The Iliad - Homer (ebook reader library .txt) š
- Author: Homer
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Him, as he darted by, Achillesā spear
Struck through the centre of the back, where met The golden clasps that held the glittāring belt, And where the breastplate formād a double guard: Right through his body passād the weaponās point; Groaning, he fell upon his knees; dark clouds Oāerspread his eyes; supporting with his hand His wounded bowels, on the ground he writhād.
When Hector saw his brother Polydore
Writhing in death, a mist oāerspread his eyes Nor longer could he bear to stand aloof, But sprang to meet Achilles, flashing fire, His keen spear brandishing; at sight of him Up leapād Achilles, and exulting cried: āLo, here the man who most hath wrung my soul, Who slew my lovād companion: now, methinks, Upon the pass of war not long shall we Stand separate, nor each the other shun.ā
Then, with stern glance, to godlike Hector thus: āDraw near, and quickly meet thy doom of death.ā
To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm, Unterrified: āAchilles, think not me,
As though a fool and ignorant of war,
To daunt with lofty speech; I too could well With cutting words and insult answer thee.
I know thee strong and valiant; and I know Myself to thee inferior; but thā event Is with the Gods; and I, if such their will, The weaker, with my spear may reach thy life: My point too hath, ere now, its sharpness provād.ā
He said, and, poising, hurlād his pondārous spear, Which from Achilles Pallas turnād aside With lightest breath; and back to Hector sent, And laid before his feet; intent to slay, Onward Achilles rushād, with fearful shout; But Phoebus Hector from the field conveyād, (As Gods can only,) veilād in thickest cloud.
Thrice Peleusā godlike son, with brazen spear, His onset made; thrice struck the misty cloud; But when, with powār as of a God, he made His fourth essay, in fury thus he cried: āYet once again, vile hound, hast thou escapād; Thy doom was nigh, but thee thy God hath savād, Phoebus, to whom, amid the clash of spears, Well mayst thou pray! We yet shall meet again; When I shall end thee, if a guardian God I too may claim; meanwhile, from thee I turn, And others seek on whom my hap may light.ā
He said, and drove through Dryopsā neck his spear, And stretchād him at his feet, and passād him by.
Next with his spear he struck below the knee Philetorās son, Demuchus, stout and tall, And checkād his forward course; then rushing on Dealt with his mighty sword the mortal blow.
The sons of Bias next, Laogonus
And Dardanus, he hurlād from off their car, One with the spear, and one by sword-stroke slain.
Tros too he slew, Alastorās son, who came To meet him, and embrace his knees, and pray To spare his life, in pity of his youth: Little he knew how vain would be his prayār; For not of temper soft, nor mild of mood Was he, but sternly fierce; and as he knelt And claspād his knees, and would his prayār prefer, Achilles clove him with his mighty sword, Gashād through the liver; as from out the wound His liver droppād, the dark blood gushing forth His bosom fillād, and darkness closād his eyes, As ebbād his life away. Then through the ear Mulius he thrust; at thā other ear came forth The brazen point. Echeclus next he met, Son of Agenor, and his hilted sword
Full on the centre of his head let fall.
The hot blood dyād the blade; the darkling shades Of death, and rigārous fate, his eyes oāerspread.
Next, where the tendons bind the elbow-joint, The brazen spear transfixād Deucalionās arm; With death in prospect, and disabled arm He stood, till on his neck Achillesā sword Descending, sharād, and flung afar, both head And helmet; from the spineās disseverād joints The marrow flowād, as stretchād in dust he lay.
The noble son of Peireus next he slew, Rigmus, who came from Thraciaās fertile plains; Him through the waist he struck, the brazen spear Plungād in his bowels; from the car he fell; And as Areithous, his charioteer,
His horses turnād, Achilles through the neck His sharp spear thrusting, hurlād him to the ground, The startled steeds in wild confusion thrown.
As rage the fires amid the wooded glen Of some parchād mountainās side, and fiercely burns The copse-wood dry, while eddying here and there The flames are whirlād before the gusty wind; So fierce Achilles raged, on evāry side Pursuing, slaughtāring; reekād the earth with blood.
As when upon a well-rollād threshing-floor, Two sturdy-fronted steers, together yokād, Tread the white barley out; beneath their feet Fast flies the grain out-trodden from the husk; So by Achilles drivān, his flying steeds His chariot bore, oāer bodies of the slain And broken bucklers trampling; all beneath Was plashād with blood the axle, and the rails Around the car, as from the horsesā feet And from the felloes of the wheels were thrown The bloody gouts; and onward still he pressād, Panting for added triumphs, deeply dyed With gore and carnage his unconquerād hands.
ARGUMENT.
THE BATTLE IN THE RIVER SCAMANDER.
The Trojans fly before Achilles, some towards the town, others to the river Scamander; he falls upon the latter with great slaughter, takes twelve captives alive, to sacrifice to the shade of Patroclus; and kills Lycaon and Asteropaeus. Scamander attacks him with all his waves; Neptune and Pallas assist the hero; Simois joins Scamander; at length Vulcan, by the instigation of Juno, almost dries up the river. This combat ended, the other gods engage each other. Meanwhile Achilles continues the slaughter, and drives the rest into Troy; Agenor only makes a stand, and is conveyed away in a cloud by Apollo: who (to delude Achilles) takes upon him Agenorās shape, and while he pursues him in that disguise, gives the Trojans an opportunity of retiring into their city.
The same day continues. The scene is on the banks and in the stream of Scamander.
BOOK XXI.
But when they came to eddying Xanthusā ford, Fair-flowing stream, born of immortal Jove, Achilles cut in twain the flying host; Part driving towārd the city, oāer the plain, Where on the former day the routed Greeks, When Hector ragād victorious, fled amain.
On, terror-struck, they rushād; but Juno spread, To baffle their retreat, before their path, Clouds and thick darkness: half the fugitives In the deep riverās silvāry eddies plungād: With clamour loud they fell: the torrent roarād; The banks around re-echoed; here and there, They, with the eddies wildly struggling, swam.
As when, pursued by fire, a hovāring swarm Of locusts riverward direct their flight, And, as thā insatiate flames advance, they cowār Amid the waters; so a mingled mass
Of men and horses, by Achilles drivān, The deeply-whirling stream, of Xanthus chokād.
His spear amid the tamarisks on the bank The hero left; on savage deeds intent, Armād with his sword alone, a God in powār, He sprang amid the torrent; right and left He smote; then fearful rose the groans of men Slain with the sword; the stream ran red with blood.
As fishes, flying from a dolphin, crowd The shoal recesses of some open bay,
In fear, for whom he catches he devours; So crouchād the Trojans in the mighty stream Beneath the banks; and when at length his hand Wearied of slaughter, from the stream, alive, He draggād twelve youths, whose forfeit lives should be The bloody fine for slain Patroclus paid.
Helpless from fear, as fawns, he brought them forth; Their hands securād behind them with the belts Which oāer their shirts of twisted mail they wore, And bade his comrades lead them to the ships.
Then on again he dashād, athirst for blood; And first encounterād, flying from the stream, Lycaon, Priamās son; him once before
He by a nightly onslaught had surprisād, And from his fatherās vineyard captive borne: Where, as he cut, to form his chariot rail, A fig-treeās tender shoots, unlookād-for ill Oāertook him in the form of Peleusā son.
Thence in his ship to Lemnosā thriving isle He bore him, ransomād there by Jasonās son.
His Imbrian host, Eetion, set him free With libāral gifts, and to Arisba sent: Escaping thence, he reachād his native home.
Twelve days save one, rejoicing, with his friends He spent, returnād from Lemnos: fate, the twelfth, Again consignād him to Achillesā hands, From him, reluctant, to receive his death.
Him when Achilles, swift of foot, beheld, No spear in hand, of helm and shield bereft, All flung in haste away, as from the stream, Reeking with sweat, and faint with toil, he fled, He communād, wrathful, with his mighty heart: āYe Gods, what marvel do mine eyes behold!
Methinks the valiant Trojans slain by me Ere long will from the realms of darkness rise; Since, death escaping, but to slavāry sold In Lemnosā isle, this fellow hath returnād, Despite the hoary seaās impediment,
Which many a man against his will hath stayād: Now shall he taste my spear, that I may see If thence too he return, or if the earth May keep him safe, which eāen the strongest holds.ā
Thus, as he stood, he musād; but all aghast Approachād Lycaon; and would fain have claspād The Heroās knees; for longingly he sought Escape from bitter death and evil fate.
Achilles raisād his spear, in act to strike; He, stooping, ran beneath, and claspād his knees; Above his back the murdārous weapon passād, And in the earth was fixād: one suppliant hand Achillesā knees embracād; the other held, With unrelaxing grasp, the pointed spear; As he with winged words, imploring, spoke: āI clasp thy knees, Achilles! look then down With pity on my woes; and recognize,
Illustrious chief, a suppliantās sacred claim: For in thy tent I first broke bread, that day, When, in my fatherās fruitful vineyard seizād, Thy captive I became, to slavāry sold, Far from my sire and friends, in Lemnosā isle.
A hundred oxen were my ransom then;
At thrice so much I now would buy my life.
This day is but the twelfth, since, sorely tried By lengthenād suffering, back to Troy I came.
Now to thy hands once more my cruel fate Consigns me; surely by the wrath of Jove Pursued, who gives me to thy powār again.
Me, doomād to early death, my mother bore, Old Altesā daughter, fair Laothoe;
Altes, who rulād the warlike Leleges,
In lofty Pedasus, by Satnoisā stream.
His child of Priamās many wives was one; Two sons she bore, and both by thee must die.
Already one, the godlike Polydore,
Amid the foremost ranks thy spear hath slain; And now my doom hath found me; for from thee, Since evil fate hath placād me in thy hands, I may not hope to fly; yet hear but this, And weigh it in thy mind, to spare my life: I come not of that womb which Hector bore, Who slew thy comrade, gentle, kind, and brave.ā
Thus Priamās noble son, imploring, spoke; But stern the answer fell upon his ear: āThou fool! no more to me of ransom prate!
Before Patroclus met the doom of death, To spare the Trojans still my soul inclinād; And many captives, taāen alive, I sold; But from henceforth, before the walls of Troy, Not one of all the Trojans, whom the Gods May to my hands deliver, least of all
A son of Priam, shall escape the death.
Thou too, my friend, must die: why vainly wail?
Dead is Patroclus too, thy better far.
Me too thou seeāst, how stalwart, tall, and fair,
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