The Iliads of Homer Translated according to the Greek · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
He said: “Nor dogs nor fowl have yet Touch’d at his person; still he lies at fleet, and in the tent Of our great Captain, who indeed is much too negligent Of his fit usage. But, though now twelve days have spent their heat On his cold body, neither worms with any taint have eat, Nor putrefaction perish’d it; yet ever, when the Morn Lifts her divine light from the sea, unmercifully borne About Patroclus’ sepulchre, it bears his friend’s disdain, Bound to his chariot; but no fits of further outrage reign In his distemper. You would muse to see how deep a dew Ev’n steeps the body, all the blood wash’d off, no slend’rest shew Of gore or quitture, but his wounds all clos’d, though many were Open’d about him. Such a love the blest Immortals bear, Ev’n dead, to thy dear son, because his life show’d love to them.” He joyful answer’d: “O my son, it is a grace supreme In any man to serve the Gods. And I must needs say this; For no cause, having season fit, my Hector’s hands would miss Advancement to the Gods with gifts, and therefore do not they Miss his remembrance after death.
Now let an old man pray Thy graces to receive this cup, and keep it for my love, Nor leave me till the Gods and thee have made my pray’rs approve Achilles’ pity, by thy guide brought to his princely tent.” Hermes replied: “You tempt me now, old king, to a consent Far from me, though youth aptly errs. I secretly receive Gifts that I cannot broadly vouch, take graces that will give My lord dishonour, or what he knows not, or will esteem Perhaps unfit? Such briberies perhaps at first may seem Sweet and secure; but futurely they still prove sour, and breed Both fear and danger. I could wish thy grave affairs did need My guide to Argos, either shipp’d, or lackeying by thy side, And would be studious in thy guard, so nothing could be tried But care in me to keep thee safe, for that I could excuse, And vouch to all men.” These words past, he put the deeds in use For which Jove sent him; up he leapt to Priam’s chariot, Took scourge and reins, and blew in strength to his free steeds, and got The naval tow’rs and deep dike straight.
The guards were all at meat; Those he enslumber’d, op’d the ports, and in he safely let Old Priam with his wealthy prize. Forthwith they reach’d the tent Of great Achilles, large and high, and in his most ascent A shaggy roof of seedy reeds mown from the meads; a hall Of state they made their king in it, and strengthen’d it withall Thick with fir rafters; whose approach was let in by a door That had but one bar, but so big that three men evermore Rais’d it to shut, three fresh take down; which yet Æacides Would shut and ope himself. And this with far more ease Hermes set ope, ent’ring the king; then leapt from horse, and said: “Now know, old king, that Mercury, a God, hath giv’n this aid To thy endeavour, sent by Jove; and now away must I, For men would envy thy estate to see a Deity Affect a man thus. Enter thou, embrace Achilles’ knee, And by his sire, son, mother, pray his ruth and grace to thee.”
This said, he high Olympus reach’d. The king then left his coach To grave Idæus, and went on, made his resolv’d approach, And enter’d in a goodly room, where with his princes sate Jove-lov’d Achilles, at their feast; two only kept the state Of his attendance, Alcimus, and lord Automedon, At Priam’s entry. A great time Achilles gaz’d upon His wonder’d-at approach, nor ate; the rest did nothing see, While close he came up, with his hands fast holding the bent knee Of Hector’s conqueror, and kiss’d that large man-slaught’ring hand That much blood from his sons had drawn. And as in some strange land, And great man’s house, a man is driv’n (with that abhorr’d dismay That follows wilful bloodshed still, his fortune being to slay One whose blood cries aloud for his) to plead protectión, In such a miserable plight as frights the lookers on; In such a stupefied estate Achilles sat to see So unexpected, so in night, and so incredibly, Old Priam’s entry. All his friends one on another star’d To see his strange looks, seeing no cause.
Thus Priam then prepar’d His son’s redemption: “See in me, O God-like Thetis’ son, Thy aged father; and perhaps ev’n now being out-run With some of my woes, neighbour foes (thou absent) taking time To do him mischief; no mean left to terrify the crime Of his oppression; yet he hears thy graces still survive, And joys to hear it, hoping still to see thee safe arrive From ruin’d Troy; but I, curs’d man, of all my race shall live To see none living. Fifty sons the Deities did give My hopes to live in; all alive when near our trembling shore The Greek ships harbour’d, and one womb nineteen of those sons bore. Now Mars a number of their knees hath strength less left; and he That was, of all, my only joy, and Troy’s sole guard, by thee, Late fighting for his country, slain; whose tender’d person now I come to ransom. Infinite is that I offer you, Myself conferring it, expos’d alone to all your odds, Only imploring right of arms. Achilles! Fear the Gods, Pity an old man like thy sire; diff’rent in only this, That I am wretcheder, and bear that weight of miseries That never man did, my curs’d lips enforc’d to kiss that hand That slew my children.”
This mov’d tears; his father’s name did stand, Mention’d by Priam, in much help to his compassion, And mov’d Æacides so much, he could not look upon The weeping father. With his hand he gently put away His grave face. Calm remission now did mutually display Her pow’r in either’s heaviness. Old Priam, to record His son’s death and his deathsman see, his tears and bosom pour’d Before Achilles; at his feet he laid his rev’rend head. Achilles’ thoughts, now with his sire, now with his friend, were fed. Betwixt both sorrow fill’d the tent. But now Æacides (Satiate at all parts with the ruth of their calamities) Start up, and up he rais’d the king. His milk-white head and beard With pity he beheld, and said: “Poor man, thy mind is scar’d With much afflictión. How durst thy person thus alone Venture on his sight, that hath slain so many a worthy son, And so dear to thee? Thy old heart is made of iron. Sit, And settle we our woes, though huge, for nothing profits it. Cold mourning wastes but our lives’ heats. The Gods have destinate That wretched mortals must live sad; ’tis the Immortal State Of Deity that lives secure.
Two tuns of gifts there lie In Jove’s gate, one of good, one ill, that our mortality Maintain, spoil, order; which when Jove doth mix to any man, One while he frolics, one while mourns. If of his mournful can A man drinks only, only wrongs he doth expose him to, Sad hunger in th’ abundant earth doth toss him to and fro, Respected nor of Gods nor men. The mix’d cup Peleus drank Ev’n from his birth; Heav’n blest his life; he liv’d not that could thank The Gods for such rare benefits as set forth his estate. He reign’d among his Myrmidons most rich, most fortunate, And, though a mortal, had his bed deck’d with a deathless dame. And yet, with all this good, one ill God mix’d, that takes all name From all that goodness; his name now, whose preservation here Men count the crown of their most good, not bless’d with pow’r to bear One blossom but myself, and I shaken as soon as blown; Nor shall I live to cheer his age, and give nutritión To him that nourish’d me.
Far off my rest is set in Troy, To leave thee restless and thy seed; thyself that did enjoy, As we have heard, a happy life; what Lesbos doth contain, In times past being a bless’d man’s seat, what the unmeasur’d main Of Hellespontus, Phrygia, holds, are all said to adorn Thy empire, wealth and sons enow; but, when the Gods did turn Thy blest state to partake with bane, war and the bloods of men Circled thy city, never clear. Sit down and suffer then; Mourn not inevitable things; thy tears can spring no deeds To help thee, nor recall thy son; impatience ever breeds Ill upon ill, makes worst things worse, and therefore sit.” He said: “Give me no seat, great seed of Jove, when yet unransomed Hector lies riteless in thy tents, but deign with utmost speed His resignation, that these eyes may see his person freed, And thy grace satisfied with gifts. Accept what I have brought, And turn to Phthia; ’tis enough thy conqu’ring hand hath fought Till Hector falter’d under it, and Hector’s father stood With free humanity safe.” He frown’d and said: “Give not my blood Fresh cause of fury.
I know well I must resign thy son, Jove by my mother utter’d it; and what besides is done I know as amply; and thyself, old Priam, I know too. Some God hath brought thee; for no man durst use a thought to go On such a service. I have guards, and I have gates to stay Easy accesses; do not then presume thy will can sway, Like Jove’s will, and incense again my quench’d blood, lest nor thou Nor Jove get the command of me.” This made the old king bow, And down he sat in fear. The prince leapt like a lion forth, Automedon and Alcimus attending: all the worth Brought for the body they took down and brought in, and with it Idæus, herald to the king; a coat embroider’d yet, And two rich cloaks, they left to hide the person. Thetis’ son Call’d out his women, to anoint and quickly overrun The corse with water, lifting it in private to the coach, Lest Priam saw, and his cold blood embrac’d a fi’ry touch Of anger at the turpitude profaning it, and blew Again his wrath’s fire to his death.
This done, his women threw The coat and cloak on; but the corse Achilles’ own hand laid Upon a bed, and with his friends to chariot it convey’d. For which forc’d grace, abhorring so from his free mind, he wept, Cried out for anger, and thus pray’d: “O friend, do not except Against this favour to our foe, if in the deep thou hear, And that I give him to his sire; he gave fair ransom; dear In my observance is Jove’s will; and whatsoever part Of all these gifts by any mean I fitly may convert To thy renown here, and will there, it shall be pour’d upon Thy honour’d sepulchre. This said, he went, and what was done Told Priam, saying: “Father, now thy will’s fit rites are paid, Thy son is giv’n up; in the morn thine eyes shall see him laid Deck’d in thy chariot on his bed; in mean space let us eat. The rich-hair’d Niobe found thoughts that made her take her meat, Though twelve dear children she saw slain, six daughters, six young sons.
The sons incens’d Apollo slew; the maids’ confusions Diana wrought; since Niobe her merits durst compare With great Latona’s, arguing that she did only bear Two children, and herself had twelve; for which those only two Slew all her twelve. Nine days they lay steep’d in their blood, her woe Found no friend to afford them fire, Saturnius had turn’d Humans to stones. The tenth day yet, the good Celestials burn’d The trunks themselves, and Niobe, when she was tir’d with tears, Fell to her food, and now with rocks and wild hills mix’d she bears In Sipylus the Gods’ wrath still, in that place where ’tis said The Goddess Fairies use to dance about the fun’ral bed Of Achelous, where, though turn’d with cold grief to a stone, Heav’n gives her heat enough to feel what plague comparison With his pow’rs made by earth deserves. Affect not then too far Without grief, like a God, being a man, but for a man’s life care, And take fit food; thou shalt have time beside to mourn thy son; He shall be tearful, thou being full; not here, but Ilion Shall find thee weeping-rooms enow.”
He said, and so arose, And caus’d a silver-fleec’d sheep kill’d; his friends’ skills did dispose The flaying, cutting of it up, and cookly spitted it, Roasted, and drew it artfully. Automedon, as fit Was for the rev’rend sewer’s place; and all the brown joints serv’d On wicker vessel to the board; Achilles’ own hands kerv’d; And close they fell to. Hunger stanch’d; talk, and observing time, Was us’d of all hands. Priam sat amaz’d to see the prime Of Thetis’ son, accomplish’d so with stature, looks, and grace, In which the fashion of a God he thought had chang’d his place. Achilles fell to him as fast, admir’d as much his years Told in his grave and good aspect; his speech ev’n charm’d his ears, So order’d, so material. With this food feasted too, Old Priam spake thus: “Now, Jove’s seed, command that I may go, And add to this feast grace of rest.
These lids ne’er clos’d mine eyes, Since under thy hands fled the soul of my dear son; sighs, cries, And woes, all use from food and sleep have taken; the base courts Of my sad palace made my beds, where all the abject sorts Of sorrow I have variéd, tumbled in dust, and hid; No bit, no drop, of sust’nance touch’d.” Then did Achilles bid His men and women see his bed laid down, and coveréd With purple blankets, and on them an arras coverlid, Waistcoats of silk plush laying by. The women straight took lights, And two beds made with utmost speed, and all the other rites Their lord nam’d us’d, who pleasantly the king in hand thus bore: “Good father, you must sleep without; lest any counsellor Make his access in depth of night, as oft their industry Brings them t’ impart our war-affairs; of whom should any eye Discern your presence, his next steps to Agamemnon fly, And then shall I lose all these gifts. But go to, signify, And that with truth, how many days you mean to keep the state Of Hector’s funerals; because so long would I rebate Mine own edge set to sack your town, and all our host contain From interruption of your rites.”
He answer’d: “If you mean To suffer such rites to my son, you shall perform a part Of most grace to me. But you know with how dismay’d a heart Our host took Troy; and how much fear will therefore apprehend Their spirits to make out again, so far as we must send For wood to raise our heap of death; unless I may assure That this your high grace will stand good, and make their pass secure; Which if you seriously confirm, nine days I mean to mourn; The tenth keep funeral and feast; th’ eleventh raise and adorn My son’s fit sepulchre; the twelfth, if we must needs, we’ll fight.” “Be it,” replied Æacides, “do Hector all this right; I’ll hold war back those whole twelve days; of which, to free all fear, Take this my right hand.” This confirm’d, the old king rested there; His herald lodg’d by him; and both in forepart of the tent; Achilles in an inmost room of wondrous ornament, Whose side bright-cheek’d Briseis warm’d. Soft sleep tam’d Gods and men, All but most-useful Mercury; sleep could not lay one chain On his quick temples, taking care for getting off again Engagéd Priam undiscern’d of those that did maintain The sacred watch.
Above his head he stood with this demand: “O father, sleep’st thou so secure, still lying in the hand Of so much ill, and being dismiss’d by great Æacides? ’Tis true thou hast redeem’d the dead; but for thy life’s release, Should Agamemnon hear thee here, three times the price now paid Thy sons’ hands must repay for thee.” This said, the king, afraid, Start from his sleep, Idæus call’d, and, for both, Mercury The horse and mules, before loos’d, join’d so soft and curiously That no ear heard, and through the host drave; but when they drew To gulfy Xanthus’ bright-wav’d stream, up to Olympus flew Industrious Mercury. And now the saffron Morning rose, Spreading her white robe over all the world; when, full of woes, They scourg’d on with the corse to Troy, from whence no eye had seen, Before Cassandra, their return. She, like love’s golden Queen, Ascending Pergamus, discern’d her father’s person nigh, His herald, and her brother’s corse; and then she cast this cry Round about Troy: “O Trojans, if ever ye did greet Hector return’d from fight alive, now look ye out and meet His ransom’d person. Then his worth was all your city’s joy, Now do it honour.”
Out all rush’d; woman nor man in Troy Was left, a most unmeasur’d cry took up their voices. Close To Scæa’s ports they met the corse; and to it headlong goes The rev’rend mother, the dear wife; upon it strow their hair, And lie entrancéd. Round about the people broke the air In lamentations; and all day had stay’d the people there, If Priam had not cried “Give way, give me but leave to bear The body home, and mourn your fills.” Then cleft the press, and gave Way to the chariot. To the court herald Idæus drave Where on a rich bed they bestow’d the honour’d person, round Girt it with singers that the woe with skilful voices crown’d. A woeful elegy they sung, wept singing, and the dames Sigh’d as they sung. Andromache the downright prose exclaims Began to all; she on the neck of slaughter’d Hector fell, And cried out: “O my husband, thou in youth bad’st youth farewell, Left’st me a widow, thy sole son an infant; ourselves curs’d In our birth made him right our child: for all my care that nurs’d His infancy will never give life to his youth, ere that Troy from her top will be destroy’d; thou guardian of our state, Thou ev’n of all her strength the strength, thou, that in care wert past Her careful mothers of their babes, being gone, how can she last?
Soon will the swoln fleet fill her womb with all their servitude, Myself with them, and thou with me, dear son, in labours rude Shalt be employ’d, sternly survey’d by cruel conquerors; Or, rage not suff’ring life so long, some one, whose hate abhors Thy presence (putting him in mind of his sire slain by thine, His brother, son, or friend) shall work thy ruin before mine, Toss’d from some tow’r, for many Greeks have ate earth from the hand Of thy strong father; in sad fight his spirit was too much mann’d, And therefore mourn his people; we, thy parents, my dear lord, For that thou mak’st endure a woe, black, and to be abhorr’d. Of all yet thou hast left me worst, not dying in thy bed, And reaching me thy last-rais’d hand, in nothing counselléd Nothing commanded by that pow’r thou hadst of me to do Some deed for thy sake. O for these never will end my woe, Never my tears cease.” Thus wept she, and all the ladies clos’d Her passion with a gen’ral shriek. Then Hecuba dispos’d Her thoughts in like words; “O my son, of all mine much most dear, Dear while thou liv’dst too ev’n to Gods, and after death they were Careful to save thee.
Being best, thou most wert envied; My other sons Achilles sold; but thee he left not dead. Imber and Samos, the false ports of Lemnos entertain’d Their persons; thine, no port but death. Nor there in rest remain’d Thy violated corse, the tomb of his great friend was spher’d With thy dragg’d person; yet from death he was not therefore rear’d But, all his rage us’d, so the Gods have tender’d thy dead state, Thou liest as living, sweet and fresh, as he that felt the fate Of Phœbus’ holy shafts.” These words the queen us’d for her moan, And, next her, Helen held that state of speech and passión: “O Hector, all my brothers more were not so lov’d of me As thy most virtues. Not my lord I held so dear, as thee, That brought me hither; before which I would I had been brought To ruin; for what breeds that wish (which is the mischief wrought By my access) yet never found one harsh taunt, one word’s ill, From thy sweet carriage.
Twenty years do now their circles fill Since my arrival; all which time thou didst not only bear Thyself without check, but all else, that my lord’s brothers were, Their sisters’ lords, sisters themselves, the queen my mother-in-law, (The king being never but most mild) when thy man’s spirit saw Sour and reproachful, it would still reprove their bitterness With sweet words, and thy gentle soul. And therefore thy decease I truly mourn for; and myself curse as the wretched cause; All broad Troy yielding me not one, that any human laws Of pity or forgiveness mov’d t’entreat me humanly, But only thee, all else abhorr’d me for my destiny.” These words made ev’n the commons mourn; to whom the king said: “Friends, Now fetch wood for our fun’ral fire, nor fear the foe intends Ambush, or any violence; Achilles gave his word, At my dismission, that twelve days he would keep sheath’d his sword, And all men’s else.” Thus oxen, mules, in chariots straight they put, Went forth and an unmeasur’d pile of sylvan matter cut; Nine days employ’d in carriage, but when the tenth morn shin’d On wretched mortals, then they brought the fit-to-be-divin’d Forth to be burn’d. Troy swum in tears. Upon the pile’s most height They laid the person, and gave fire.
All day it burn’d, all night. But when th’ elev’nth morn let on earth her rosy fingers shine, The people flock’d about the pile, and first with blackish wine Quench’d all the flames. His brothers then, and friends, the snowy bones Gather’d into an urn of gold, still pouring on their moans. Then wrapt they in soft purple veils the rich urn, digg’d a pit, Grav’d it, ramm’d up the grave with stones, and quickly built to it A sepulchre. But, while that work and all the fun’ral rites Were in performance, guards were held at all parts, days and nights, For fear of false surprise before they had impos’d the crown To these solemnities. The tomb advanc’d once, all the town In Jove-nurs’d Priam’s Court partook a passing sumptuous feast. And so horse-taming Hector’s rites gave up his soul to rest. [1] Shame a quality that hurts and helps men exceedingly.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.