The Iliads of Homer Translated according to the Greek · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
For if the Gods protect My safety to my father’s court, he shall choose me a wife. Many fair Achive princesses of unimpeachéd life In Helle and in Phthia live, whose sires do cities hold, Of whom I can have whom I will. And, more an hundred fold My true mind in my country likes to take a lawful wife Than in another nation; and there delight my life With those goods that my father got, much rather than die here. Not all the wealth of well-built Troy, possess’d when peace was there, All that Apollo’s marble fane in stony Pythos holds, I value equal with the life that my free breast enfolds. Sheep, oxen, tripods, crest-deck’d horse, though lost, may come again, But when the white guard of our teeth no longer can contain Our human soul, away it flies, and, once gone, never more To her frail mansion any man can her lost pow’rs restore.
And therefore since my mother-queen, fam’d for her silver feet, Told me two fates about my death in my direction meet: The one, that, if I here remain t’ assist our victory, My safe return shall never live, my fame shall never die; If my return obtain success, much of my fame decays, But death shall linger his approach, and I live many days, This being reveal’d, ’twere foolish pride, t’ abridge my life for praise. Then with myself, I will advise, others to hoise their sail, For, ’gainst the height of Ilion, you never shall prevail, Jove with his hand protecteth it, and makes the soldiers bold. This tell the kings in ev’ry part, for so grave legates should, That they may better counsels use, to save their fleet and friends By their own valours; since this course, drown’d in my anger, ends. Phœnix may in my tent repose, and in the morn steer course For Phthia, if he think it good; if not, I’ll use no force.” All wonder’d at his stern reply; and Phœnix, full of fears His words would be more weak than just, supplied their wants with tears. “If thy return incline thee thus, Peleus’ renownéd joy, And thou wilt let our ships be burn’d with harmful fire of Troy, Since thou art angry, O my son, how shall I after be Alone in these extremes of death, relinquishéd by thee?
I, whom thy royal father sent as ord’rer of thy force, When to Atrides from his court he left thee for this course, Yet young, and when in skill of arms thou didst not so abound, Nor hadst the habit of discourse, that makes men so renown’d. In all which I was set by him, t’ instruct thee as my son, That thou might’st speak, when speech was fit, and do, when deeds were done, Not sit as dumb, for want of words, idle, for skill to move, I would not then be left by thee, dear son, begot in love, No, not if God would promise me, to raze the prints of time Carv’d in my bosom and my brows, and grace me with the prime Of manly youth, as when at first I left sweet Helle’s shore Deck’d with fair dames, and fled the grudge my angry father bore; Who was the fair Amyntor call’d, surnam’d Ormenides, And for a fair-hair’d harlot’s sake, that his affects could please, Contemn’d my mother, his true wife, who ceaseless urgéd me To use his harlot Clytia, and still would clasp my knee To do her will, that so my sire might turn his love to hate Of that lewd dame, converting it to comfort her estate.
At last I was content to prove to do my mother good, And reconcile my father’s love; who straight suspicious stood, Pursuing me with many a curse, and to the Furies pray’d No dame might love, nor bring me seed. The Deities obey’d That govern hell; infernal Jove, and stern Persephone. Then durst I in no longer date with my stern father be. Yet did my friends, and near allies, inclose me with desires Not to depart; kill’d sheep, boars, beeves; roast them at solemn fires; And from my father’s tuns we drunk exceeding store of wine. Nine nights they guarded me by turns, their fires did ceaseless shine, One in the porch of his strong hall, and in the portal one, Before my chamber; but when day beneath the tenth night shone, I brake my chamber’s thick-fram’d doors, and through the hall’s guard pass’d, Unseen of any man or maid. Through Greece then, rich and vast, I fled to Phthia, nurse of sheep, and came to Peleus’ court; Who entertain’d me heartily, and in as gracious sort As any sire his only son, born when his strength is spent, And bless’d with great possessions to leave to his descent. He made me rich, and to my charge did much command commend.
I dwelt in th’ utmost region rich Phthia doth extend, And govern’d the Dolopians, and made thee what thou art, O thou that like the Gods art fram’d. Since, dearest to my heart, I us’d thee so, thou lov’dst none else; nor anywhere wouldst eat, Till I had crown’d my knee with thee, and carv’d thee tend’rest meat, And giv’n thee wine so much, for love, that, in thy infancy (Which still discretion must protect, and a continual eye) My bosom lovingly sustain’d the wine thine could not bear. Then, now my strength needs thine as much, be mine to thee as dear, Much have I suffer’d for thy love, much labour’d, wishéd much, Thinking, since I must have no heir (the Gods’ decrees are such) I would adopt thyself my heir. To thee my heart did give What any sire could give his son. In thee I hop’d to live. O mitigate thy mighty spirits. It fits not one that moves The hearts of all, to live unmov’d, and succour hates for loves. The Gods themselves are flexible; whose virtues, honours, pow’rs, Are more than thine, yet they will bend their breasts as we bend ours.
Perfumes, benign devotions, savours of off’rings burn’d, And holy rites, the engines are with which their hearts are turn’d, By men that pray to them, whose faith their sins have falsified. For Pray’rs are daughters of great Jove, lame, wrinkled, ruddy-ey’d, And ever following injury, who, strong and sound of feet, Flies through the world, afflicting men. Believing Prayers yet, To all that love that Seed of Jove, the certain blessing get To have Jove hear, and help them too; but if he shall refuse, And stand inflexible to them, they fly to Jove, and use Their pow’rs against him, that the wrongs he doth to them may fall On his own head, and pay those pains whose cure he fails to call. Then, great Achilles, honour thou this sacred Seed of Jove, And yield to them, since other men of greatest minds they move. If Agamemnon would not give the self-same gifts he vows, But offer other afterwards, and in his still-bent brows Entomb his honour and his word, I would not thus exhort, With wrath appeas’d, thy aid to Greece, though plagu’d in heaviest sort; But much he presently will give, and after yield the rest.
T’ assure which he hath sent to thee the men thou lovest best, And most renown’d of all the host, that they might soften thee. Then let not both their pains and pray’rs lost and despiséd be, Before which none could reprehend the tumult of thy heart, But now to rest inexpiate were much too rude a part. Of ancient worthies we have heard, when they were more displeas’d, To their high fames, with gifts and pray’rs they have been still appeas’d. For instance, I remember well a fact perform’d of old, Which to you all, my friends, I’ll tell: The Curets wars did hold With the well-fought Ætolians, where mutual lives had end About the city Calydon. Th’ Ætolians did defend Their flourishing country, which to spoil the Curets did contend. Diana with-the-golden-throne, with Oeneus much incens’d, Since with his plenteous land’s first fruits she was not reverenc’d, (Yet other Gods, with hecatombs, had feasts, and she alone, Great Jove’s bright daughter, left unserv’d, or by oblivion, Or undue knowledge of her dues) much hurt in heart she swore; And she, enrag’d, excited much, she sent a sylvan boar From their green groves, with wounding tusks; who usually did spoil King Oeneus’ fields, his lofty woods laid prostrate on the soil, Rent by the roots trees fresh, adorn’d with fragrant apple flow’rs. Which Meleager (Oeneus’ son) slew, with assembl’d pow’rs Of hunters, and of fiercest hounds, from many cities brought; For such he was that with few lives his death could not be bought, Heaps of dead humans, by his rage, the fun’ral piles applied. Yet, slain at last, the Goddess stirr’d about his head, and hide, A wondrous tumult, and a war betwixt the Curets wrought And brave Ætolians. All the while fierce Meleager fought, Ill-far’d the Curets; near the walls none durst advance his crest, Though they were many.
But when wrath inflam’d his haughty breast (Which oft the firm mind of the wise with passion doth infest) Since ’twixt his mother-queen and him arose a deadly strife, He left the court, and privately liv’d with his lawful wife, Fair Cleopatra, female birth of bright Marpessa’s pain, And of Ideus; who of all terrestrial men did reign, At that time, king of fortitude, and for Marpessa’s sake, ‘Gainst wanton Phœbus, king of flames; his bow in hand did take, Since he had ravish’d her, his joy; whom her friends after gave The surname of Alcyone, because they could not save Their daughter from Alcyone’s fate. In Cleopatra’s arms Lay Meleager, feeding on his anger, for the harms His mother pray’d might fall on him; who, for her brother slain By Meleager, griev’d, and pray’d the Gods to wreak her pain With all the horror could be pour’d upon her furious birth. Still knock’d she with her impious hands the many-feeding earth, To urge stern Pluto and his Queen t’ incline their vengeful ears, Fell on her knees, and all her breast dew’d with her fi’ry tears, To make them massacre her son, whose wrath enrag’d her thus. Erinnys, wand’ring through the air, heard, out of Erebus, Pray’rs fit for her unpleaséd mind. Yet Meleager lay Obscur’d in fury.
Then the bruit of the tumultuous fray Rung through the turrets as they scal’d; then came th’ Ætolian peers To Meleager with low suits, to rise and free their fears; Then sent they the chief priests of Gods, with offer’d gifts t’ atone His diff’ring fury, bade him choose, in sweet-soil’d Calydon, Of the most fat and yieldy soil, what with an hundred steers Might in a hundred days be plough’d, half that rich vintage bears, And half of naked earth to plough; yet yielded not his ire. Then to his lofty chamber-door, ascends his royal sire With ruthful plaints, shook the strong bars; then came his sisters’ cries; His mother then; and all intreat;—yet still more stiff he lies;— His friends, most rev’rend, most esteem’d; yet none impression took, Till the high turrets where he lay, and his strong chamber, shook With the invading enemy, who now forced dreadful way Along the city. Then his wife, in pitifil dismay, Besought him, weeping; telling him the miseries sustain’d By all the citizens, whose town the enemy had gain’d; Men slaughter’d; children bondslaves made; sweet ladies forc’d with lust; Fires climbing tow’rs, and turning them to heaps of fruitless dust. These dangers soften’d his steel heart.
Up the stout prince arose, Indu’d his body with rich arms, and freed th’ Ætolian’s woes, His smother’d anger giving air; which gifts did not assuage, But his own peril. And because he did not disengage Their lives for gifts, their gifts he lost. But for my sake, dear friend, Be not thou bent to see our plights to these extremes descend, Ere thou assist us; be not so by thy ill angel turn’d From thine own honour. It were shame to see our navy burn’d, And then come with thy timeless aid. For offer’d presents, come, And all the Greeks will honour thee, as of celestial room. But if without these gifts thou fight, forc’d by thy private woe, Thou wilt be nothing so renown’d, though thou repel the foe.” Achilles answer’d the last part of this oration thus: “Phœnix, renown’d and reverend, the honours urg’d on us We need not, Jove doth honour me, and to my safety sees, And will, whiles I retain a spirit, or can command my knees. Then do not thou with tears and woes impassion my affects, Becoming gracious to my foe. Nor fits it the respects Of thy vow’d love to honour him that hath dishonour’d me, Lest such loose kindness lose his heart that yet is firm to thee.
It were thy praise to hurt with me the hurter of my state, Since half my honour and my realm thou mayst participate. Let these lords then return th’ event, and do thou here repose, And, when dark sleep breaks with the day, our counsels shall disclose The course of our return or stay.” This said, he with his eye Made to his friend a covert sign, to hasten instantly A good soft bed, that the old prince, soon as the peers were gone, Might take his rest; when, soldier-like, brave Ajax Telamon Spake to Ulysses, as with thought Achilles was not worth The high direction of his speech, that stood so sternly forth Unmov’d with th’ other orators, and spake, not to appease Pelides’ wrath, but to depart. His arguments were these: “High-issu’d Laertiades, let us insist no more On his persuasion. I perceive the world would end before Our speeches end in this affair. We must with utmost haste Return his answer, though but bad. The peers are elsewhere plac’d, And will not rise till we return. Great Thetis’ son hath stor’d Proud wrath within him, as his wealth, and will not be implor’d, Rude that he is, nor his friends’ love respects, do what they can, Wherein past all, we honour’d him. O unremorseful man!
Another for his brother slain, another for his son, Accepts of satisfaction; and he the deed hath done Lives in belov’d society long after his amends, To which his foe’s high heart, for gifts, with patience condescends; But thee a wild and cruel spirit the Gods for plague have giv’n, And for one girl, of whose fair sex we come to offer sev’n, The most exempt for excellence, and many a better prise. Then put a sweet mind in thy breast, respect thy own allies, Though others make thee not remiss. A multitude we are, Sprung of thy royal family, and our supremest care Is to be most familiar, and hold most love with thee Of all the Greeks, how great an host soever here there be.”
He answer’d: “Noble Telamon, prince of our soldiers here, Out of thy heart I know thou speak’st, and as thou hold’st me dear; But still as often as I think, how rudely I was us’d, And, like a stranger, for all rites, fit for our good, refus’d My heart doth swell against the man, that durst be so profane To violate his sacred place; not for my private bane, But since wrack’d virtue’s gen’ral laws he shameless did infringe; For whose sake I will loose the reins, and give mine anger swinge, Without my wisdom’s least impeach. He is a fool, and base, That pities vice-plagu’d minds, when pain, not love of right, gives place. And therefore tell your king, my lords, my just wrath will not care For all his cares, before my tents and navy chargéd are By warlike Hector, making way through flocks of Grecian lives, Enlighten’d by their naval fire; but when his rage arrives About my tent, and sable bark, I doubt not but to shield Them and myself, and make him fly the there strong-bounded field.” This said, each one but kiss’d the cup, and to the ships retir’d; Ulysses first. Patroclus then the men and maids requir’d To make grave Phœnix’ bed with speed, and see he nothing lacks.
They straight obey’d, and thereon laid the subtile fruit of flax, And warm sheep-fells for covering; and there the old man slept, Attending till the golden Morn her usual station kept. Achilles lay in th’ inner room of his tent richly wrought, And that fair lady by his side, that he from Lesbos brought, Bright Diomeda, Phorbas’ seed. Patroclus did embrace The beauteous Iphis, giv’n to him, when his bold friend did race The lofty Scyrus that was kept in Enyeius’ hold. Now at the tent of Atreus’ son, each man with cups of gold Receiv’d th’ ambassadors return’d. All cluster’d near to know What news they brought; which first the king would have Ulysses show: “Say, most praiseworthy Ithacus, the Grecians’ great renown, Will he defend us? Or not yet will his proud stomach down?” Ulysses made reply: “Not yet will he appeaséd be, But grows more wrathful, prizing light thy offer’d gifts and thee, And wills thee to consult with us, and take some other course To save our army and our fleet, and says, ‘with all his force, The morn shall light him on his way to Phthia’s wishéd soil, For never shall high-seated Troy be sack’d with all our toil, Jove holds his hand ’twixt us and it, the soldiers gather heart.’
Thus he replies, which Ajax here can equally impart, And both these heralds. Phœnix stays, for so was his desire, To go with him, if he thought good; if not, he might retire.” All wonder’d he should be so stern; at last bold Diomed spake: “Would God, Atrides, thy request were yet to undertake, And all thy gifts unoffer’d him! He’s proud enough beside, But this ambassage thou hast sent will make him burst with pride. But let us suffer him to stay, or go, at his desire, Fight when his stomach serves him best, or when Jove shall inspire. Meanwhile, our watch being strongly held, let us a little rest After our food; strength lives by both, and virtue is their guest. Then when the rosy-finger’d Morn holds out her silver light, Bring forth thy host, encourage all, and be thou first in fight.” The kings admir’d the fortitude, that so divinely mov’d The skilful horseman Diomed, and his advice approv’d. Then with their nightly sacrifice each took his sev’ral tent, Where all receiv’d the sov’reign gifts soft Somnus did present. [1] Diomed takes fit time to answer his wrong done by Agamemnon in the fourth book. Th’ Atrides, watching, wake the other peers, And (in the fort, consulting of their fears) Two kings they send, most stout, and honour’d most, For royal scouts, into the Trojan host; Who meeting Dolon, Hector’s bribed spy, Take him, and learn how all the quarters lie. He told them, in the Thracian regiment Of rich king Rhesus, and his royal tent, Striving for safety; but they end his strife, And rid poor Dolon of a dang’rous life, Then with digressive wiles they use their force On Rhesus’ life, and take his snowy horse.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.