The Iliads of Homer Translated according to the Greek · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
The second Thestor’s chance, Old Enops’ son, did make himself; who shrinking, and set close In his fair seat, ev’n with th’ approach Patroclus made, did lose All manly courage, insomuch that from his hands his reins Fell flowing down, and his right jaw Patroclus’ lance attains, Strock through his teeth, and there it stuck, and by it to him drew Dead Thestor to his chariot. It show’d, as when you view An angler from some prominent rock draw with his line and hook A mighty fish out of the sea; for so the Greek did pluck The Trojan gaping from his seat, his jaws op’d with the dart; Which when Patroclus drew, he fell; his life and breast did part. Then rush’d he on Erylaus; at whom he hurl’d a stone, Which strake his head so in the midst, that two was made of one; Two ways it fell, cleft through his casque. And then Tlepolemus, Epaltes, Damastorides, Evippus, Echius, Ipheas, bold Amphoterus, and valiant Erymas, And Polymelus, by his sire surnam’d Argeadas, He heap’d upon the much-fed earth. When Jove’s most worthy son, Divine Sarpedon, saw these friends thus stay’d, and others run, “O shame! Why fly ye?” then he cried, “Now show ye feet enow.
On, keep your way, myself will meet the man that startles you, To make me understand his name that flaunts in conquest thus, And hath so many able knees so soon dissolv’d to us.” Down jump’d he from his chariot; down leap’d his foe as light. And as, on some far-looking rock, a cast of vultures fight, Fly on each other, strike and truss, part, meet, and then stick by, Tug both with crooked beaks and seres, cry, fight, and fight and cry; So fiercely fought these angry kings, and show’d as bitter galls. Jove, turning eyes to this stern fight, his wife and sister calls, And much mov’d for the Lycian Prince, said: “O that to my son Fate, by this day and man, should cut a thread so nobly spun! Two minds distract me; if I should now ravish him from fight, And set him safe in Lycia; or give the Fates their right.” “Austere Saturnius,” she replied, “what unjust words are these? A mortal, long since mark’d by fate, wouldst thou immortalize? Do, but by no God be approv’d. Free him, and numbers more, Sons of Immortals, will live free, that death must taste before These gates of Ilion; ev’ry God will have his son a God, Or storm extremely.
Give him then an honest period In brave fight by Patroclus’ sword, if he be dear to thee, And grieves thee for his danger’d life; of which when he is free, Let Death and Somnus bear him hence, till Lycia’s natural womb Receive him from his brother’s hands, and citizens’; a tomb And column rais’d to him. This is the honour of the dead.” She said, and her speech rul’d his pow’r; but in his safety’s stead, For sad ostent of his near death, he steep’d his living name In drops of blood heav’n swet for him, which earth drunk to his fame. And now, as this high combat grew to this too humble end, Sarpedon’s death had this state more; ’twas usher’d by his friend And charioteer, brave Thrasymed; whom in his belly’s rim Patroclus wounded with his lance, and endless ended him. And then another act of name foreran his princely fate. His first lance missing, he let fly a second that gave date Of violent death to Pedasus; who, as he joy’d to die By his so honourable hand, did ev’n in dying neigh.
His ruin startled th’ other steeds, the gears crack’d, and the reins Strappled his fellows; whose misrule Automedon restrains By cutting the intangling gears, and so dissund’ring quite The brave slain beast; when both the rest obey’d, and went foreright. And then the royal combatants fought for the final stroke; When Lycia’s Gen’ral miss’d again, his high-rais’d jav’lin took Above his shoulder empty way. But no such speedless flight Patroclus let his spear perform, that on the breast did light Of his brave foe, where life’s strings close about the solid heart, Impressing a recureless wound; his knees then left their part, And let him fall; when like an oak, a poplar, or a pine, New fell’d by arts-men on the hills, he stretch’d his form divine Before his horse and chariot. And as a lion leaps Upon a goodly yellow bull, drives all the herd in heaps, And, under his unconquer’d jaws, the brave beast sighing dies; So sigh’d Sarpedon underneath this prince of enemies, Call’d Glaucus to him, his dear friend, and said: “Now, friend, thy hands Much duty owe to fight and arms; now for my love it stands Thy heart in much hand to approve that war is harmful; now How active all thy forces are, this one hour’s act must show.
First call our Lycian captains up, look round, and bring up all, And all exhort to stand, like friends, about Sarpedon’s fall, And spend thyself thy steel for me; for be assur’d no day Of all thy life, to thy last hour, can clear thy black dismay In woe and infamy for me, if I be taken hence Spoil’d of mine arms, and thy renown despoil’d of my defence. Stand firm then, and confirm thy men.” This said, the bounds of death Concluded all sight to his eyes, and to his nosthrils breath. Patroclus, though his guard was strong, forc’d way through ev’ry doubt, Climb’d his high bosom with his foot, and pluck’d his jav’lin out, And with it drew the film and strings of his yet panting heart; And last, together with the pile, his princely soul did part. His horse, spoil’d both of guide and king, thick snoring and amaz’d, And apt to flight, the Myrmidons made nimbly to, and seiz’d. Glaucus, to hear his friend ask aid, of him past all the rest, Though well he knew his wound uncur’d, confusion fill’d his breast Not to have good in any pow’r, and yet so much good will.
And (laying his hand upon his wound, that pain’d him sharply still, And was by Teucer’s hand set on from their assail’d steep wall, In keeping hurt from other men) he did on Phœbus call, The God of med’cines, for his cure: “Thou King of cures,” said he, “That art perhaps in Lycia with her rich progeny, Or here in Troy; but any where, since thou hast pow’r to hear, O give a hurt and woeful man, as I am now, thine ear. This arm sustains a cruel wound, whose pains shoot ev’ry way, Afflict this shoulder, and this hand, and nothing long can stay A flux of blood still issuing; nor therefore can I stand With any enemy in fight, nor hardly make my hand Support my lance; and here lies dead the worthiest of men, Sarpedon, worthy son to Jove, whose pow’r could yet abstain From all aid in this deadly need; give thou then aid to me, O King of all aid to men hurt; assuage th’ extremity Of this arm’s anguish, give it strength, that by my precedent I may excite my men to blows, and this dead corse prevent Of further violence.”
He pray’d, and kind Apollo heard, Allay’d his anguish, and his wound of all the black blood clear’d That vex’d it so, infus’d fresh pow’rs into his weaken’d mind; And all his spirits flow’d with joy that Phœbus stood inclin’d, In such quick bounty, to his pray’rs. Then, as Sarpedon will’d, He cast about his greedy eye; and first of all instill’d To all his captains all the stings, that could inflame their fight For good Sarpedon. And from them, he stretch’d his speedy pace T’ Agenor, Hector, Venus’ son, and wise Polydamas; And (only naming Hector) said: “Hector, you now forget Your poor auxiliary friends, that in your toils have swet Their friendless souls out far from home. Sarpedon, that sustain’d With justice, and his virtues all, broad Lycia, hath not gain’d The like guard for his person here; for yonder dead he lies Beneath the great Patroclus’ lance. But come, let your supplies, Good friends, stand near him. O disdain to see his corse defil’d With Grecian fury; and his arms, by their oppressions spoil’d. These Myrmidons are come enrag’d, that such a mighty boot Of Greeks Troy’s darts have made at fleet.”
This said, from head to foot Grief strook their pow’rs past patience, and not to be restrain’d, To hear news of Sarpedon’s death; who, though he appertain’d To other cities, yet to theirs he was the very fort, And led a mighty people there, of all whose better sort Himself was best. This made them run in flames upon the foe; The first man Hector, to whose heart Sarpedon’s death did go. Patroclus stirr’d the Grecian spirits; and first th’ Ajaces, thus: “Now, brothers, be it dear to you, to fight and succour us, As ever heretofore ye did, with men first excellent. The man lies slain that first did scale, and raze the battlement That crown’d our wall, the Lycian prince. But if we now shall add Force to his corse, and spoil his arms, a prise may more be had Of many great ones, that for him will put on to the death.” To this work these were prompt enough; and each side ordereth Those phalanxes that most had rate of resolutions; The Trojans and the Lycian pow’rs; the Greeks and Myrmidons. These ran together for the corse, and clos’d with horrid cries, Their armours thund’ring with the claps laid on about the prise.
And Jove, about th’ impetuous broil, pernicious night pour’d out, As long as for his lovéd son, pernicious Labour fought. The first of Troy the first Greeks foil’d; when, not the last indeed Amongst the Myrmidons, was slain, the great Agacleus’ seed, Divine Epigeus, that before had exercis’d command In fair Budeiüs; but because he laid a bloody hand On his own sister’s valiant son, to Peleus and his queen He came for pardon, and obtain’d; his slaughter being the mean He came to Troy, and so to this. He ventur’d ev’n to touch The princely carcass; when a stone did more to him by much, Sent out of able Hector’s hand; it cut his skull in twain, And strook him dead. Patroclus, griev’d to see his friend so slain, Before the foremost thrust himself.
And as a falcon frays A flock of stares or caddesses; such fear brought his assays Amongst the Trojans and their friends; and, angry at the heart, As well as griev’d, for him so slain, another stony dart As good as Hector’s he let fly, that dusted in the neck Of Sthenelaus, thrust his head to earth first, and did break The nerves in sunder with his fall; off fell the Trojans too, Ev’n Hector’s self, and all as far as any man can throw (Provok’d for games, or in the wars to shed an enemy’s soul) A light long dart. The first that turn’d, was he that did control The targeteers of Lycia, prince Glaucus; who to hell Sent Bathyclæus, Chalcon’s son; he did in Hellas dwell, And shin’d for wealth and happiness amongst the Myrmidons; His bosom’s midst the jav’lin strook, his fall gat earth with groans. The Greeks griev’d, and the Trojans joy’d, for so renown’d a man; About whom stood the Grecians firm. And then the death began On Troy’s side by Meriones; he slew one great in war, Laogonus, Onetor’s son, the priest of Jupiter, Created in th’ Idæan hill. Betwixt his jaw and ear The dart stuck fast, and loos’d his soul; sad mists of hate and fear Invading him.
Anchises’ son despatch’d a brazen lance At bold Meriones; and hop’d to make an equal chance On him with bold Laogonus, though under his broad shield He lay so close. But he discern’d, and made his body yield So low, that over him it flew, and trembling took the ground, With which Mars made it quench his thirst; and since the head could wound No better body, and yet thrown from ne’er the worse a hand, It turn’d from earth, and look’d awry. Æneas let it stand, Much angry at the vain event, and told Meriones He scap’d but hardly, nor had cause to hope for such success Another time, though well he knew his dancing faculty, By whose agility he scap’d; for, had his dart gone by With any least touch, instantly he had been ever slain. He answer’d: “Though thy strength be good, it cannot render vain The strength of others with thy jests; nor art thou so divine, But when my lance shall touch at thee, with equal speed to thine, Death will share with it thy life’s pow’rs; thy confidence can shun No more than mine what his right claims.” Menœtius’ noble son Rebuk’d Meriones, and said: “What need’st thou use this speech?
Nor thy strength is approv’d with words, good friend, nor can we reach The body, nor make th’ enemy yield, with these our counterbraves. We must enforce the binding earth, to hold them in her graves. If you will war, fight. Will you speak? Give counsel Counsel, blows, Are th’ ends of wars and words. Talk here, the time in vain bestows.” He said, and led; and, nothing less for any thing he said, (His speech being season’d with such right) the worthy seconded. And then, as in a sounding vale, near neighbour to a hill, Wood-fellers make a far-heard noise, with chopping, chopping still, And laying on, on blocks and trees; so they on men laid load, And beat like noises into air, both as they strook and trode. But, past their noise, so full of blood, of dust, of darts, lay smit Divine Sarpedon, that a man must have an excellent wit That could but know him, and might fail, so from his utmost head, Ev’n to the low plants of his feet, his form was alteréd. All thrusting near it ev’ry way, as thick as flies in spring, That in a sheep-cote, when new milk assembles them, make wing, And buzz about the top-full pails.
Nor ever was the eye Of Jove averted from the fight; he view’d, thought, ceaselessly And diversly upon the death of great Achilles’ friend, If Hector there, to wreak his son, should with his jav’lin end His life, and force away his arms, or still augment the field; He then concluded that the flight of much more soul should yield Achilles’ good friend more renown, and that ev’n to their gates He should drive Hector and his host; and so disanimates The mind of Hector that he mounts his chariot, and takes Flight Up with him, tempting all to her; affirming his insight Knew evidently that the beam of Jove’s all-ord’ring scoles Was then in sinking on their side, surcharg’d with flocks of souls. Then not the noble Lycians stay’d, but left their slaughter’d lord Amongst the corses’ common heap; for many more were pour’d About and on him, while Jove’s hand held out the bitter broil. And now they spoil’d Sarpedon’s arms, and to the ships the spoil Was sent by Menœtiades.
Then Jove thus charg’d the Sun: “Haste, honour’d Phœbus, let no more Greek violence be done To my Sarpedon; but his corse of all the sable blood And jav’lins purg’d; then carry him, far hence to some clear flood, With whose waves wash, and then embalm each thorough-cleanséd limb With our ambrosia; which perform’d, divine weeds put on him, And then to those swift mates and twins, sweet Sleep and Death, commit His princely person, that with speed they both may carry it To wealthy Lycia; where his friends and brothers will embrace, And tomb it in some monument, as fits a prince’s place.” Then flew Apollo to the fight, from the Idalian hill, At all parts putting into act his great Commander’s will; Drew all the darts, wash’d, balm’d the corse; which, deck’d with ornament, By Sleep and Death, those feather’d twins, he into Lycia sent. Patroclus then Automedon commands to give his steeds Large reins, and all way to the chace; so madly he exceeds The strict commission of his friend; which had he kept had kept A black death from him.
But Jove’s mind hath evermore outstept The mind of man; who both affrights, and takes the victory From any hardiest hand with ease; which he can justify, Though he himself commands him fight, as now he put this chace In Menœtiades’s mind. How much then weighs the grace, Patroclus, that Jove gives thee now, in scoles put with thy death, Of all these great and famous men the honourable breath! Of which Adrestus first he slew, and next Autonous, Epistora, and Perimus, Pylartes, Elasus, Swift Menalippus, Molius; all these were overthrown By him, and all else put in rout; and then proud Ilion Had stoop’d beneath his glorious hand, he rag’d so with his lance, If Phœbus had not kept the tow’r, and help’d the Ilians, Sustaining ill thoughts ’gainst the prince. Thrice to the prominence Of Troy’s steep wall he bravely leap’d; thrice Phœbus thrust him thence, Objecting his all-dazzling shield, with his resistless hand; But fourthly, when, like one of heav’n, he would have stirr’d his stand, Apollo threaten’d him, and said: “Cease, it exceeds thy fate, Forward, Patroclus, to expugn with thy bold lance this state; Nor under great Achilles’ pow’rs, to thine superior far, Lies Troy’s grave ruin.”
When he spake, Patroclus left that war, Leap’d far back, and his anger shunn’d. Hector detain’d his horse Within the Scæan port, in doubt to put his personal force Amongst the rout, and turn their heads, or shun in Troy the storm. Apollo, seeing his suspense, resum’d the goodly form Of Hector’s uncle, Asius; the Phrygian Dymas’ son, Who near the deep Sangarius had habitation, Being brother to the Trojan queen. His shape Apollo took, And ask’d of Hector, why his spirit so clear the fight forsook? Affirming ’twas unfit for him, and wish’d his forces were As much above his, as they mov’d in an inferior sphere. He should, with shame to him, be gone; and so bade drive away Against Patroclus, to approve, if He that gave them day Would give the glory of his death to his preferréd lance. So left he him, and to the fight did his bright head advance, Mix’d with the multitude, and stirr’d foul tumult for the foe. Then Hector bade Cebriones put on; himself let go All other Greeks within his reach, and only gave command To front Patroclus.
He at him; jump’d down; his strong left hand A jav’lin held, his right a stone, a marble sharp and such As his large hand had pow’r to gripe, and gave it strength as much As he could lie to; nor stood long, in fear of that huge man That made against him, but full on with his huge stone he ran, Discharg’d, and drave it ’twixt the brows of bold Cebriones. Nor could the thick bone there prepar’d extenuate so th’ access, But out it drave his broken eyes, which in the dust fell down, And he div’d after; which conceit of diving took the son Of old Menœtius, who thus play’d upon the other’s bane. “O heav’ns! For truth, this Trojan was a passing active man! With what exceeding ease he dives, as if at work he were Within the fishy seas! This man alone would furnish cheer For twenty men, though ’twere a storm, to leap out of a sail, And gather oysters for them all, he does it here as well, And there are many such in Troy.”
Thus jested he so near His own grave death; and then made in, to spoil the charioteer, With such a lion’s force and fate, as, often ruining Stalls of fat oxen, gets at length a mortal wound to sting His soul out of that rav’nous breast, that was so insolent, And so his life’s bliss proves his bane; so deadly confident Wert thou, Patroclus, in pursuit of good Cebriones, To whose defence now Hector leap’d. The opposite address, These masters of the cry in war now made, was of the kind Of two fierce kings of beasts, oppos’d in strife about a hind Slain on the forehead of a hill, both sharp and hungry set And to the currie never came but like two deaths they met; Nor these two entertain’d less mind of mutual prejudice About the body, close to which when each had press’d for prise, Hector the head laid hand upon, which, once grip’d, never could Be forc’d from him; Patroclus then upon the feet got hold, And he pinch’d with as sure a nail. So both stood tugging there, While all the rest made eager fight, and grappled ev’ry where.
And as the east and south winds strive, to make a lofty wood Bow to their greatness, barky elms, wild ashes, beeches, bow’d Ev’n with the earth, in whose thick arms the mighty vapours lie, And toss by turns, all, either way, their leaves at random fly, Boughs murmur, and their bodies crack, and with perpetual din The sylvans falter, and the storms are never to begin; So rag’d the fight, and all from Flight pluck’d her forgotten wings, While some still stuck, still new-wing’d shafts flew dancing from their strings, Huge stones sent after that did shake the shields about the corse, Who now, in dust’s soft forehead stretch’d, forgat his guiding horse. As long as Phœbus turn’d his wheels about the midst of heaven, So long the touch of either’s darts the falls of both made even; But, when his wain drew near the west, the Greeks past measure were The abler soldiers, and so swept the Trojan tumult clear From off the body, out of which they drew the hurl’d-in darts, And from his shoulders stripp’d his arms; and then to more such parts Patroclus turn’d his striving thoughts, to do the Trojans ill.
Thrice, like the God of war, he charg’d, his voice as horrible, And thrice-nine those three charges slew; but in the fourth assay, O then, Patroclus, show’d thy last; the dreadful Sun made way Against that onset; yet the prince discern’d no Deity, He kept the press so, and, besides, obscur’d his glorious eye With such felt darkness. At his back, he made a sudden stand, And ’twixt his neck and shoulders laid down-right with either hand A blow so weighty, that his eyes a giddy darkness took, And from his head his three-plum’d helm the bounding violence shook, That rung beneath his horses’ hooves, and, like a water-spout, Was crush’d together with the fall; the plumes that set it out, All spatter’d with black blood and dust; when ever heretofore It was a capital offence to have or dust or gore Defile a triple-feather’d helm, but on the head divine And youthful temples of their prince it us’d, untouch’d, to shine. Yet now Jove gave it Hector’s hands, the other’s death was near. Besides whose lost and filéd helm his huge long weighty spear, Well-bound with iron, in his hand was shiver’d, and his shield Fell from his shoulders to his feet, the bawdrick strewing the field; His curets left him, like the rest.
And all this only done By great Apollo. Then his mind took in confusion, The vig’rous knittings of his joints dissolv’d; and, thus dismay’d, A Dardan, one of Panthus’ sons, and one that overlaid All Trojans of his place with darts, swift footing, skill, and force In noble horsemanship, and one that tumbled from their horse, One after other, twenty men, and when he did but learn The art of war; nay when he first did in the field discern A horse and chariot of his guide; this man, with all these parts, (His name Euphorbus) comes behind, and ’twixt the shoulders darts Forlorn Patroclus, who yet liv’d, and th’ other (getting forth His jav’lin) took him to his strength; nor durst he stand the worth Of thee, Patroclus, though disarm’d, who yet (discomfited By Phœbus’ and Euphorbus’ wound) the red heap of the dead He now too late shunn’d, and retir’d. When Hector saw him yield, And knew he yielded with a wound, he scour’d the arméd field, Came close up to him, and both sides strook quite through with his lance.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.