The Iliad - Homer (best novels to read for beginners .txt) 📗

the vengeance of an angry wife; Troy ends at last his labours and his life.

Mecystes next Polydamas o’erthrew;

And thee, brave Clonius, great Agenor slew.

By Paris, Deiochus inglorious dies,

Pierced through the shoulder as he basely flies.

Polites’ arm laid Echius on the plain;

Stretch’d on one heap, the victors spoil the slain.

The Greeks dismay’d, confused, disperse or fall, Some seek the trench, some skulk behind the wall.

While these fly trembling, others pant for breath, And o’er the slaughter stalks gigantic death.

On rush’d bold Hector, gloomy as the night; Forbids to plunder, animates the fight, Points to the fleet: “For, by the gods! who flies, [200]

Who dares but linger, by this hand he dies; No weeping sister his cold eye shall close, No friendly hand his funeral pyre compose.

Who stops to plunder at this signal hour, The birds shall tear him, and the dogs devour.”

Furious he said; the smarting scourge resounds; The coursers fly; the smoking chariot bounds; The hosts rush on; loud clamours shake the shore; The horses thunder, earth and ocean roar!

Apollo, planted at the trench’s bound,

Push’d at the bank: down sank the enormous mound: Roll’d in the ditch the heapy ruin lay; A sudden road! a long and ample way.

O’er the dread fosse (a late impervious space) Now steeds, and men, and cars tumultuous pass.

The wondering crowds the downward level trod; Before them flamed the shield, and march’d the god.

Then with his hand he shook the mighty wall; And lo! the turrets nod, the bulwarks fall: Easy as when ashore an infant stands,

And draws imagined houses in the sands; The sportive wanton, pleased with some new play, Sweeps the slight works and fashion’d domes away: Thus vanish’d at thy touch, the towers and walls; The toil of thousands in a moment falls.

 

The Grecians gaze around with wild despair, Confused, and weary all the powers with prayer: Exhort their men, with praises, threats, commands; And urge the gods, with voices, eyes, and hands.

Experienced Nestor chief obtests the skies, And weeps his country with a father’s eyes.

 

“O Jove! if ever, on his native shore,

One Greek enrich’d thy shrine with offer’d gore; If e’er, in hope our country to behold, We paid the fattest firstlings of the fold; If e’er thou sign’st our wishes with thy nod: Perform the promise of a gracious god!

This day preserve our navies from the flame, And save the relics of the Grecian name.”

 

Thus prayed the sage: the eternal gave consent, And peals of thunder shook the firmament.

Presumptuous Troy mistook the accepting sign, And catch’d new fury at the voice divine.

As, when black tempests mix the seas and skies, The roaring deeps in watery mountains rise, Above the sides of some tall ship ascend, Its womb they deluge, and its ribs they rend: Thus loudly roaring, and o’erpowering all, Mount the thick Trojans up the Grecian wall; Legions on legions from each side arise: Thick sound the keels; the storm of arrows flies.

Fierce on the ships above, the cars below, These wield the mace, and those the javelin throw.

 

While thus the thunder of the battle raged, And labouring armies round the works engaged, Still in the tent Patroclus sat to tend The good Eurypylus, his wounded friend.

He sprinkles healing balms, to anguish kind, And adds discourse, the medicine of the mind.

But when he saw, ascending up the fleet, Victorious Troy; then, starting from his seat, With bitter groans his sorrows he express’d, He wrings his hands, he beats his manly breast.

“Though yet thy state require redress (he cries) Depart I must: what horrors strike my eyes!

Charged with Achilles’ high command I go, A mournful witness of this scene of woe; I haste to urge him by his country’s care To rise in arms, and shine again in war.

Perhaps some favouring god his soul may bend; The voice is powerful of a faithful friend.”

 

He spoke; and, speaking, swifter than the wind Sprung from the tent, and left the war behind.

The embodied Greeks the fierce attack sustain, But strive, though numerous, to repulse in vain: Nor could the Trojans, through that firm array, Force to the fleet and tents the impervious way.

As when a shipwright, with Palladian art, Smooths the rough wood, and levels every part; With equal hand he guides his whole design, By the just rule, and the directing line: The martial leaders, with like skill and care, Preserved their line, and equal kept the war.

Brave deeds of arms through all the ranks were tried, And every ship sustained an equal tide.

At one proud bark, high-towering o’er the fleet, Ajax the great, and godlike Hector meet; For one bright prize the matchless chiefs contend, Nor this the ships can fire, nor that defend: One kept the shore, and one the vessel trod; That fix’d as fate, this acted by a god.

The son of Clytius in his daring hand,

The deck approaching, shakes a flaming brand; But, pierced by Telamon’s huge lance, expires: Thundering he falls, and drops the extinguish’d fires.

Great Hector view’d him with a sad survey, As stretch’d in dust before the stern he lay.

“Oh! all of Trojan, all of Lycian race!

Stand to your arms, maintain this arduous space: Lo! where the son of royal Clytius lies; Ah, save his arms, secure his obsequies!”

 

This said, his eager javelin sought the foe: But Ajax shunn’d the meditated blow.

Not vainly yet the forceful lance was thrown; It stretch’d in dust unhappy Lycophron: An exile long, sustain’d at Ajax’ board, A faithful servant to a foreign lord;

In peace, and war, for ever at his side, Near his loved master, as he lived, he died.

From the high poop he tumbles on the sand, And lies a lifeless load along the land.

With anguish Ajax views the piercing sight, And thus inflames his brother to the fight: “Teucer, behold! extended on the shore

Our friend, our loved companion! now no more!

Dear as a parent, with a parent’s care

To fight our wars he left his native air.

This death deplored, to Hector’s rage we owe; Revenge, revenge it on the cruel foe.

Where are those darts on which the fates attend?

And where the bow which Phoebus taught to bend?”

 

Impatient Teucer, hastening to his aid, Before the chief his ample bow display’d; The well-stored quiver on his shoulders hung: Then hiss’d his arrow, and the bowstring sung.

Clytus, Pisenor’s son, renown’d in fame, (To thee, Polydamas! an honour’d name)

Drove through the thickest of the embattled plains The startling steeds, and shook his eager reins.

As all on glory ran his ardent mind,

The pointed death arrests him from behind: Through his fair neck the thrilling arrow flies; In youth’s first bloom reluctantly he dies.

Hurl’d from the lofty seat, at distance far, The headlong coursers spurn his empty car; Till sad Polydamas the steeds restrain’d, And gave, Astynous, to thy careful hand; Then, fired to vengeance, rush’d amidst the foe: Rage edged his sword, and strengthen’d every blow.

 

Once more bold Teucer, in his country’s cause, At Hector’s breast a chosen arrow draws: And had the weapon found the destined way, Thy fall, great Trojan! had renown’d that day.

But Hector was not doom’d to perish then: The all-wise disposer of the fates of men (Imperial Jove) his present death withstands; Nor was such glory due to Teucer’s hands.

At its full stretch as the tough string he drew, Struck by an arm unseen, it burst in two; Down dropp’d the bow: the shaft with brazen head Fell innocent, and on the dust lay dead.

The astonish’d archer to great Ajax cries; “Some god prevents our destined enterprise: Some god, propitious to the Trojan foe, Has, from my arm unfailing, struck the bow, And broke the nerve my hands had twined with art, Strong to impel the flight of many a dart.”

 

“Since heaven commands it (Ajax made reply) Dismiss the bow, and lay thy arrows by: Thy arms no less suffice the lance to wield, And quit the quiver for the ponderous shield.

In the first ranks indulge thy thirst of fame, Thy brave example shall the rest inflame.

Fierce as they are, by long successes vain; To force our fleet, or even a ship to gain, Asks toil, and sweat, and blood: their utmost might Shall find its match—No more: ‘tis ours to fight.”

 

Then Teucer laid his faithless bow aside; The fourfold buckler o’er his shoulder tied; On his brave head a crested helm he placed, With nodding horse-hair formidably graced; A dart, whose point with brass refulgent shines, The warrior wields; and his great brother joins.

 

This Hector saw, and thus express’d his joy: “Ye troops of Lycia, Dardanus, and Troy!

Be mindful of yourselves, your ancient fame, And spread your glory with the navy’s flame.

Jove is with us; I saw his hand, but now, From the proud archer strike his vaunted bow: Indulgent Jove! how plain thy favours shine, When happy nations bear the marks divine!

How easy then, to see the sinking state Of realms accursed, deserted, reprobate!

Such is the fate of Greece, and such is ours: Behold, ye warriors, and exert your powers.

Death is the worst; a fate which all must try; And for our country, ‘tis a bliss to die.

The gallant man, though slain in fight he be, Yet leaves his nation safe, his children free; Entails a debt on all the grateful state; His own brave friends shall glory in his fate; His wife live honour’d, all his race succeed, And late posterity enjoy the deed!”

 

This roused the soul in every Trojan breast: The godlike Ajax next his Greeks address’d: “How long, ye warriors of the Argive race, (To generous Argos what a dire disgrace!) How long on these cursed confines will ye lie, Yet undetermined, or to live or die?

What hopes remain, what methods to retire, If once your vessels catch the Trojan fire?

Make how the flames approach, how near they fall, How Hector calls, and Troy obeys his call!

Not to the dance that dreadful voice invites, It calls to death, and all the rage of fights.

‘Tis now no time for wisdom or debates; To your own hands are trusted all your fates; And better far in one decisive strife,

One day should end our labour or our life, Than keep this hard-got inch of barren sands, Still press’d, and press’d by such inglorious hands.”

 

The listening Grecians feel their leader’s flame, And every kindling bosom pants for fame.

Then mutual slaughters spread on either side; By Hector here the Phocian Schedius died; There, pierced by Ajax, sunk Laodamas,

Chief of the foot, of old Antenor’s race.

Polydamas laid Otus on the sand,

The fierce commander of the Epeian band.

His lance bold Meges at the victor threw; The victor, stooping, from the death withdrew; (That valued life, O Phoebus! was thy care) But Croesmus’ bosom took the flying spear: His corpse fell bleeding on the slippery shore; His radiant arms triumphant Meges bore.

Dolops, the son of Lampus, rushes on,

Sprung from the race of old Laomedon,

And famed for prowess in a well-fought field, He pierced the centre of his sounding shield: But Meges, Phyleus’ ample breastplate wore, (Well-known in fight on Selle’s winding shore; For king Euphetes gave the golden mail, Compact, and firm with many a jointed scale) Which oft, in cities storm’d, and battles won, Had saved the father, and now saves the son.

Full at the Trojan’s head he urged his lance, Where the high plumes above the helmet dance, New ting’d with Tyrian dye: in dust below, Shorn from the crest, the purple honours glow.

Meantime their fight the Spartan king survey’d, And stood by