The Iliads of Homer Translated according to the Greek · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
In like kind Priam bore His sacred person, like a wretch that never saw good day, Broken with outcries. About both the people prostrate lay, Held down with clamour; all the town veil’d with a cloud of tears. Ilion, with all his tops on fire, and all the massacres, Left for the Greeks, could put on looks of no more overthrow Than now fraid life. And yet the king did all their looks outshow. The wretched people could not bear his sov’reign wretchedness, Plaguing himself so, thrusting out, and praying all the press To open him the Dardan ports, that he alone might fetch His dearest son in, and (all fil’d with tumbling) did beseech Each man by name, thus: “Lov’d friends, be you content, let me, Though much ye grieve, be that poor mean to our sad remedy Now in our wishes; I will go and pray this impious man, Author of horrors, making proof if age’s rev’rence can Excite his pity. His own sire is old like me; and he That got him to our griefs, perhaps, may, for my likeness, be Mean for our ruth to him. Alas, you have no cause of cares, Compar’d with me!
I many sons, grac’d with their freshest years, Have lost by him, and all their deaths in slaughter of this one (Afflicted man) are doubled. This will bitterly set gone My soul to hell. O would to heaven I could but hold him dead In these pin’d arms, then tears on tears might fall, till all were shed In common fortune! Now amaze their natural course doth stop, And pricks a mad vein.” Thus he mourn’d, and with him all break ope Their store of sorrows. The poor Queen amongst the women wept Turn’d into anguish: “O my son,” she cried out, “why still kept Patient of horrors is my life, when thine is vanishéd? My days thou glorifi’dst, my nights rung of some honour’d deed Done by thy virtues, joy to me, profit to all our care. All made a God of thee, and thou mad’st them all that they are, Now under fate, now dead.” These two thus vented as they could There sorrow’s furnace; Hector’s wife not having yet been told So much as of his stay without.
She in her chamber close Sat at her loom; a piece of work, grac’d with a both sides’ gloss, Strew’d curiously with varied flowers, her pleasure was; her care, To heat a caldron for her lord, to bathe him turn’d from war, Of which she chief charge gave her maids. Poor dame, she little knew How much her cares lack’d of his case! But now the clamour flew Up to her turret; then she shook, her work fell from her hand, And up she started, call’d her maids, she needs must understand That ominous outcry: “Come,” said she, I hear through all this cry My mother’s voice shriek; to my throat my heart bounds; ecstasy Utterly alters me; some fate is near the hapless sons Of fading Priam. Would to God my words’ suspicións No ear had heard yet! O I fear, and that most heartily, That, with some stratagem, the son of Peleus hath put by The wall of Ilion my lord, and, trusty of his feet, Obtain’d the chase of him alone, and now the curious heat Of his still desp’rate spirit is cool’d. It let him never keep In guard of others; before all his violent foot must step, Or his place forfeited he held.”
Thus fury-like she went, Two women, as she will’d, at hand; and made her quick ascent Up to the tow’r and press of men, her spirit in uproar. Round She cast her greedy eye, and saw her Hector slain, and bound T’ Achilles’ chariot, manlessly dragg’d to the Grecian fleet. Black night strook through her, under her trance took away her feet, And back she shrunk with such a sway that off her head-tire flew, Her coronet, caul, ribands, veil that golden Venus threw On her white shoulders that high day when warlike Hector won Her hand in nuptials in the court of king Eetion, And that great dow’r then giv’n with her. About her, on their knees, Her husband’s sisters, brothers’ wives, fell round, and by degrees Recover’d her. Then, when again her respirations found Free pass (her mind and spirit met) these thoughts her words did sound: “O Hector, O me, curséd dame, both born beneath one fate, Thou here, I in Cilician Thebes, where Placus doth elate His shady forehead, in the court where king Eetion, Hapless, begot unhappy me; which would he had not done, To live past thee!
Thou now art div’d to Pluto’s gloomy throne, Sunk through the coverts of the earth; I, in a hell of moan, Left here thy widow; one poor babe born to unhappy both, Whom thou leav’st helpless as he thee, he born to all the wroth Of woe and labour. Lands left him will others seize upon; The orphan day of all friends’ helps robs ev’ry mother’s son. An orphan all men suffer sad; his eyes stand still with tears; Need tries his father’s friends, and fails; of all his favourers, If one the cup gives, ’tis not long, the wine he finds in it Scarce moists his palate; if he chance to gain the grace to sit, Surviving fathers’ sons repine, use contumelies, strike, Bid, ‘leave us, where’s thy father’s place?’ He, weeping with dislike, Retires to me, to me, alas! Astyanax is he Born to these mis’ries; he that late fed on his father’s knee, To whom all knees bow’d, daintiest fare appos’d him; and when sleep Lay on his temples, his cries still’d, his heart ev’n laid in steep Of all things precious, a soft bed, a careful nurse’s arms, Took him to guardiance.
But now as huge a world of harms Lies on his suff’rance; now thou want’st thy father’s hand to friend, O my Astyanax; O my lord, thy hand that did defend These gates of Ilion, these long walls by thy arm measur’d still Amply and only. Yet at fleet thy naked corse must fill Vile worms, when dogs are satiate, far from thy parents’ care, Far from those fun’ral ornaments that thy mind would prepare (So sudden being the chance of arms) ever expecting death. Which task, though my heart would not serve t’ employ my hands beneath, I made my women yet perform. Many, and much in price, Were those integuments they wrought t’ adorn thy exsequies; Which, since they fly thy use, thy corse not laid in their attire, Thy sacrifice they shall be made; these hands in mischievous fire Shall vent their vanities. And yet, being consecrate to thee, They shall be kept for citizens, and their fair wives, to see.” Thus spake she weeping; all the dames endeavouring to cheer Her desert state, fearing their own, wept with her tear for tear. [1] Up and down the walls, it is to be understood. [2] A most ingenious simile, used (as all our Homer besides) by Virgil, but this as a translator merely. [3] Achilles’ tyranny to Hector’s person, which we lay on his fury and love to his slain friend, for whom himself living suffered so much. Achilles orders justs of exsequies For his Patroclus; and doth sacrifice Twelve Trojan princes, most lov’d hounds and horse, And other off’rings, to the honour’d corse. He institutes, besides, a Funeral Game; Where Diomed, for horse-race, wins the fame; For foot, Ulysses; others otherwise Strive, and obtain; and end the Exsequies.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.