lower ebb. And as a fair steed, proud[7] With full-giv’n mangers, long tied up, and now, his head stall broke, He breaks from stable, runs the field, and with an ample stroke Measures the centre, neighs, and lifts aloft his wanton head, About his shoulders shakes his crest, and where he hath been fed, Or in some calm flood wash’d, or, stung with his high plight, he flies Amongst his females, strength put forth, his beauty beautifies, And, like life’s mirror, bears his gait; so Paris from the tow’r Of lofty Pergamus came forth; he show’d a sun-like pow’r In carriage of his goodly parts, address’d now to the strife; And found his noble brother near the place he left his wife.
Him thus respected he salutes: “Right worthy, I have fear That your so serious haste to field, my stay hath made forbear, And that I come not as you wish.” He answer’d: “Honour’d man, Be confident, for not myself, nor any others, can Reprove in thee the work of fight, at least, not any such As is an equal judge of things; for thou hast strength as much As serves to execute a mind very important, but Thy strength too readily flies off, enough will is not put To thy ability. My heart is in my mind’s strife sad, When Troy (out of her much distress, she and her friends have had By thy procurement) doth deprave thy noblesse in mine ears. But come, hereafter we shall calm these hard conceits of theirs, When, from their ports the foe expuls’d, high Jove to them hath giv’n Wish’d peace, and us free sacrifice to all the Powers of heav’n.”
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.