The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Iliad
Title : The Iliad
Annotator : Theodore Alois Buckley
Author : Homer
Translator : Alexander Pope
Release
date
:
July
1, 2004 [
eBook
#6130]
Most
recently
updated:
April
23, 2022
Language : English
The
Iliad
of
Homer
Translated
by
Alexander
Pope,
With
Notes
and
Introduction
by the
Rev.
Theodore
Alois
Buckley, M.A., F.S.A.
and
Flaxman’s
Designs.
1899
Contents
Illustrations
end chapter
INTRODUCTION.
Scepticism is as much the result of knowledge, as knowledge is of scepticism. To be content with what we at present know, is, for the most part, to shut our ears against conviction; since, from the very gradual character of our education, we must continually forget, and emancipate ourselves from, knowledge previously acquired; we must set aside old notions and embrace fresh ones; and, as we learn, we must be daily unlearning something which it has cost us no small labour and anxiety to acquire.
And this difficulty attaches itself more closely to an age in which progress has gained a strong ascendency over prejudice, and in which persons and things are, day by day, finding their real level, in lieu of their conventional value. The same principles which have swept away traditional abuses, and which are making rapid havoc among the revenues of sinecurists, and stripping the thin, tawdry veil from attractive superstitions, are working as actively in literature as in society. The credulity of one writer, or the partiality of another, finds as powerful a touchstone and as wholesome a chastisement in the healthy scepticism of a temperate class of antagonists, as the dreams of conservatism, or the impostures of pluralist sinecures in the Church. History and tradition, whether of ancient or comparatively recent times, are subjected to very different handling from that which the indulgence or credulity of former ages could allow. Mere statements are jealously watched, and the motives of the writer form as important an ingredient in the analysis of his history, as the facts he records. Probability is a powerful and troublesome test; and it is by this troublesome standard that a large portion of historical evidence is sifted. Consistency is no less pertinacious and exacting in its demands. In brief, to write a history, we must know more than mere facts. Human nature, viewed under an induction of extended experience, is the best help to the criticism of human history. Historical characters can only be estimated by the standard which human experience, whether actual or traditionary, has furnished. To form correct views of individuals we must regard them as forming parts of a great whole —we must measure them by their relation to the mass of beings by whom they are surrounded, and, in contemplating the incidents in their lives or condition which tradition has handed down to us, we must rather consider the general bearing of the whole narrative, than the respective probability of its details.
It is unfortunate for us, that, of some of the greatest men, we know least, and talk most. Homer, Socrates, and Shakespere [1] have, perhaps, contributed more to the intellectual enlightenment of mankind than any other three writers who could be named, and yet the history of all three has given rise to a boundless ocean of discussion, which has left us little save the option of choosing which theory or theories we will follow. The personality of Shakespere is, perhaps, the only thing in which critics will allow us to believe without controversy; but upon everything else, even down to the of plays, there is more or less of doubt and uncertainty. Of Socrates we know as little as the contradictions of Plato and Xenophon will allow us to know. He was one of the dramatis personæ in two dramas as unlike in principles as in style. He appears as the enunciator of opinions as different in their tone as those of the writers who have handed them down. When we have read Plato or Xenophon, we think we know something of Socrates; when we have fairly read and examined both, we feel convinced that we are something worse than ignorant.
It has been an easy, and a popular expedient, of late years, to deny the personal or real existence of men and things whose life and condition were too much for our belief. This system—which has often comforted the religious sceptic, and substituted the consolations of Strauss for those of the New Testament —has been of incalculable value to the historical theorists of the last and present centuries. To question the existence of Alexander the Great, would be a more excusable act, than to believe in that of Romulus. To deny a fact in Herodotus, because it is inconsistent with a theory developed from an Assyrian inscription which no two scholars read in the same way, is more pardonable, than to believe in the good- natured old king whom the elegant pen of Florian has idealized — Numa Pompilius.
Scepticism has attained its culminating point with respect to Homer, and the state of our Homeric knowledge may be described as a free permission to believe any theory, provided we throw overboard all written tradition, concerning the or of the Iliad and Odyssey. What few exist on the subject, are summarily dismissed, although the arguments appear to run in a circle. “This cannot be true, because it is not true; and, that is not true, because it cannot be true.” Such seems to be the style, in which testimony upon testimony, statement upon statement, is consigned to denial and oblivion.
It is, however, unfortunate that the professed biographies of Homer are partly forgeries, partly freaks of ingenuity and imagination, in which truth is the requisite most wanting. Before taking a brief review of the Homeric theory in its present conditions, some notice must be taken of the treatise on the Life of Homer which has been attributed to Herodotus.
According to this document, the city of Cumæ in Æolia, was, at an early period, the seat of frequent immigrations from various parts of Greece. Among the immigrants was Menapolus, the son of Ithagenes. Although poor, he married, and the result of the union was a girl named Critheïs. The girl was left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Cleanax, of Argos. It is to the indiscretion of this maiden that we “are indebted for so much happiness.” Homer was the first fruit of her juvenile frailty, and received the name of Melesigenes, from having been born near the river Meles, in Bœotia, whither Critheïs had been transported in order to save her reputation.
“At this time,” continues our narrative, “there lived at Smyrna a man named Phemius, a teacher of literature and music, who, not being married, engaged Critheïs to manage his household, and spin the flax he received as the price of his scholastic labours. So satisfactory was her performance of this task, and so modest her conduct, that he made proposals of marriage, declaring himself, as a further inducement, willing to adopt her son, who, he asserted, would become a clever man, if he were carefully brought up.”
They were married; careful cultivation ripened the talents which nature had bestowed, and Melesigenes soon surpassed his schoolfellows in every attainment, and, when older, rivalled his preceptor in wisdom. Phemius died, leaving him sole heir to his property, and his mother soon followed. Melesigenes carried on his adopted father’s school with great success, exciting the admiration not only of the inhabitants of Smyrna, but also of the strangers whom the trade carried on there, especially in the exportation of corn, attracted to that city. Among these visitors, one Mentes, from Leucadia, the modern Santa Maura, who evinced a knowledge and intelligence rarely found in those times, persuaded Melesigenes to close his school, and accompany him on his travels. He promised not only to pay his expenses, but to furnish him with a further stipend, urging, that, “While he was yet young, it was fitting that he should see with his own eyes the countries and cities which might hereafter be the subjects of his discourses.” Melesigenes consented, and set out with his patron, “ examining all the curiosities of the countries they visited, and informing himself of everything by interrogating those whom he met.” We may also suppose, that he wrote memoirs of all that he deemed worthy of preservation. [2] Having set sail from Tyrrhenia and Iberia, they reached Ithaca. Here Melesigenes, who had already suffered in his eyes, became much worse, and Mentes, who was about to leave for Leucadia, left him to the medical superintendence of a friend of his, named Mentor, the son of Alcinor. Under his hospitable and intelligent host, Melesigenes rapidly became acquainted with the legends respecting Ulysses, which afterwards formed the subject of the Odyssey. The inhabitants of Ithaca assert, that it was here that Melesigenes became blind, but the Colophomans make their city the seat of that misfortune. He then returned to Smyrna, where he applied himself to the study of poetry. [3]
But poverty soon drove him to Cumæ . Having passed over the Hermæan plain, he arrived at Neon Teichos, the New Wall, a colony of Cumæ . Here his misfortunes and poetical talent gained him the friendship of one Tychias, an armourer. “And up to my time,” continued the author, “the inhabitants showed the place where he used to sit when giving a recitation of his verses, and they greatly honoured the spot. Here also a poplar grew, which they said had sprung up ever since Melesigenes arrived ”. [4]
But poverty still drove him on, and he went by way of Larissa, as being the most convenient road. Here, the Cumans say, he composed an epitaph on Gordius, king of Phrygia, which has however, and with greater probability, been attributed to Cleobulus of Lindus. [5]
Arrived at Cumæ , he frequented the converzationes [6] of the old men, and delighted all by the charms of his poetry. Encouraged by this favourable reception, he declared that, if they would allow him a public maintenance, he would render their city most gloriously renowned. They avowed their willingness to support him in the measure he proposed, and procured him an audience in the council. Having made the speech, with the purport of which our author has forgotten to acquaint us, he retired, and left them to debate respecting the answer to be given to his proposal.
The greater part of the assembly seemed favourable to the poet’s demand, but one man observed that “if they were to feed Homers , they would be encumbered with a multitude of useless people.” “From this circumstance,” says the writer, “ Melesigenes acquired the name of Homer, for the Cumans call blind men Homers .” [7] With a love of economy, which shows how similar the world has always been in its treatment of literary men, the pension was denied, and the poet vented his disappointment in a wish that Cumæa might never produce a poet capable of giving it renown and glory.
At Phocœa, Homer was destined to experience another literary distress. One Thestorides, who aimed at the reputation of poetical genius, kept Homer in his own house, and allowed him a pittance, on condition of the verses of the poet passing in his name. Having collected sufficient poetry to be profitable, Thestorides, like some would-be- literary publishers, neglected the man whose brains he had sucked, and left him. At his departure, Homer is said to have observed: “O Thestorides, of the many things from the knowledge of man, nothing is more unintelligible than the human heart.” [8]
Homer continued his career of difficulty and distress, until some Chian merchants, struck by the similarity of the verses they heard him recite, acquainted him with the fact that Thestorides was pursuing a profitable livelihood by the recital of the very same poems. This at once determined him to set out for Chios. No vessel happened then to be setting sail thither, but he found one ready to start for Erythræ, a town of Ionia, which faces that island, and he prevailed upon the seamen to allow him to accompany them. Having embarked, he invoked a favourable wind, and prayed that he might be able to expose the imposture of Thestorides, who, by his breach of hospitality, had drawn down the wrath of Jove the Hospitable.
At Erythræ , Homer fortunately met with a person who had known him in Phocœa, by whose assistance he at length, after some difficulty, reached the little hamlet of Pithys. Here he met with an adventure, which we will continue in the words of our author. “ Having set out from Pithys, Homer went on, attracted by the cries of some goats that were pasturing. The dogs barked on his approach, and he cried out. Glaucus (for that was the name of the goat - herd ) heard his voice, ran up quickly, called off his dogs, and drove them away from Homer. For some time he stood wondering how a blind man should have reached such a place alone, and what could be his design in coming. He then went up to him, and inquired who he was, and how he had come to desolate places and untrodden spots, and of what he stood in need. Homer, by recounting to him the whole history of his misfortunes, moved him with compassion; and he took him, and led him to his cot, and having lit a fire, bade him sup. [9]
“The dogs, instead of eating, kept barking at the stranger, according to their usual habit. Whereupon Homer addressed Glaucus thus: O Glaucus, my friend, prythee attend to my behest. First give the dogs their supper at the doors of the hut: for so it is better, since, whilst they watch, nor thief nor wild beast will approach the fold.
Glaucus was pleased with the advice, and marvelled at its author. Having finished supper, they banqueted [10] afresh on conversation, Homer narrating his wanderings, and telling of the cities he had visited.
At length they retired to rest; but on the following morning, Glaucus resolved to go to his master, and acquaint him with his meeting with Homer. Having left the goats in charge of a fellow - servant, he left Homer at home, promising to return quickly. Having arrived at Bolissus, a place near the farm, and finding his mate, he told him the whole story respecting Homer and his journey. He paid little attention to what he said, and blamed Glaucus for his stupidity in taking in and feeding maimed and enfeebled persons. However, he bade him bring the stranger to him.
Glaucus told Homer what had taken place, and bade him follow him, assuring him that good fortune would be the result. Conversation soon showed that the stranger was a man of much cleverness and general knowledge, and the Chian persuaded him to remain, and to undertake the charge of his children. [11]
Besides the satisfaction of driving the impostor Thestorides from the island, Homer enjoyed considerable success as a teacher. In the town of Chios he established a school where he taught the precepts of poetry. “To this day,” says Chandler, [12] “the most curious remaining is that which has been named, without reason, the School of Homer. It is on the coast, at some distance from the city, northward, and appears to have been an open temple of Cybele, formed on the top of a rock. The shape is oval, and in the centre is the image of the goddess, the head and an arm wanting. She is represented, as usual, sitting. The chair has a lion carved on each side, and on the back. The area is bounded by a low rim, or seat, and about five yards over. The whole is hewn out of the mountain, is rude, indistinct, and probably of the most remote antiquity.”
So successful was this school, that Homer realised a considerable fortune. He married, and had two daughters, one of whom died single, the other married a Chian.
The following passage betrays the same tendency to connect the personages of the poems with the history of the poet, which has already been mentioned:—
“In his poetical compositions Homer displays great gratitude towards Mentor of Ithaca, in the Odyssey, whose name he has inserted in his poem as the companion of Ulysses, [13] in return for the care taken of him when afflicted with blindness. He also testifies his gratitude to Phemius, who had given him both sustenance and instruction.”
His celebrity continued to increase, and many persons advised him to visit Greece, whither his reputation had now extended. Having, it is said, made some additions to his poems calculated to please the vanity of the Athenians, of whose city he had hitherto made no mention, [14] he sent out for Samos. Here being recognized by a Samian, who had met with him in Chios, he was handsomely received, and invited to join in celebrating the Apaturian festival. He recited some verses, which gave great satisfaction, and by singing the Eiresione at the New Moon festivals, he earned a subsistence, visiting the houses of the rich, with whose children he was very popular.
In the spring he sailed for Athens, and arrived at the island of Ios, now Ino, where he fell extremely ill, and died. It is said that his death arose from vexation, at not having been able to unravel an enigma proposed by some fishermen’s children. [15]
Such is, in brief, the substance of the earliest life of Homer we possess, and so broad are the evidences of its historical worthlessness, that it is scarcely necessary to point them out in detail. Let us now consider some of the opinions to which a persevering, patient, and learned —but by no means consistent — series of investigations has led. In doing so, I profess to bring forward statements, not to vouch for their reasonableness or probability.
“ Homer appeared. The history of this poet and his works is lost in doubtful obscurity, as is the history of many of the first minds who have done honour to humanity, because they rose amidst darkness. The majestic stream of his song, blessing and fertilizing, flows like the Nile, through many lands and nations; and, like the sources of the Nile, its fountains will ever remain concealed.”
Such are the words in which one of the most judicious German critics has eloquently described the uncertainty in which the whole of the Homeric question is involved. With no less truth and feeling he proceeds:—
“It seems here of chief importance to expect no more than the nature of things makes possible. If the period of tradition in history is the region of twilight, we should not expect in it perfect light. The creations of genius always seem like miracles, because they are, for the most part, created far out of the reach of observation. If we were in possession of all the historical testimonies, we never could wholly explain the origin of the Iliad and the Odyssey; for their origin, in all essential points, must have remained the secret of the poet.” [16]
From this criticism, which shows as much insight into the depths of human nature as into the minute wire - drawings of scholastic investigation, let us pass on to the main question at issue. Was Homer an individual? [17] or were the Iliad and Odyssey the result of an ingenious arrangement of fragments by earlier poets?
Well has Landor remarked: “Some tell us there were twenty Homers; some deny that there was ever one. It were idle and foolish to shake the contents of a vase, in order to let them settle at last. We are perpetually labouring to destroy our delights, our composure, our devotion to superior power. Of all the animals on earth we least know what is good for us. My opinion is, that what is best for us is our admiration of good. No man living venerates Homer more than I do.” [18]
But, greatly as we admire the generous enthusiasm which rests contented with the poetry on which its best impulses had been nurtured and fostered, without seeking to destroy the vividness of first impressions by minute analysis —our editorial office compels us to give some attention to the doubts and difficulties with which the Homeric question is beset, and to entreat our reader, for a brief period, to prefer his judgment to his imagination, and to condescend to dry details.
Before, however, entering into particulars respecting the question of this unity of the Homeric poems, (at least of the Iliad,) I must express my sympathy with the sentiments expressed in the following remarks:—
“We cannot but think the universal admiration of its unity by the better, the poetic age of Greece, almost conclusive testimony to its original composition. It was not till the age of the grammarians that its primitive integrity was called in question; nor is it injustice to assert, that the minute and analytical spirit of a grammarian is not the best qualification for the profound feeling, the comprehensive conception of an harmonious whole. The most exquisite anatomist may be no judge of the symmetry of the human frame: and we would take the opinion of Chantrey or Westmacott on the proportions and general beauty of a form, rather than that of Mr. Brodie or Sir Astley Cooper.
“There is some truth, though some malicious exaggeration, in the lines of Pope.—
“‘The
critic
eye
—that
microscope
of
wit
Sees
hairs
and
pores,
examines
bit
by
bit,
How parts
relate
to parts, or they to
whole,
The
body’s
harmony, the
beaming
soul,
Are
things
which
Kuster,
Burmann,
Wasse,
shall
see,
When man’s
whole
frame
is
obvious
to a
flea.’”
[19]
Long was the time which elapsed before any one dreamt of questioning the unity of the authorship of the Homeric poems. The grave and cautious Thucydides quoted without hesitation the Hymn to Apollo, [20] the authenticity of which has been already disclaimed by modern critics. Longinus, in an oft quoted passage, merely expressed an opinion touching the comparative inferiority of the Odyssey to the Iliad, [21] and, among a mass of ancient authors, whose very names [22] it would be tedious to detail, no suspicion of the personal non - existence of Homer ever arose. So far, the voice of antiquity seems to be in favour of our early ideas on the subject; let us now see what are the discoveries to which more modern investigations lay claim.
At the end of the seventeenth century, doubts had begun to awaken on the subject, and we find Bentley remarking that “ Homer wrote a sequel of songs and rhapsodies, to be sung by himself, for small comings and good cheer, at festivals and other days of merriment. These loose songs were not collected together, in the form of an epic poem, till about Peisistratus’ time, about five hundred years after.” [23]
Two French writers — Hedelin and Perrault — avowed a similar scepticism on the subject; but it is in the “ Scienza Nuova ” of Battista Vico, that we first meet with the germ of the theory, subsequently defended by Wolf with so much learning and acuteness. Indeed, it is with the Wolfian theory that we have chiefly to deal, and with the following bold hypothesis, which we will detail in the words of Grote:— [24]
“ Half a century ago, the acute and valuable Prolegomena of F. A. Wolf, turning to account the Venetian Scholia, which had then been recently published, first opened philosophical discussion as to the history of the Homeric text. A considerable part of that dissertation (though by no means the whole ) is employed in vindicating the position, previously announced by Bentley, amongst others, that the separate constituent portions of the Iliad and Odyssey had not been cemented together into any compact body and unchangeable order, until the days of Peisistratus, in the sixth century before Christ. As a step towards that conclusion, Wolf maintained that no written copies of either poem could be shown to have existed during the earlier times, to which their composition is referred; and that without writing, neither the perfect symmetry of so complicated a work could have been originally conceived by any poet, nor, if realized by him, transmitted with assurance to posterity. The absence of easy and convenient writing, such as must be indispensably supposed for long manuscripts, among the early Greeks, was thus one of the points in Wolf ’s case against the primitive integrity of the Iliad and Odyssey. By Nitzsch, and other leading opponents of Wolf, the connection of the one with the other seems to have been accepted as he originally put it; and it has been considered incumbent on those who defended the ancient aggregate character of the Iliad and Odyssey, to maintain that they were written poems from the beginning.
“To me it appears, that the architectonic functions ascribed by Wolf to Peisistratus and his associates, in reference to the Homeric poems, are nowise admissible. But much would undoubtedly be gained towards that view of the question, if it could be shown, that, in order to controvert it, we were driven to the necessity of admitting long written poems, in the ninth century before the Christian æra. Few things, in my opinion, can be more improbable; and Mr. Payne Knight, opposed as he is to the Wolfian hypothesis, admits this no less than Wolf himself. The traces of writing in Greece, even in the seventh century before the Christian æra, are exceedingly trifling. We have no remaining inscription earlier than the fortieth Olympiad, and the early inscriptions are rude and unskilfully executed; nor can we even assure ourselves whether Archilochus, Simonidês of Amorgus, Kallinus, Tyrtæus, Xanthus, and the other early elegiac and lyric poets, committed their compositions to writing, or at what time the practice of doing so became familiar. The first positive ground which us to presume the existence of a manuscript of Homer, is in the famous ordinance of Solôn, with regard to the rhapsodies at the Panathenæa: but for what length of time previously manuscripts had existed, we are unable to say.
“Those who maintain the Homeric poems to have been written from the beginning, rest their case, not upon positive proofs, nor yet upon the existing habits of society with regard to poetry —for they admit generally that the Iliad and Odyssey were not read, but recited and heard,—but upon the supposed necessity that there must have been manuscripts to ensure the preservation of the poems —the unassisted memory of reciters being neither sufficient nor trustworthy. But here we only escape a smaller difficulty by running into a greater; for the existence of trained bards, gifted with extraordinary memory, [25] is far less astonishing than that of long manuscripts, in an age essentially non - reading and non - writing, and when even suitable instruments and materials for the process are not obvious. Moreover, there is a strong positive reason for believing that the bard was under no necessity of refreshing his memory by consulting a manuscript; for if such had been the fact, blindness would have been a disqualification for the profession, which we know that it was not, as well from the example of Demodokus, in the Odyssey, as from that of the blind bard of Chios, in the Hymn to the Delian Apollo, whom Thucydides, as well as the general tenor of Grecian legend, identifies with Homer himself. The author of that hymn, be he who he may, could never have described a blind man as attaining the utmost perfection in his art, if he had been conscious that the memory of the bard was only maintained by constant reference to the manuscript in his chest.”
The loss of the digamma, that crux of critics, that quicksand upon which even the acumen of Bentley was shipwrecked, seems to prove beyond a doubt, that the pronunciation of the Greek language had undergone a considerable change. Now it is certainly difficult to suppose that the Homeric poems could have suffered by this change, had written copies been preserved. If Chaucer’s poetry, for instance, had not been written, it could only have come down to us in a softened form, more like the effeminate version of Dryden, than the rough, quaint, noble original.
“At what period,” continues Grote, “these poems, or indeed any other Greek poems, first began to be written, must be matter of conjecture, though there is ground for assurance that it was before the time of Solôn. If, in the absence of evidence, we may venture upon naming any more determinate period, the question at once suggests itself, What were the purposes which, in that state of society, a manuscript at its first commencement must have been intended to answer? For whom was a written Iliad necessary? Not for the rhapsodes; for with them it was not only planted in the memory, but also interwoven with the feelings, and conceived in conjunction with all those flexions and intonations of voice, pauses, and other oral artifices which were required for emphatic delivery, and which the naked manuscript could never reproduce. Not for the general public—they were accustomed to receive it with its rhapsodic delivery, and with its accompaniments of a solemn and crowded festival. The only persons for whom the written Iliad would be suitable would be a select few; studious and curious men; a class of readers capable of analyzing the complicated emotions which they had experienced as hearers in the crowd, and who would, on perusing the written words, realize in their imaginations a sensible portion of the impression communicated by the reciter. Incredible as the statement may seem in an age like the present, there is in all early societies, and there was in early Greece, a time when no such reading class existed. If we could discover at what time such a class first began to be formed, we should be able to make a guess at the time when the old epic poems were first committed to writing. Now the period which may with the greatest probability be fixed upon as having first witnessed the formation even of the narrowest reading class in Greece, is the middle of the seventh century before the Christian æra (B.C. 660 to B.C. 630), the age of Terpander, Kallinus, Archilochus, Simonidês of Amorgus, &c. I ground this supposition on the change then operated in the character and tendencies of Grecian poetry and music —the elegiac and the iambic measures having been introduced as rivals to the primitive hexameter, and poetical compositions having been transferred from the epical past to the affairs of present and real life. Such a change was important at a time when poetry was the only known mode of publication (to use a modern phrase not altogether suitable, yet the nearest approaching to the sense ). It argued a new way of looking at the old epical treasures of the people as well as a thirst for new poetical effect; and the men who stood forward in it, may well be considered as desirous to study, and competent to criticize, from their own individual point of view, the written words of the Homeric rhapsodies, just as we are told that Kallinus both noticed and eulogized the Thebaïs as the production of Homer. There seems, therefore, ground for conjecturing that (for the use of this newly - formed and important, but very narrow class ), manuscripts of the Homeric poems and other old epics,—the Thebaïs and the Cypria, as well as the Iliad and the Odyssey,— began to be compiled towards the middle of the seventh century (B.C. 1); and the opening of Egypt to Grecian commerce, which took place about the same period, would furnish increased facilities for obtaining the requisite papyrus to write upon. A reading class, when once formed, would doubtless slowly increase, and the number of manuscripts along with it; so that before the time of Solôn, fifty years afterwards, both readers and manuscripts, though still comparatively few, might have attained a certain recognized , and formed a tribunal of reference against the carelessness of individual rhapsodes.” [26]
But even Peisistratus has not been suffered to remain in possession of the credit, and we cannot help feeling the force of the following observations —
“There are several incidental circumstances which, in our opinion, throw some suspicion over the whole history of the Peisistratid compilation, at least over the theory, that the Iliad was cast into its present stately and harmonious form by the directions of the Athenian ruler. If the great poets, who flourished at the bright period of Grecian song, of which, alas ! we have inherited little more than the fame, and the faint echo, if Stesichorus, Anacreon, and Simonidês were employed in the noble task of compiling the Iliad and Odyssey, so much must have been done to arrange, to connect, to harmonize, that it is almost incredible, that stronger marks of Athenian manufacture should not remain. Whatever occasional anomalies may be detected, anomalies which no doubt arise out of our own ignorance of the language of the Homeric age, however the irregular use of the digamma may have perplexed our Bentleys, to whom the name of Helen is said to have caused as much disquiet and distress as the fair one herself among the heroes of her age, however Mr. Knight may have failed in reducing the Homeric language to its primitive form; however, finally, the Attic dialect may not have assumed all its more marked and distinguishing characteristics —still it is difficult to suppose that the language, particularly in the joinings and transitions, and connecting parts, should not more clearly betray the incongruity between the more ancient and modern forms of expression. It is not quite in character with such a period to imitate an antique style, in order to piece out an imperfect poem in the character of the original, as Sir Walter Scott has done in his continuation of Sir Tristram.
“If, however, not even such faint and indistinct traces of Athenian compilation are discoverable in the language of the poems, the total absence of Athenian national feeling is perhaps no less worthy of observation. In later, and it may fairly be suspected in earlier times, the Athenians were more than ordinarily jealous of the fame of their ancestors. But, amid all the traditions of the glories of early Greece embodied in the Iliad, the Athenians play a most subordinate and insignificant part. Even the few passages which relate to their ancestors, Mr. Knight suspects to be interpolations. It is possible, indeed, that in its leading outline, the Iliad may be true to historic fact, that in the great maritime expedition of western Greece against the rival and half - kindred empire of the Laomedontiadæ, the chieftain of Thessaly, from his valour and the number of his forces, may have been the most important ally of the Peloponnesian sovereign; the preeminent value of the ancient poetry on the Trojan war may thus have forced the national feeling of the Athenians to yield to their taste. The songs which spoke of their own great ancestor were, no doubt, of far inferior sublimity and popularity, or, at first sight, a Theseid would have been much more likely to have emanated from an Athenian synod of compilers of ancient song, than an Achilleid or an Olysseid. Could France have given birth to a Tasso, Tancred would have been the hero of the Jerusalem. If, however, the Homeric ballads, as they are sometimes called, which related the wrath of Achilles, with all its direful consequences, were so far superior to the rest of the poetic cycle, as to admit no rivalry,—it is still surprising, that throughout the whole poem the callida junctura should never betray the workmanship of an Athenian hand, and that the national spirit of a race, who have at a later period not inaptly been compared to our self admiring neighbours, the French, should submit with lofty self denial to the almost total exclusion of their own ancestors —or, at least, to the questionable dignity of only having produced a leader tolerably skilled in the military tactics of his age.” [27]
To return to the Wolfian theory. While it is to be confessed, that Wolf ’s objections to the primitive integrity of the Iliad and Odyssey have never been wholly got over, we cannot help discovering that they have failed to enlighten us as to any substantial point, and that the difficulties with which the whole subject is beset, are rather augmented than otherwise, if we admit his hypothesis. Nor is Lachmann’s [28] modification of his theory any better. He divides the first twenty -two books of the Iliad into sixteen different songs, and treats as ridiculous the belief that their amalgamation into one regular poem belongs to a period earlier than the age of Peisistratus. This, as Grote observes, “ explains the gaps and contradictions in the narrative, but it explains nothing else.” Moreover, we find no contradictions warranting this belief, and the so- called sixteen poets concur in getting rid of the following leading men in the first battle after the secession of Achilles: Elphenor, chief of the Eubœans; Tlepolemus, of the Rhodians; Pandarus, of the Lycians; Odius, of the Halizonians; Pirous and Acamas, of the Thracians. None of these heroes again make their appearance, and we can but agree with Colonel Mure, that “it seems strange that any number of independent poets should have so harmoniously dispensed with the services of all six in the sequel.” The discrepancy, by which Pylæmenes, who is represented as dead in the fifth book, weeps at his son ’s funeral in the thirteenth, can only be regarded as the result of an interpolation.
Grote, although not very distinct in stating his own opinions on the subject, has done much to clearly show the incongruity of the Wolfian theory, and of Lachmann ’s modifications with the character of Peisistratus. But he has also shown, and we think with equal success, that the two questions relative to the primitive unity of these poems, or, supposing that impossible, the unison of these parts by Peisistratus, and not before his time, are essentially distinct. In short, “a man may believe the Iliad to have been put together out of pre - existing songs, without recognising the age of Peisistratus as the period of its first compilation.” The friends or literary employês of Peisistratus must have found an Iliad that was already ancient, and the silence of the Alexandrine critics respecting the Peisistratic “ recension,” goes far to prove, that, among the numerous manuscripts they examined, this was either wanting, or thought unworthy of attention.
“ Moreover,” he continues, “the whole tenor of the poems themselves confirms what is here remarked. There is nothing, either in the Iliad or Odyssey, which savours of modernism, applying that term to the age of Peisistratus —nothing which brings to our view the alterations brought about by two centuries, in the Greek language, the coined money, the habits of writing and reading, the despotisms and republican governments, the close military array, the improved construction of ships, the Amphiktyonic convocations, the mutual frequentation of religious festivals, the Oriental and Egyptian veins of religion, &c., familiar to the latter epoch. These alterations Onomakritus, and the other literary friends of Peisistratus, could hardly have failed to notice, even without design, had they then, for the first time, undertaken the task of piecing together many self existent epics into one large aggregate. Everything in the two great Homeric poems, both in substance and in language, belongs to an age two or three centuries earlier than Peisistratus. Indeed, even the interpolations (or those passages which, on the best grounds, are pronounced to be such) betray no trace of the sixth century before Christ, and may well have been heard by Archilochus and Kallinus —in some cases even by Arktinus and Hesiod —as genuine Homeric matter. [29] As far as the evidences on the case, as well internal as external, enable us to judge, we seem warranted in believing that the Iliad and Odyssey were recited substantially as they now stand (always allowing for partial divergences of text and interpolations ) in 776 B.C., our first trustworthy mark of Grecian time; and this ancient date, let it be added, as it is the best - authenticated fact, so it is also the most important attribute of the Homeric poems, considered in reference to Grecian history; for they thus afford us an insight into the anti - historical character of the Greeks, enabling us to trace the subsequent forward march of the nation, and to seize instructive contrasts between their former and their later condition.” [30]
On the whole, I am inclined to believe, that the labours of Peisistratus were wholly of an editorial character, although, I must confess, that I can lay down nothing respecting the extent of his labours. At the same time, so far from believing that the composition or primary arrangement of these poems, in their present form, was the work of Peisistratus, I am rather persuaded that the fine taste and elegant mind of that Athenian [31] would lead him to preserve an ancient and traditional order of the poems, rather than to patch and re- construct them according to a fanciful hypothesis. I will not repeat the many discussions respecting whether the poems were written or not, or whether the art of writing was known in the time of their reputed author. Suffice it to say, that the more we read, the less satisfied we are upon either subject.
I cannot, however, help thinking, that the story which attributes the preservation of these poems to Lycurgus, is little else than a version of the same story as that of Peisistratus, while its historical probability must be measured by that of many others relating to the Spartan Confucius.
I will conclude this sketch of the Homeric theories, with an attempt, made by an ingenious friend, to unite them into something like consistency. It is as follows:—
“No doubt the common soldiers of that age had, like the common sailors of some fifty years ago, some one qualified to ‘ discourse in excellent music ’ among them. Many of these, like those of the negroes in the United States, were extemporaneous, and allusive to events passing around them. But what was passing around them? The grand events of a spirit - stirring war; occurrences likely to impress themselves, as the mystical legends of former times had done, upon their memory; besides which, a retentive memory was deemed a virtue of the first water, and was cultivated accordingly in those ancient times. Ballads at first, and down to the beginning of the war with Troy, were merely recitations, with an intonation. Then followed a species of recitative, probably with an intoned burden. Tune next followed, as it aided the memory considerably.
“It was at this period, about four hundred years after the war, that a poet flourished of the name of Melesigenes, or Mœonides, but most probably the former. He saw that these ballads might be made of great utility to his purpose of writing a poem on the position of Hellas, and, as a collection, he published these lays, connecting them by a tale of his own. This poem now exists, under the title of the ‘ Odyssea.’ The author, however, did not affix his own name to the poem, which, in fact, was, great part of it, remodelled from the archaic dialect of Crete, in which tongue the ballads were found by him. He therefore called it the poem of Homeros, or the Collector; but this is rather a proof of his modesty and talent, than of his mere drudging arrangement of other people’s ideas; for, as Grote has finely observed, arguing for the unity of authorship, ‘a great poet might have re- cast pre - existing separate songs into one comprehensive whole; but no mere arrangers or compilers would be competent to do so.’
“While employed on the wild legend of Odysseus, he met with a ballad, recording the quarrel of Achilles and Agamemnon. His noble mind seized the hint that there presented itself, and the Achilleïs [32] grew under his hand. Unity of design, however, caused him to publish the poem under the same pseudonyme as his former work: and the disjointed lays of the ancient bards were joined together, like those relating to the Cid, into a chronicle history, named the Iliad. Melesigenes knew that the poem was destined to be a lasting one, and so it has proved; but, first, the poems were destined to undergo many vicissitudes and corruptions, by the people who took to singing them in the streets, assemblies, and agoras. However, Solôn first, and then Peisistratus, and afterwards Aristoteles and others, revised the poems, and restored the works of Melesigenes Homeros to their original integrity in a great measure.” [33]
Having thus given some general notion of the strange theories which have developed themselves respecting this most interesting subject, I must still express my conviction as to the unity of the authorship of the Homeric poems. To deny that many corruptions and interpolations disfigure them, and that the intrusive hand of the poetasters may here and there have inflicted a wound more serious than the negligence of the copyist, would be an absurd and captious assumption, but it is to a higher criticism that we must appeal, if we would either understand or enjoy these poems. In maintaining the authenticity and personality of their one author, be he Homer or Melesigenes, quocunque nomine vocari eum jus fasque sit , I feel conscious that, while the whole weight of historical evidence is against the hypothesis which would assign these great works to a plurality of authors, the most powerful internal evidence, and that which springs from the deepest and most immediate impulse of the soul, also speaks eloquently to the contrary.
The minutiæ of verbal criticism I am far from seeking to despise. Indeed, considering the character of some of my own books, such an attempt would be gross inconsistency. But, while I appreciate its importance in a philological view, I am inclined to set little store on its æsthetic value, especially in poetry. Three parts of the emendations made upon poets are mere alterations, some of which, had they been suggested to the author by his Mæcenas or Africanus, he would probably have adopted. Moreover, those who are most exact in laying down rules of verbal criticism and interpretation, are often least competent to carry out their own precepts. Grammarians are not poets by profession, but may be so per accidens . I do not at this moment remember two emendations on Homer, calculated to substantially improve the poetry of a passage, although a mass of remarks, from Herodotus down to Loewe, have given us the history of a thousand minute points, without which our Greek knowledge would be gloomy and jejune.
But it is not on words only that grammarians, mere grammarians, will exercise their elaborate and often tiresome ingenuity. Binding down an heroic or dramatic poet to the block upon which they have previously dissected his words and sentences, they proceed to use the axe and the pruning knife by wholesale, and inconsistent in everything but their wish to make out a case of unlawful affiliation, they cut out book after book, passage after passage, till the author is reduced to a collection of fragments, or till those, who fancied they possessed the works of some great man, find that they have been put off with a vile counterfeit got up at second hand. If we compare the theories of Knight, Wolf, Lachmann, and others, we shall feel better satisfied of the utter uncertainty of criticism than of the apocryphal position of Homer. One rejects what another considers the turning - point of his theory. One cuts a supposed knot by expunging what another would explain by omitting something else.
Nor is this morbid species of sagacity by any means to be looked upon as a literary novelty. Justus Lipsius, a scholar of no ordinary skill, seems to revel in the imaginary discovery, that the tragedies attributed to Seneca are by four different authors. [34] Now, I will venture to assert, that these tragedies are so uniform, not only in their borrowed phraseology —a phraseology with which writers like Boethius and Saxo Grammaticus were more charmed than ourselves —in their freedom from real poetry, and last, but not least, in an ultra - refined and consistent abandonment of good taste, that few writers of the present day would question the capabilities of the same gentleman, be he Seneca or not, to produce not only these, but a great many more equally bad. With equal sagacity, Father Hardouin astonished the world with the startling announcement that the Æneid of Virgil, and the satires of Horace, were literary deceptions. Now, without wishing to say one word of disrespect against the industry and learning — nay, the refined acuteness —which scholars, like Wolf, have bestowed upon this subject, I must express my fears, that many of our modern Homeric theories will become matter for the surprise and entertainment, rather than the instruction, of posterity. Nor can I help thinking, that the literary history of more recent times will account for many points of difficulty in the transmission of the Iliad and Odyssey to a period so remote from that of their first creation.
I have already expressed my belief that the labours of Peisistratus were of a purely editorial character; and there seems no more reason why corrupt and imperfect editions of Homer may not have been abroad in his day, than that the poems of Valerius Flaccus and Tibullus should have given so much trouble to Poggio, Scaliger, and others. But, after all, the main fault in all the Homeric theories is, that they demand too great a sacrifice of those feelings to which poetry most powerfully appeals, and which are its most fitting judges. The ingenuity which has sought to rob us of the name and existence of Homer, does too much violence to that inward emotion, which makes our whole soul yearn with love and admiration for the blind bard of Chios. To believe the author of the Iliad a mere compiler, is to degrade the powers of human invention; to elevate analytical judgment at the expense of the most ennobling impulses of the soul; and to forget the ocean in the contemplation of a polypus. There is a catholicity, so to speak, in the very name of Homer. Our faith in the author of the Iliad may be a mistaken one, but as yet nobody has taught us a better.
While, however, I look upon the belief in Homer as one that has nature herself for its mainspring; while I can join with old Ennius in believing in Homer as the ghost, who, like some patron saint, hovers round the bed of the poet, and even bestows rare gifts from that wealth of imagination which a host of imitators could not exhaust,—still I am far from wishing to deny that the author of these great poems found a rich fund of tradition, a well- stocked mythical storehouse from whence he might derive both subject and embellishment. But it is one thing to use existing romances in the embellishment of a poem, another to patch up the poem itself from such materials. What consistency of style and execution can be hoped for from such an attempt? or, rather, what bad taste and tedium will not be the infallible result?
A blending of popular legends, and a free use of the songs of other bards, are features perfectly consistent with poetical originality. In fact, the most original writer is still drawing upon outward impressions — nay, even his own thoughts are a kind of secondary agents which support and feed the impulses of imagination. But unless there be some grand pervading principle —some invisible, yet most distinctly stamped archetypus of the great whole, a poem like the Iliad can never come to the birth. Traditions the most picturesque, episodes the most pathetic, local associations teeming with the thoughts of gods and great men, may crowd in one mighty vision, or reveal themselves in more substantial forms to the mind of the poet; but, except the power to create a grand whole, to which these shall be but as details and embellishments, be present, we shall have nought but a scrap - book, a parterre filled with flowers and weeds strangling each other in their wild redundancy: we shall have a cento of rags and tatters, which will require little acuteness to detect.
Sensible as I am of the difficulty of disproving a negative, and aware as I must be of the weighty grounds there are for opposing my belief, it still seems to me that the Homeric question is one that is reserved for a higher criticism than it has often obtained. We are not by nature intended to know all things; still less, to compass the powers by which the greatest blessings of life have been placed at our disposal. Were faith no virtue, then we might indeed wonder why God willed our ignorance on any matter. But we are too well taught the contrary lesson; and it seems as though our faith should be especially tried touching the men and the events which have wrought most influence upon the condition of humanity. And there is a kind of sacredness attached to the memory of the great and the good, which seems to bid us repulse the scepticism which would allegorize their existence into a pleasing apologue, and measure the giants of intellect by an homeopathic dynameter.
Long and habitual reading of Homer appears to familiarize our thoughts even to his incongruities; or rather, if we read in a right spirit and with a heartfelt appreciation, we are too much dazzled, too deeply wrapped in admiration of the whole, to dwell upon the minute spots which mere analysis can discover. In reading an heroic poem we must transform ourselves into heroes of the time being, we in imagination must fight over the same battles, woo the same loves, burn with the same sense of injury, as an Achilles or a Hector. And if we can but attain this degree of enthusiasm (and less enthusiasm will scarcely suffice for the reading of Homer ), we shall feel that the poems of Homer are not only the work of one writer, but of the greatest writer that ever touched the hearts of men by the power of song.
And it was this supposed unity of authorship which gave these poems their powerful influence over the minds of the men of old. Heeren, who is evidently little disposed in favour of modern theories, finely observes:—
“It was Homer who formed the character of the Greek nation. No poet has ever, as a poet, exercised a similar influence over his countrymen. Prophets, lawgivers, and sages have formed the character of other nations; it was reserved to a poet to form that of the Greeks. This is a feature in their character which was not wholly erased even in the period of their degeneracy. When lawgivers and sages appeared in Greece, the work of the poet had already been accomplished; and they paid homage to his superior genius. He held up before his nation the mirror, in which they were to behold the world of gods and heroes no less than of feeble mortals, and to behold them reflected with purity and truth. His poems are founded on the first feeling of human nature; on the love of children, wife, and country; on that passion which outweighs all others, the love of glory. His songs were poured forth from a breast which sympathized with all the feelings of man; and therefore they enter, and will continue to enter, every breast which cherishes the same sympathies. If it is granted to his immortal spirit, from another heaven than any of which he dreamed on earth, to look down on his race, to see the nations from the fields of Asia to the forests of Hercynia, performing pilgrimages to the fountain which his magic wand caused to flow; if it is permitted to him to view the vast assemblage of grand, of elevated, of glorious productions, which had been called into being by means of his songs; wherever his immortal spirit may reside, this alone would suffice to complete his happiness.” [35]
Can we contemplate that ancient monument, on which the “ Apotheosis of Homer ” [36] is depictured, and not feel how much of pleasing association, how much that appeals most forcibly and most distinctly to our minds, is lost by the admittance of any theory but our old tradition? The more we read, and the more we think—think as becomes the readers of Homer,—the more rooted becomes the conviction that the Father of Poetry gave us this rich inheritance, whole and entire. Whatever were the means of its preservation, let us rather be thankful for the treasury of taste and eloquence thus laid open to our use, than seek to make it a mere centre around which to drive a series of theories, whose wildness is only equalled by their inconsistency with each other.
As the hymns, and some other poems usually ascribed to Homer, are not included in Pope ’s translation, I will content myself with a brief account of the Battle of the Frogs and Mice, from the pen of a writer who has done it full justice [37] :—
“This poem,” says Coleridge, “is a short mock - heroic of ancient date. The text varies in different editions, and is obviously disturbed and corrupt to a great degree; it is commonly said to have been a juvenile essay of Homer ’s genius; others have attributed it to the same Pigrees, mentioned above, and whose reputation for humour seems to have invited the appropriation of any piece of ancient wit, the author of which was uncertain; so little did the Greeks, before the age of the Ptolemies, know or care about that department of criticism employed in determining the genuineness of ancient writings. As to this little poem being a youthful profusion of Homer, it seems sufficient to say that from the beginning to the end it is a plain and palpable parody, not only of the general spirit, but of the numerous passages of the Iliad itself; and even, if no such intention to parody were discernible in it, the objection would still remain, that to suppose a work of mere burlesque to be the primary effort of poetry in a simple age, seems to reverse that order in the development of national taste, which the history of every other people in Europe, and of many in Asia, has almost ascertained to be a law of the human mind; it is in a state of society much more refined and permanent than that described in the Iliad, that any popularity would attend such a ridicule of war and the gods as is contained in this poem; and the fact of there having existed three other poems of the same kind attributed, for aught we can see, with as much reason to Homer, is a strong inducement to believe that none of them were of the Homeric age. Knight infers from the usage of the word deltos, “ writing tablet,” instead of διφθέρα, “ skin,” which, according to Herod. 5, 58, was the material employed by the Asiatic Greeks for that purpose, that this poem was another offspring of Attic ingenuity; and generally that the familiar mention of the cock (v. 191) is a strong argument against so ancient a date for its composition.”
Having thus given a brief account of the poems comprised in Pope ’s design, I will now proceed to make a few remarks on his translation, and on my own purpose in the present edition.
Pope was not a Grecian. His whole education had been irregular, and his earliest acquaintance with the poet was through the version of Ogilby. It is not too much to say that his whole work bears the impress of a disposition to be satisfied with the general sense, rather than to dive deeply into the minute and delicate features of language. Hence his whole work is to be looked upon rather as an elegant paraphrase than a translation. There are, to be sure, certain conventional anecdotes, which prove that Pope consulted various friends, whose classical attainments were sounder than his own, during the undertaking; but it is probable that these examinations were the result rather of the contradictory versions already existing, than of a desire to make a perfect transcript of the original. And in those days, what is called literal translation was less cultivated than at present. If something like the general sense could be decorated with the easy gracefulness of a practised poet; if the charms of metrical cadence and a pleasing fluency could be made consistent with a fair interpretation of the poet ’s meaning, his words were less jealously sought for, and those who could read so good a poem as Pope ’s Iliad had fair reason to be satisfied.
It would be absurd, therefore, to test Pope ’s translation by our own advancing knowledge of the original text. We must be content to look at it as a most delightful work in itself,—a work which is as much a part of English literature as Homer himself is of Greek. We must not be torn from our kindly associations with the old Iliad, that once was our most cherished companion, or our most looked -for prize, merely because Buttmann, Loewe, and Liddell have made us so much more accurate as to ἀμφικύπελλον being an adjective, and not a substantive. Far be it from us to defend the faults of Pope, especially when we think of Chapman’s fine, bold, rough old English;—far be it from us to hold up his translation as what a translation of Homer might be. But we can still dismiss Pope ’s Iliad to the hands of our readers, with the consciousness that they must have read a very great number of books before they have read its fellow.
As to the Notes accompanying the present volume, they are drawn up without pretension, and mainly with the view of helping the general reader. Having some little time since translated all the works of Homer for another publisher, I might have brought a large amount of accumulated matter, sometimes of a critical character, to bear upon the text. But Pope ’s version was no field for such a display; and my purpose was to touch briefly on antiquarian or mythological allusions, to notice occasionally some departures from the original, and to give a few parallel passages from our English Homer, Milton. In the latter task I cannot pretend to novelty, but I trust that my other annotations, while utterly disclaiming high scholastic views, will be found to convey as much as is wanted; at least, as far as the necessary limits of these volumes could be expected to admit. To write a commentary on Homer is not my present aim; but if I have made Pope ’s translation a little more entertaining and instructive to a mass of miscellaneous readers, I shall consider my wishes satisfactorily accomplished.
THEODORE ALOIS BUCKLEY.
Christ Church .
end chapter
POPE ’S PREFACE TO THE ILIAD OF HOMER
Homer is universally allowed to have had the greatest invention of any writer whatever. The praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, and others may have their pretensions as to particular excellences; but his invention remains yet unrivalled. Nor is it a wonder if he has ever been acknowledged the greatest of poets, who most excelled in that which is the very foundation of poetry. It is the invention that, in different degrees, distinguishes all great geniuses: the utmost stretch of human study, learning, and industry, which masters everything besides, can never attain to this. It furnishes art with all her materials, and without it judgment itself can at best but “ steal wisely:” for art is only like a prudent steward that lives on managing the riches of nature. Whatever praises may be given to works of judgment, there is not even a single beauty in them to which the invention must not contribute: as in the most regular gardens, art can only reduce beauties of nature to more regularity, and such a figure, which the common eye may better take in, and is, therefore, more entertained with. And, perhaps, the reason why common critics are inclined to prefer a judicious and methodical genius to a great and fruitful one, is, because they find it easier for themselves to pursue their observations through a uniform and bounded walk of art, than to comprehend the vast and various extent of nature.
Our author ’s work is a wild paradise, where, if we cannot see all the beauties so distinctly as in an ordered garden, it is only because the number of them is infinitely greater. It is like a copious nursery, which contains the seeds and first productions of every kind, out of which those who followed him have but selected some particular plants, each according to his fancy, to cultivate and beautify. If some things are too luxuriant it is owing to the richness of the soil; and if others are not arrived to perfection or maturity, it is only because they are overrun and oppressed by those of a stronger nature.
It is to the strength of this amazing invention we are to attribute that unequalled fire and rapture which is so forcible in Homer, that no man of a true poetical spirit is master of himself while he reads him. What he writes is of the most animated nature imaginable; every thing moves, every thing lives, and is put in action. If a council be called, or a battle fought, you are not coldly informed of what was said or done as from a third person; the reader is hurried out of himself by the force of the poet ’s imagination, and turns in one place to a hearer, in another to a spectator. The course of his verses resembles that of the army he describes,
Οἵδ’ ἄῤ ἴσαν, ὡσεί τε πυρὶ χθὼν πἆσα νέμοιτο.
“They pour along like a fire that sweeps the whole earth before it.” It is, however, remarkable, that his fancy, which is everywhere vigorous, is not discovered immediately at the beginning of his poem in its fullest splendour: it grows in the progress both upon himself and others, and becomes on fire, like a chariot - wheel, by its own rapidity. Exact disposition, just thought, correct elocution, polished numbers, may have been found in a thousand; but this poetic fire, this “ vivida vis animi,” in a very few. Even in works where all those are imperfect or neglected, this can overpower criticism, and make us admire even while we disapprove. Nay, where this appears, though attended with absurdities, it brightens all the rubbish about it, till we see nothing but its own splendour. This fire is discerned in Virgil, but discerned as through a glass, reflected from Homer, more shining than fierce, but everywhere equal and constant: in Lucan and Statius it bursts out in sudden, short, and interrupted flashes: In Milton it glows like a furnace kept up to an uncommon ardour by the force of art: in Shakspeare it strikes before we are aware, like an accidental fire from heaven: but in Homer, and in him only, it burns everywhere clearly and everywhere irresistibly.
I shall here endeavour to show how this vast invention exerts itself in a manner superior to that of any poet through all the main constituent parts of his work: as it is the great and peculiar characteristic which distinguishes him from all other authors.
This strong and ruling faculty was like a powerful star, which, in the violence of its course, drew all things within its vortex. It seemed not enough to have taken in the whole circle of arts, and the whole compass of nature, to supply his maxims and reflections; all the inward passions and affections of mankind, to furnish his characters: and all the outward forms and images of things for his descriptions: but wanting yet an ampler sphere to expatiate in, he opened a new and boundless walk for his imagination, and created a world for himself in the invention of fable. That which Aristotle calls “the soul of poetry,” was first breathed into it by Homer. I shall begin with considering him in his part, as it is naturally the first; and I speak of it both as it means the design of a poem, and as it is taken for fiction.
Fable may be divided into the probable, the allegorical, and the marvellous. The probable fable is the recital of such actions as, though they did not happen, yet might, in the common course of nature; or of such as, though they did, became fables by the additional episodes and manner of telling them. Of this sort is the main story of an epic poem, “The return of Ulysses, the settlement of the Trojans in Italy,” or the like. That of the Iliad is the “ anger of Achilles,” the most short and single subject that ever was chosen by any poet. Yet this he has supplied with a vaster variety of incidents and events, and crowded with a greater number of councils, speeches, battles, and episodes of all kinds, than are to be found even in those poems whose schemes are of the utmost latitude and irregularity. The action is hurried on with the most vehement spirit, and its whole duration employs not so much as fifty days. Virgil, for want of so warm a genius, aided himself by taking in a more extensive subject, as well as a greater length of time, and contracting the design of both Homer ’s poems into one, which is yet but a fourth part as large as his. The other epic poets have used the same practice, but generally carried it so far as to superinduce a multiplicity of fables, destroy the unity of action, and lose their readers in an unreasonable length of time. Nor is it only in the main design that they have been unable to add to his invention, but they have followed him in every episode and part of story. If he has given a regular catalogue of an army, they all draw up their forces in the same order. If he has funeral games for Patroclus, Virgil has the same for Anchises, and Statius ( rather than omit them) destroys the unity of his actions for those of Archemorus. If Ulysses visit the shades, the Æneas of Virgil and Scipio of Silius are sent after him. If he be detained from his return by the allurements of Calypso, so is Æneas by Dido, and Rinaldo by Armida. If Achilles be absent from the army on the score of a quarrel through half the poem, Rinaldo must absent himself just as long on the like account. If he gives his hero a suit of celestial armour, Virgil and Tasso make the same present to theirs. Virgil has not only observed this close imitation of Homer, but, where he had not led the way, supplied the want from other Greek authors. Thus the story of Sinon, and the taking of Troy, was copied (says Macrobius ) almost word for word from Pisander, as the loves of Dido and Æneas are taken from those of Medea and Jason in Apollonius, and several others in the same manner.
To proceed to the allegorical fable —If we reflect upon those innumerable knowledges, those secrets of nature and physical philosophy which Homer is generally supposed to have wrapped up in his allegories, what a new and ample scene of wonder may this consideration afford us! How fertile will that imagination appear, which was able to clothe all the properties of elements, the qualifications of the mind, the virtues and vices, in forms and persons, and to introduce them into actions agreeable to the nature of the things they shadowed ! This is a field in which no succeeding poets could dispute with Homer, and whatever commendations have been allowed them on this head, are by no means for their invention in having enlarged his circle, but for their judgment in having contracted it. For when the mode of learning changed in the following ages, and science was delivered in a plainer manner, it then became as reasonable in the more modern poets to lay it aside, as it was in Homer to make use of it. And perhaps it was no unhappy circumstance for Virgil, that there was not in his time that demand upon him of so great an invention as might be capable of furnishing all those allegorical parts of a poem.
The marvellous fable includes whatever is supernatural, and especially the machines of the gods. If Homer was not the first who introduced the deities (as Herodotus imagines ) into the religion of Greece, he seems the first who brought them into a system of machinery for poetry, and such a one as makes its greatest importance and dignity: for we find those authors who have been offended at the literal notion of the gods, constantly laying their accusation against Homer as the chief support of it. But whatever cause there might be to blame his machines in a philosophical or religious view, they are so perfect in the poetic, that mankind have been ever since contented to follow them: none have been able to enlarge the sphere of poetry beyond the limits he has set: every attempt of this nature has proved unsuccessful; and after all the various changes of times and religions, his gods continue to this day the gods of poetry.
We come now to the characters of his persons; and here we shall find no author has ever drawn so many, with so visible and surprising a variety, or given us such lively and affecting impressions of them. Every one has something so singularly his own, that no painter could have distinguished them more by their features, than the poet has by their manners. Nothing can be more exact than the distinctions he has observed in the different degrees of virtues and vices. The single quality of courage is wonderfully diversified in the several characters of the Iliad. That of Achilles is furious and intractable; that of Diomede forward, yet listening to advice, and subject to command; that of Ajax is heavy and self - confiding; of Hector, active and vigilant: the courage of Agamemnon is inspirited by love of empire and ambition; that of Menelaus mixed with softness and tenderness for his people: we find in Idomeneus a plain direct soldier; in Sarpedon a gallant and generous one. Nor is this judicious and astonishing diversity to be found only in the principal quality which constitutes the main of each character, but even in the under parts of it, to which he takes care to give a tincture of that principal one. For example: the main characters of Ulysses and Nestor consist in wisdom; and they are distinct in this, that the wisdom of one is artificial and various, of the other natural, open, and regular. But they have, besides, characters of courage; and this quality also takes a different turn in each from the difference of his prudence; for one in the war depends still upon caution, the other upon experience. It would be endless to produce instances of these kinds. The characters of Virgil are far from striking us in this open manner; they lie, in a great degree, hidden and undistinguished; and, where they are marked most evidently affect us not in proportion to those of Homer. His characters of valour are much alike; even that of Turnus seems no way peculiar, but, as it is, in a superior degree; and we see nothing that differences the courage of Mnestheus from that of Sergestus, Cloanthus, or the rest. In like manner it may be remarked of Statius ’s heroes, that an air of impetuosity runs through them all; the same horrid and savage courage appears in his Capaneus, Tydeus, Hippomedon, &c. They have a parity of character, which makes them seem brothers of one family. I believe when the reader is led into this tract of reflection, if he will pursue it through the epic and tragic writers, he will be convinced how infinitely superior, in this point, the invention of Homer was to that of all others.
The speeches are to be considered as they flow from the characters; being perfect or defective as they agree or disagree with the manners, of those who utter them. As there is more variety of characters in the Iliad, so there is of speeches, than in any other poem. “ Everything in it has manner ” (as Aristotle expresses it), that is, everything is acted or spoken. It is hardly credible, in a work of such length, how small a number of lines are employed in narration. In Virgil the dramatic part is less in proportion to the narrative, and the speeches often consist of general reflections or thoughts, which might be equally just in any person ’s mouth upon the same occasion. As many of his persons have no apparent characters, so many of his speeches escape being applied and judged by the rule of propriety. We oftener think of the author himself when we read Virgil, than when we are engaged in Homer, all which are the effects of a colder invention, that interests us less in the action described. Homer makes us hearers, and Virgil leaves us readers.
If, in the next place, we take a view of the sentiments, the same presiding faculty is eminent in the sublimity and spirit of his thoughts. Longinus has given his opinion, that it was in this part Homer principally excelled. What were alone sufficient to prove the grandeur and excellence of his sentiments in general, is, that they have so remarkable a parity with those of the Scripture. Duport, in his Gnomologia Homerica, has collected innumerable instances of this sort. And it is with justice an excellent modern writer allows, that if Virgil has not so many thoughts that are low and vulgar, he has not so many that are sublime and noble; and that the Roman author seldom rises into very astonishing sentiments where he is not fired by the Iliad.
If we observe his descriptions, images, and similes, we shall find the invention still predominant. To what else can we ascribe that vast comprehension of images of every sort, where we see each circumstance of art, and individual of nature, summoned together by the extent and fecundity of his imagination to which all things, in their various views presented themselves in an instant, and had their impressions taken off to perfection at a heat? Nay, he not only gives us the full prospects of things, but several unexpected peculiarities and side views, unobserved by any painter but Homer. Nothing is so surprising as the descriptions of his battles, which take up no less than half the Iliad, and are supplied with so vast a variety of incidents, that no one bears a likeness to another; such different kinds of deaths, that no two heroes are wounded in the same manner, and such a profusion of noble ideas, that every battle rises above the last in greatness, horror, and confusion. It is certain there is not near that number of images and descriptions in any epic poet, though every one has assisted himself with a great quantity out of him; and it is evident of Virgil especially, that he has scarce any comparisons which are not drawn from his master.
If we descend from hence to the expression, we see the bright imagination of Homer shining out in the most enlivened forms of it. We acknowledge him the father of poetical diction; the first who taught that “ language of the gods ” to men. His expression is like the colouring of some great masters, which discovers itself to be laid on boldly, and executed with rapidity. It is, indeed, the strongest and most glowing imaginable, and touched with the greatest spirit. Aristotle had reason to say, he was the only poet who had found out “ living words;” there are in him more daring figures and metaphors than in any good author whatever. An arrow is “ impatient ” to be on the wing, a weapon “ thirsts ” to drink the blood of an enemy, and the like, yet his expression is never too big for the sense, but justly great in proportion to it. It is the sentiment that swells and fills out the diction, which rises with it, and forms itself about it, for in the same degree that a thought is warmer, an expression will be brighter, as that is more strong, this will become more perspicuous; like glass in the furnace, which grows to a greater magnitude, and refines to a greater clearness, only as the breath within is more powerful, and the heat more intense.
To throw his language more out of prose, Homer seems to have affected the compound epithets. This was a sort of composition peculiarly proper to poetry, not only as it heightened the diction, but as it assisted and filled the numbers with greater sound and pomp, and likewise conduced in some measure to thicken the images. On this last consideration I cannot but attribute these also to the fruitfulness of his invention, since (as he has managed them) they are a sort of supernumerary pictures of the persons or things to which they were joined. We see the motion of Hector ’s plumes in the epithet Κορυθαίολος, the landscape of Mount Neritus in that of Εἰνοσίφυλλος, and so of others, which particular images could not have been insisted upon so long as to express them in a description (though but of a single line ) without diverting the reader too much from the principal action or figure. As a metaphor is a short simile, one of these epithets is a short description.
Lastly, if we consider his versification, we shall be sensible what a of praise is due to his invention in that also. He was not satisfied with his language as he found it settled in any one part of Greece, but searched through its different dialects with this particular view, to beautify and perfect his numbers he considered these as they had a greater mixture of vowels or consonants, and accordingly employed them as the verse required either a greater smoothness or strength. What he most affected was the Ionic, which has a peculiar sweetness, from its never using contractions, and from its custom of resolving the diphthongs into two syllables, so as to make the words open themselves with a more spreading and sonorous fluency. With this he mingled the Attic contractions, the broader Doric, and the feebler Æolic, which often rejects its aspirate, or takes off its accent, and completed this variety by altering some letters with the licence of poetry. Thus his measures, instead of being fetters to his sense, were always in readiness to run along with the warmth of his rapture, and even to give a further representation of his notions, in the correspondence of their sounds to what they signified. Out of all these he has derived that harmony which makes us confess he had not only the richest head, but the finest ear in the world. This is so great a truth, that whoever will but consult the tune of his verses, even without understanding them (with the same sort of diligence as we daily see practised in the case of Italian operas ), will find more sweetness, variety, and majesty of sound, than in any other language of poetry. The beauty of his numbers is allowed by the critics to be copied but faintly by Virgil himself, though they are so just as to ascribe it to the nature of the Latin tongue: indeed the Greek has some advantages both from the natural sound of its words, and the turn and cadence of its verse, which agree with the genius of no other language. Virgil was very sensible of this, and used the utmost diligence in working up a more intractable language to whatsoever graces it was capable of, and, in particular, never failed to bring the sound of his line to a beautiful agreement with its sense. If the Grecian poet has not been so frequently celebrated on this account as the Roman, the only reason is, that fewer critics have understood one language than the other. Dionysius of Halicarnassus has pointed out many of our author ’s beauties in this kind, in his treatise of the Composition of Words. It suffices at present to observe of his numbers, that they flow with so much ease, as to make one imagine Homer had no other care than to transcribe as fast as the Muses dictated, and, at the same time, with so much force and inspiriting vigour, that they awaken and raise us like the sound of a trumpet. They roll along as a plentiful river, always in motion, and always full; while we are borne away by a tide of verse, the most rapid, and yet the most smooth imaginable.
Thus on whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us is his invention. It is that which forms the character of each part of his work; and accordingly we find it to have made his fable more extensive and copious than any other, his manners more lively and strongly marked, his speeches more affecting and transported, his sentiments more warm and sublime, his images and descriptions more full and animated, his expression more raised and daring, and his numbers more rapid and various. I hope, in what has been said of Virgil, with regard to any of these heads, I have no way derogated from his character. Nothing is more absurd or endless, than the common method of comparing eminent writers by an opposition of particular passages in them, and forming a judgment from thence of their merit upon the whole. We ought to have a certain knowledge of the principal character and distinguishing excellence of each: it is in that we are to consider him, and in proportion to his degree in that we are to admire him. No author or man ever excelled all the world in more than one faculty; and as Homer has done this in invention, Virgil has in judgment. Not that we are to think that Homer wanted judgment, because Virgil had it in a more eminent degree; or that Virgil wanted invention, because Homer possessed a larger share of it; each of these great authors had more of both than perhaps any man besides, and are only said to have less in comparison with one another. Homer was the greater genius, Virgil the better artist. In one we most admire the man, in the other the work. Homer hurries and transports us with a commanding impetuosity; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty; Homer scatters with a generous profusion; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence; Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a boundless overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a gentle and constant stream. When we behold their battles, methinks the two poets resemble the heroes they celebrate. Homer, boundless and resistless as Achilles, bears all before him, and shines more and more as the tumult increases; Virgil, calmly daring, like Æneas, appears undisturbed in the midst of the action; disposes all about him, and conquers with tranquillity. And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens: Virgil, like the same power in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and regularly ordering his whole creation.
But after all, it is with great parts, as with great virtues, they naturally border on some imperfection; and it is often hard to distinguish exactly where the virtue ends, or the fault begins. As prudence may sometimes sink to suspicion, so may a great judgment decline to coldness; and as magnanimity may run up to profusion or extravagance, so may a great invention to redundancy or wildness. If we look upon Homer in this view, we shall perceive the chief objections against him to proceed from so noble a cause as the excess of this faculty.
Among these we may reckon some of his marvellous fictions, upon which so much criticism has been spent, as surpassing all the bounds of probability. Perhaps it may be with great and superior souls, as with gigantic bodies, which, exerting themselves with unusual strength, exceed what is commonly thought the due proportion of parts, to become miracles in the whole; and, like the old heroes of that make, commit something near extravagance, amidst a series of glorious and inimitable performances. Thus Homer has his “ speaking horses;” and Virgil his “ myrtles distilling blood;” where the latter has not so much as contrived the easy intervention of a deity to save the probability.
It is owing to the same vast invention, that his similes have been thought too exuberant and full of circumstances. The force of this faculty is seen in nothing more, than in its inability to confine itself to that single circumstance upon which the comparison is grounded: it runs out into embellishments of additional images, which, however, are so managed as not to overpower the main one. His similes are like pictures, where the principal figure has not only its proportion given agreeable to the original, but is also set off with occasional ornaments and prospects. The same will account for his manner of heaping a number of comparisons together in one breath, when his fancy suggested to him at once so many various and correspondent images. The reader will easily extend this observation to more objections of the same kind.
If there are others which seem rather to charge him with a defect or narrowness of genius, than an excess of it, those seeming defects will be found upon examination to proceed wholly from the nature of the times he lived in. Such are his grosser representations of the gods; and the vicious and imperfect manners of his heroes; but I must here speak a word of the latter, as it is a point generally carried into extremes, both by the censurers and defenders of Homer. It must be a strange partiality to antiquity, to think with Madame Dacier, [38] “that those times and manners are so much the more excellent, as they are more contrary to ours.” Who can be so prejudiced in their favour as to magnify the felicity of those ages, when a spirit of revenge and cruelty, joined with the practice of rapine and robbery, reigned through the world: when no mercy was shown but for the sake of lucre; when the greatest princes were put to the sword, and their wives and daughters made slaves and concubines? On the other side, I would not be so delicate as those modern critics, who are shocked at the servile offices and mean employments in which we sometimes see the heroes of Homer engaged. There is a pleasure in taking a view of that simplicity, in opposition to the luxury of succeeding ages: in beholding monarchs without their guards; princes tending their flocks, and princesses drawing water from the springs. When we read Homer, we ought to reflect that we are reading the most ancient author in the heathen world; and those who consider him in this light, will double their pleasure in the perusal of him. Let them think they are growing acquainted with nations and people that are now no more; that they are stepping almost three thousand years back into the remotest antiquity, and entertaining themselves with a clear and surprising vision of things nowhere else to be found, the only true mirror of that ancient world. By this means alone their greatest obstacles will vanish; and what usually creates their dislike, will become a satisfaction.
This consideration may further serve to answer for the constant use of the same epithets to his gods and heroes; such as the “far- darting Phœbus,” the “ blue - eyed Pallas,” the “ swift - footed Achilles,” &c., which some have censured as impertinent, and tediously repeated. Those of the gods depended upon the powers and offices then believed to belong to them; and had contracted a weight and veneration from the rites and solemn devotions in which they were used: they were a sort of attributes with which it was a matter of religion to salute them on all occasions, and which it was an irreverence to omit. As for the epithets of great men, Mons. Boileau is of opinion, that they were in the nature of surnames, and repeated as such; for the Greeks having no names derived from their fathers, were obliged to add some other distinction of each person; either naming his parents expressly, or his place of birth, profession, or the like: as Alexander the son of Philip, Herodotus of Halicarnassus, Diogenes the Cynic, &c. Homer, therefore, complying with the custom of his country, used such distinctive additions as better agreed with poetry. And, indeed, we have something parallel to these in modern times, such as the names of Harold Harefoot, Edmund Ironside, Edward Longshanks, Edward the Black Prince, &c. If yet this be thought to account better for the propriety than for the repetition, I shall add a further conjecture. Hesiod, dividing the world into its different ages, has placed a fourth age, between the brazen and the iron one, of “ heroes distinct from other men; a divine race who fought at Thebes and Troy, are called demi - gods, and live by the care of Jupiter in the islands of the blessed.” [39] Now among the divine honours which were paid them, they might have this also in common with the gods, not to be mentioned without the solemnity of an epithet, and such as might be acceptable to them by celebrating their families, actions or qualities.
What other cavils have been raised against Homer, are such as hardly deserve a reply, but will yet be taken notice of as they occur in the course of the work. Many have been occasioned by an injudicious endeavour to exalt Virgil; which is much the same, as if one should think to raise the superstructure by undermining the foundation: one would imagine, by the whole course of their parallels, that these critics never so much as heard of Homer ’s having written first; a consideration which whoever compares these two poets ought to have always in his eye. Some accuse him for the same things which they overlook or praise in the other; as when they prefer the fable and moral of the Æneis to those of the Iliad, for the same reasons which might set the Odyssey above the Æneis; as that the hero is a wiser man, and the action of the one more beneficial to his country than that of the other; or else they blame him for not doing what he never designed; as because Achilles is not as good and perfect a prince as Æneas, when the very moral of his poem required a contrary character: it is thus that Rapin judges in his comparison of Homer and Virgil. Others select those particular passages of Homer which are not so laboured as some that Virgil drew out of them: this is the whole management of Scaliger in his Poetics. Others quarrel with what they take for low and mean expressions, sometimes through a false delicacy and refinement, oftener from an ignorance of the graces of the original, and then triumph in the awkwardness of their own translations: this is the conduct of Perrault in his Parallels. Lastly, there are others, who, pretending to a fairer proceeding, distinguish between the personal merit of Homer, and that of his work; but when they come to assign the causes of the great reputation of the Iliad, they found it upon the ignorance of his times, and the prejudice of those that followed; and in pursuance of this principle, they make those accidents (such as the contention of the cities, &c.) to be the causes of his fame, which were in reality the consequences of his merit. The same might as well be said of Virgil, or any great author whose general character will infallibly raise many casual additions to their reputation. This is the method of Mons. de la Mott; who yet confesses upon the whole that in whatever age Homer had lived, he must have been the greatest poet of his nation, and that he may be said in his sense to be the master even of those who surpassed him.
In all these objections we see nothing that contradicts his title to the honour of the chief invention: and as long as this (which is indeed the characteristic of poetry itself ) remains unequalled by his followers, he still continues superior to them. A cooler judgment may commit fewer faults, and be more approved in the eyes of one sort of critics: but that warmth of fancy will carry the loudest and most universal applauses which holds the heart of a reader under the strongest enchantment. Homer not only appears the inventor of poetry, but excels all the inventors of other arts, in this, that he has swallowed up the honour of those who succeeded him. What he has done admitted no increase, it only left room for contraction or regulation. He showed all the stretch of fancy at once; and if he has failed in some of his flights, it was but because he attempted everything. A work of this kind seems like a mighty tree, which rises from the most vigorous seed, is improved with industry, flourishes, and produces the finest fruit: nature and art conspire to raise it; pleasure and profit join to make it valuable: and they who find the justest faults, have only said that a few branches which run luxuriant through a richness of nature, might be lopped into form to give it a more regular appearance.
Having now spoken of the beauties and defects of the original, it remains to treat of the translation, with the same view to the chief characteristic. As far as that is seen in the main parts of the poem, such as the fable, manners, and sentiments, no translator can prejudice it but by wilful omissions or contractions. As it also breaks out in every particular image, description, and simile, whoever lessens or too much softens those, takes off from this chief character. It is the first grand duty of an interpreter to give his author entire and unmaimed; and for the rest, the diction and versification only are his proper province, since these must be his own, but the others he is to take as he finds them.
It should then be considered what methods may afford some equivalent in our language for the graces of these in the Greek. It is certain no literal translation can be just to an excellent original in a superior language: but it is a great mistake to imagine (as many have done) that a rash paraphrase can make amends for this general defect; which is no less in danger to lose the spirit of an ancient, by deviating into the modern manners of expression. If there be sometimes a darkness, there is often a light in antiquity, which nothing better preserves than a version almost literal. I know no liberties one ought to take, but those which are necessary to transfusing the spirit of the original, and supporting the poetical style of the translation: and I will venture to say, there have not been more men misled in former times by a servile, dull adherence to the letter, than have been deluded in ours by a chimerical, insolent hope of raising and improving their author. It is not to be doubted, that the fire of the poem is what a translator should principally regard, as it is most likely to expire in his managing: however, it is his safest way to be content with preserving this to his utmost in the whole, without endeavouring to be more than he finds his author is, in any particular place. It is a great secret in writing, to know when to be plain, and when poetical and figurative; and it is what Homer will teach us, if we will but follow modestly in his footsteps. Where his diction is bold and lofty, let us raise ours as high as we can; but where his is plain and humble, we ought not to be deterred from imitating him by the fear of incurring the censure of a mere English critic. Nothing that belongs to Homer seems to have been more commonly mistaken than the just pitch of his style: some of his translators having swelled into fustian in a proud confidence of the sublime; others sunk into flatness, in a cold and timorous notion of simplicity. Methinks I see these different followers of Homer, some sweating and straining after him by violent leaps and bounds (the certain signs of false mettle ), others slowly and servilely creeping in his train, while the poet himself is all the time proceeding with an unaffected and equal majesty before them. However, of the two extremes one could sooner pardon frenzy than frigidity; no author is to be envied for such commendations, as he may gain by that character of style, which his friends must agree together to call simplicity, and the rest of the world will call dulness. There is a graceful and dignified simplicity, as well as a bold and sordid one; which differ as much from each other as the air of a plain man from that of a sloven: it is one thing to be tricked up, and another not to be dressed at all. Simplicity is the mean between ostentation and rusticity.
This pure and noble simplicity is nowhere in such perfection as in the Scripture and our author. One may affirm, with all respect to the inspired writings, that the Divine Spirit made use of no other words but what were intelligible and common to men at that time, and in that part of the world; and, as Homer is the author nearest to those, his style must of course bear a greater resemblance to the sacred books than that of any other writer. This consideration ( together with what has been observed of the parity of some of his thoughts) may, methinks, induce a translator, on the one hand, to give in to several of those general phrases and manners of expression, which have attained a veneration even in our language from being used in the Old Testament; as, on the other, to avoid those which have been appropriated to the Divinity, and in a manner consigned to mystery and religion.
For a further preservation of this air of simplicity, a particular care should be taken to express with all plainness those moral sentences and proverbial speeches which are so numerous in this poet. They have something venerable, and as I may say, oracular, in that unadorned gravity and shortness with which they are delivered: a grace which would be utterly lost by endeavouring to give them what we call a more ingenious (that is, a more modern ) turn in the paraphrase.
Perhaps the mixture of some Græcisms and old words after the manner of Milton, if done without too much affectation, might not have an ill effect in a version of this particular work, which most of any other seems to require a venerable, antique cast. But certainly the use of modern terms of war and government, such as “ platoon, campaign, junto,” or the like, (into which some of his translators have fallen ) cannot be allowable; those only excepted without which it is impossible to treat the subjects in any living language.
There are two peculiarities in Homer ’s diction, which are a sort of marks or moles by which every common eye distinguishes him at first sight; those who are not his greatest admirers look upon them as defects, and those who are, seemed pleased with them as beauties. I speak of his compound epithets, and of his repetitions. Many of the former cannot be done literally into English without destroying the purity of our language. I believe such should be retained as slide easily of themselves into an English compound, without violence to the ear or to the received rules of composition, as well as those which have received a sanction from the authority of our best poets, and are become familiar through their use of them; such as “the cloud - compelling Jove,” &c. As for the rest, whenever any can be as fully and significantly expressed in a single word as in a compounded one, the course to be taken is obvious.
Some that cannot be so turned, as to preserve their full image by one or two words, may have justice done them by circumlocution; as the epithet εἰνοσίφυλλος to a mountain, would appear little or ridiculous translated literally “ leaf - shaking,” but affords a majestic idea in the periphrasis: “the lofty mountain shakes his waving woods.” Others that admit of different significations, may receive an advantage from a judicious variation, according to the occasions on which they are introduced. For example, the epithet of Apollo, ἑκηβόλος or “far- shooting,” is capable of two explications; one literal, in respect of the darts and bow, the ensigns of that god; the other allegorical, with regard to the rays of the sun; therefore, in such places where Apollo is represented as a god in person, I would use the former interpretation; and where the effects of the sun are described, I would make choice of the latter. Upon the whole, it will be necessary to avoid that perpetual repetition of the same epithets which we find in Homer, and which, though it might be accommodated (as has been already shown ) to the ear of those times, is by no means so to ours: but one may wait for opportunities of placing them, where they derive an additional beauty from the occasions on which they are employed; and in doing this properly, a translator may at once show his fancy and his judgment.
As for Homer ’s repetitions, we may divide them into three sorts: of whole narrations and speeches, of single sentences, and of one verse or hemistitch. I hope it is not impossible to have such a regard to these, as neither to lose so known a mark of the author on the one hand, nor to offend the reader too much on the other. The repetition is not ungraceful in those speeches, where the dignity of the speaker renders it a sort of insolence to alter his words; as in the messages from gods to men, or from higher powers to inferiors in concerns of state, or where the ceremonial of religion seems to require it, in the solemn forms of prayers, oaths, or the like. In other cases, I believe the best rule is, to be guided by the nearness, or distance, at which the repetitions are placed in the original: when they follow too close, one may vary the expression; but it is a question, whether a professed translator be to omit any: if they be tedious, the author is to answer for it.
It only remains to speak of the versification. Homer (as has been said) is perpetually applying the sound to the sense, and varying it on every new subject. This is indeed one of the most exquisite beauties of poetry, and attainable by very few: I only know of Homer eminent for it in the Greek, and Virgil in the Latin. I am sensible it is what may sometimes happen by chance, when a writer is warm, and fully possessed of his image: however, it may reasonably be believed they designed this, in whose verse it so manifestly appears in a superior degree to all others. Few readers have the ear to be judges of it: but those who have, will see I have endeavoured at this beauty.
Upon the whole, I must confess myself utterly incapable of doing justice to Homer. I attempt him in no other hope but that which one may entertain without much vanity, of giving a more tolerable copy of him than any entire translation in verse has yet done. We have only those of Chapman, Hobbes, and Ogilby. Chapman has taken the advantage of an immeasurable length of verse, notwithstanding which, there is scarce any paraphrase more loose and rambling than his. He has frequent interpolations of four or six lines; and I remember one in the thirteenth book of the Odyssey, ver. 312, where he has spun twenty verses out of two. He is often mistaken in so bold a manner, that one might think he deviated on purpose, if he did not in other places of his notes insist so much upon verbal trifles. He appears to have had a strong affectation of extracting new meanings out of his author; insomuch as to promise, in his rhyming preface, a poem of the mysteries he had revealed in Homer; and perhaps he endeavoured to strain the obvious sense to this end. His expression is involved in fustian; a fault for which he was remarkable in his original writings, as in the tragedy of Bussy d’ Amboise, &c. In a word, the nature of the man may account for his whole performance; for he appears, from his preface and remarks, to have been of an arrogant turn, and an enthusiast in poetry. His own boast, of having finished half the Iliad in less than fifteen weeks, shows with what negligence his version was performed. But that which is to be allowed him, and which very much contributed to cover his defects, is a daring fiery spirit that animates his translation, which is something like what one might imagine Homer himself would have writ before he arrived at years of discretion.
Hobbes has given us a correct explanation of the sense in general; but for particulars and circumstances he continually lops them, and often omits the most beautiful. As for its being esteemed a close translation, I doubt not many have been led into that error by the shortness of it, which proceeds not from his following the original line by line, but from the contractions above mentioned. He sometimes omits whole similes and sentences; and is now and then guilty of mistakes, into which no writer of his learning could have fallen, but through carelessness. His poetry, as well as Ogilby ’s, is too mean for criticism.
It is a great loss to the poetical world that Mr. Dryden did not live to translate the Iliad. He has left us only the first book, and a small part of the sixth; in which if he has in some places not truly interpreted the sense, or preserved the antiquities, it ought to be excused on account of the haste he was obliged to write in. He seems to have had too much regard to Chapman, whose words he sometimes copies, and has unhappily followed him in passages where he wanders from the original. However, had he translated the whole work, I would no more have attempted Homer after him than Virgil: his version of whom ( notwithstanding some human errors ) is the most noble and spirited translation I know in any language. But the fate of great geniuses is like that of great ministers: though they are confessedly the first in the commonwealth of letters, they must be envied and calumniated only for being at the head of it.
That which, in my opinion, ought to be the endeavour of any one who translates Homer, is above all things to keep alive that spirit and fire which makes his chief character: in particular places, where the sense can bear any doubt, to follow the strongest and most poetical, as most agreeing with that character; to copy him in all the variations of his style, and the different modulations of his numbers; to preserve, in the more active or descriptive parts, a warmth and elevation; in the more sedate or narrative, a plainness and solemnity; in the speeches, a fulness and perspicuity; in the sentences, a shortness and gravity; not to neglect even the little figures and turns on the words, nor sometimes the very cast of the periods; neither to omit nor confound any rites or customs of antiquity: perhaps too he ought to include the whole in a shorter compass than has hitherto been done by any translator who has tolerably preserved either the sense or poetry. What I would further recommend to him is, to study his author rather from his own text, than from any commentaries, how learned soever, or whatever figure they may make in the estimation of the world; to consider him attentively in comparison with Virgil above all the ancients, and with Milton above all the moderns. Next these, the Archbishop of Cambray’s Telemachus may give him the truest idea of the spirit and turn of our author; and Bossu’s admirable Treatise of the Epic Poem the justest notion of his design and conduct. But after all, with whatever judgment and study a man may proceed, or with whatever happiness he may perform such a work, he must hope to please but a few; those only who have at once a taste of poetry, and competent learning. For to satisfy such a want either, is not in the nature of this undertaking; since a mere modern wit can like nothing that is not modern, and a pedant nothing that is not Greek.
What I have done is submitted to the public; from whose opinions I am prepared to learn; though I fear no judges so little as our best poets, who are most sensible of the weight of this task. As for the worst, whatever they shall please to say, they may give me some concern as they are unhappy men, but none as they are malignant writers. I was guided in this translation by judgments very different from theirs, and by persons for whom they can have no kindness, if an old observation be true, that the strongest antipathy in the world is that of fools to men of wit. Mr. Addison was the first whose advice determined me to undertake this task; who was pleased to write to me upon that occasion in such terms as I cannot repeat without vanity. I was obliged to Sir Richard Steele for a very early recommendation of my undertaking to the public. Dr. Swift promoted my interest with that warmth with which he always serves his friend. The humanity and frankness of Sir Samuel Garth are what I never knew wanting on any occasion. I must also acknowledge, with infinite pleasure, the many friendly offices, as well as sincere criticisms, of Mr. Congreve, who had led me the way in translating some parts of Homer. I must add the names of Mr. Rowe, and Dr. Parnell, though I shall take a further opportunity of doing justice to the last, whose good nature (to give it a great panegyric ), is no less extensive than his learning. The favour of these gentlemen is not entirely undeserved by one who bears them so true an affection. But what can I say of the honour so many of the great have done me; while the first names of the age appear as my subscribers, and the most distinguished patrons and ornaments of learning as my chief encouragers? Among these it is a particular pleasure to me to find, that my highest obligations are to such who have done most honour to the name of poet: that his grace the Duke of Buckingham was not displeased I should undertake the author to whom he has given (in his excellent Essay ), so complete a praise:
“
Read
Homer
once, and you can
read
no more;
For all
books
else
appear
so
mean, so
poor,
Verse
will
seem
prose: but still
persist
to
read,
And
Homer
will be all the
books
you
need.”
That the Earl of Halifax was one of the first to favour me; of whom it is hard to say whether the advancement of the polite arts is more owing to his generosity or his example: that such a genius as my Lord Bolingbroke, not more distinguished in the great scenes of business, than in all the useful and entertaining parts of learning, has not refused to be the critic of these sheets, and the patron of their writer: and that the noble author of the tragedy of “ Heroic Love ” has continued his partiality to me, from my writing pastorals to my attempting the Iliad. I cannot deny myself the pride of confessing, that I have had the advantage not only of their advice for the conduct in general, but their correction of several particulars of this translation.
I could say a great deal of the pleasure of being distinguished by the Earl of Carnarvon; but it is almost absurd to particularize any one generous action in a person whose whole life is a continued series of them. Mr. Stanhope, the present secretary of state, will pardon my desire of having it known that he was pleased to promote this affair. The particular zeal of Mr. Harcourt (the son of the late Lord Chancellor ) gave me a proof how much I am honoured in a share of his friendship. I must attribute to the same motive that of several others of my friends: to whom all acknowledgments are rendered unnecessary by the privileges of a familiar correspondence; and I am satisfied I can no way better oblige men of their turn than by my silence.
In short, I have found more patrons than ever Homer wanted. He would have thought himself happy to have met the same favour at Athens that has been shown me by its learned rival, the University of Oxford. And I can hardly envy him those pompous honours he received after death, when I reflect on the enjoyment of so many agreeable obligations, and easy friendships, which make the satisfaction of life. This distinction is the more to be acknowledged, as it is shown to one whose pen has never gratified the prejudices of particular parties, or the vanities of particular men. Whatever the success may prove, I shall never repent of an undertaking in which I have experienced the candour and friendship of so many persons of merit; and in which I hope to pass some of those years of youth that are generally lost in a circle of follies, after a manner neither wholly unuseful to others, nor disagreeable to myself.
end chapter
end chapter
BOOK I.
ARGUMENT. [40]
THE CONTENTION OF ACHILLES AND AGAMEMNON.
In the war of
Troy, the
Greeks
having
sacked
some of the
neighbouring
towns,
and taken from
thence
two
beautiful
captives,
Chryseïs
and
Briseïs,
allotted
the first to
Agamemnon, and the last to
Achilles.
Chryses, the
father
of
Chryseïs, and
priest
of
Apollo, comes to the
Grecian
camp
to
ransom
her; with
which the
action
of the
poem
opens, in the
tenth
year of the
siege. The
priest
being
refused, and
insolently
dismissed
by
Agamemnon,
entreats
for
vengeance
from his
god; who
inflicts
a
pestilence
on the
Greeks.
Achilles
calls
a
council, and
encourages
Chalcas
to
declare
the
cause
of it; who
attributes
it
to the
refusal
of
Chryseïs. The
king, being
obliged
to
send
back his
captive,
enters
into a
furious
contest
with
Achilles, which
Nestor
pacifies; however, as
he had the
absolute
command
of the
army, he
seizes
on
Briseïs
in
revenge.
Achilles
in
discontent
withdraws
himself and his
forces
from the
rest
of the
Greeks; and
complaining
to
Thetis, she
supplicates
Jupiter
to
render
them
sensible
of the
wrong
done to her
son, by
giving
victory
to the
Trojans.
Jupiter,
granting
her
suit,
incenses
Juno: between
whom
the
debate
runs
high,
till
they are
reconciled
by the
address
of
Vulcan.
The time of two-and-
twenty
days is taken up in this
book:
nine
during the
plague, one in the
council
and
quarrel
of the
princes, and
twelve
for
Jupiter
’s
stay
with the
Æthiopians, at
whose
return
Thetis
prefers
her
petition. The
scene
lies
in the
Grecian
camp, then
changes
to
Chrysa, and
lastly
to
Olympus.
Achilles
’
wrath, to
Greece
the
direful
spring
Of
woes
unnumber’d,
heavenly
goddess,
sing
!
That
wrath
which
hurl’d to
Pluto’s
gloomy
reign
The
souls
of
mighty
chiefs
untimely
slain;
Whose
limbs
unburied
on the
naked
shore,
Devouring
dogs
and
hungry
vultures
tore.
[41]
Since great
Achilles
and
Atrides
strove,
Such was the
sovereign
doom, and such the will of
Jove
!
[42]
Declare, O
Muse
! in what
ill
-
fated
hour
[43]
Sprung
the
fierce
strife, from what
offended
power
Latona’s
son
a
dire
contagion
spread,
[44]
And
heap’d the
camp
with
mountains
of the
dead;
The
king
of men his
reverent
priest
defied,
[45]
And for the
king
’s
offence
the people
died.
For
Chryses
sought
with
costly
gifts
to
gain
His
captive
daughter
from the
victor’s
chain.
Suppliant
the
venerable
father
stands;
Apollo
’s
awful
ensigns
grace
his hands:
By these he
begs; and
lowly
bending
down,
Extends
the
sceptre
and the
laurel
crown.
He
sued
to all, but
chief
implored
for
grace
The
brother
-
kings, of
Atreus’
royal
race
[46]
“Ye
kings
and
warriors
! may your
vows
be
crown
’d,
And
Troy
’s
proud
walls
lie
level
with the
ground.
May
Jove
restore
you when your
toils
are o’er
Safe
to the
pleasures
of your
native
shore.
But, oh!
relieve
a
wretched
parent’s
pain,
And
give
Chryseïs
to these
arms
again;
If
mercy
fail, yet
let
my
presents
move,
And
dread
avenging
Phœbus,
son
of
Jove.”
The
Greeks
in
shouts
their
joint
assent
declare,
The
priest
to
reverence, and
release
the
fair.
Not so
Atrides; he, with
kingly
pride,
Repulsed
the
sacred
sire, and
thus
replied:
“
Hence
on
thy
life, and
fly
these
hostile
plains,
Nor
ask,
presumptuous, what the
king
detains:
Hence, with
thy
laurel
crown, and
golden
rod,
Nor
trust
too far those
ensigns
of
thy
god.
Mine
is
thy
daughter,
priest, and
shall
remain;
And
prayers, and
tears, and
bribes,
shall
plead
in
vain;
Till
time
shall
rifle
every
youthful
grace,
And
age
dismiss
her from my
cold
embrace,
In
daily
labours
of the
loom
employ’d,
Or
doom
’d to
deck
the
bed
she once
enjoy
’d.
Hence
then; to
Argos
shall
the
maid
retire,
Far from her
native
soil
and
weeping
sire.”
The
trembling
priest
along
the
shore
return
’d,
And in the
anguish
of a
father
mourn’d.
Disconsolate, not
daring
to
complain,
Silent
he
wander’d by the
sounding
main;
Till,
safe
at
distance, to his
god
he
prays,
The
god
who
darts
around the world his
rays.
“O
Smintheus
!
sprung
from
fair
Latona
’s
line,
[47]
Thou
guardian
power
of
Cilla
the
divine,
[48]
Thou
source
of
light
!
whom
Tenedos
adores,
And
whose
bright
presence
gilds
thy
Chrysa
’s
shores.
If e’er with
wreaths
I
hung
thy
sacred
fane,
[49]
Or
fed
the
flames
with
fat
of
oxen
slain;
God
of the
silver
bow
!
thy
shafts
employ,
Avenge
thy
servant, and the
Greeks
destroy.”
Thus
Chryses
pray’d:—the
favouring
power
attends,
And from
Olympus
’
lofty
tops
descends.
Bent
was his
bow, the
Grecian
hearts
to
wound;
[50]
Fierce
as he
moved, his
silver
shafts
resound.
Breathing
revenge, a
sudden
night he
spread,
And
gloomy
darkness
roll
’d about his head.
The
fleet
in
view, he
twang’d his
deadly
bow,
And
hissing
fly
the
feather’d
fates
below.
On
mules
and
dogs
the
infection
first
began;
[51]
And last, the
vengeful
arrows
fix’d in man.
For
nine
long nights, through all the
dusky
air,
The
pyres,
thick
-
flaming,
shot
a
dismal
glare.
But
ere
the
tenth
revolving
day was
run,
Inspired
by
Juno,
Thetis
’
godlike
son
Convened
to
council
all the
Grecian
train;
For much the
goddess
mourn
’d her
heroes
slain.
[52]
The
assembly
seated,
rising
o’er the
rest,
Achilles
thus
the
king
of men
address
’d:
“
Why
leave
we not the
fatal
Trojan
shore,
And
measure
back the
seas
we
cross’d before?
The
plague
destroying
whom
the
sword
would
spare,
’
Tis
time to
save
the few
remains
of war.
But
let
some
prophet, or some
sacred
sage,
Explore
the
cause
of great
Apollo
’s
rage;
Or
learn
the
wasteful
vengeance
to
remove
By
mystic
dreams, for
dreams
descend
from
Jove.
[53]
If
broken
vows
this
heavy
curse
have
laid,
Let
altars
smoke, and
hecatombs
be
paid.
So
Heaven,
atoned,
shall
dying
Greece
restore,
And
Phœbus
dart
his
burning
shafts
no more.”
He said, and
sat: when
Chalcas
thus
replied;
Chalcas
the
wise, the
Grecian
priest
and
guide,
That
sacred
seer,
whose
comprehensive
view,
The
past, the
present, and the
future
knew:
Uprising
slow, the
venerable
sage
Thus
spoke
the
prudence
and the
fears
of
age:
“
Beloved
of
Jove,
Achilles
! would’st
thou
know
Why
angry
Phœbus
bends
his
fatal
bow?
First
give
thy
faith, and
plight
a
prince
’s
word
Of
sure
protection, by
thy
power
and
sword:
For I must
speak
what
wisdom
would
conceal,
And
truths,
invidious
to the great,
reveal,
Bold
is the
task, when
subjects,
grown
too
wise,
Instruct
a
monarch
where his
error
lies;
For though we
deem
the
short
-
lived
fury
past,
’
Tis
sure
the
mighty
will
revenge
at last.”
To
whom
Pelides:—“From
thy
inmost
soul
Speak
what
thou
know’st, and
speak
without
control.
E’en by that
god
I
swear
who
rules
the day,
To
whom
thy
hands the
vows
of
Greece
convey.
And
whose
bless’d
oracles
thy
lips
declare;
Long as
Achilles
breathes
this
vital
air,
No
daring
Greek, of all the
numerous
band,
Against his
priest
shall
lift
an
impious
hand;
Not e’en the
chief
by
whom
our
hosts
are
led,
The
king
of
kings,
shall
touch
that
sacred
head.”
Encouraged
thus, the
blameless
man
replies:
“
Nor
vows
unpaid,
nor
slighted
sacrifice,
But he, our
chief,
provoked
the
raging
pest,
Apollo
’s
vengeance
for his
injured
priest.
Nor
will the
god
’s
awaken
’d
fury
cease,
But
plagues
shall
spread, and
funeral
fires
increase,
Till
the great
king, without a
ransom
paid,
To her own
Chrysa
send
the
black
-
eyed
maid.
[54]
Perhaps, with
added
sacrifice
and
prayer,
The
priest
may
pardon, and the
god
may
spare.”
The
prophet
spoke: when with a
gloomy
frown
The
monarch
started
from his
shining
throne;
Black
choler
fill’d his
breast
that
boil’d with
ire,
And from his
eye
-
balls
flash’d the
living
fire:
“
Augur
accursed
!
denouncing
mischief
still,
Prophet
of
plagues, for
ever
boding
ill
!
Still must that
tongue
some
wounding
message
bring,
And still
thy
priestly
pride
provoke
thy
king?
For this are
Phœbus
’
oracles
explored,
To
teach
the
Greeks
to
murmur
at their
lord?
For this with
falsehood
is my
honour
stain’d,
Is
heaven
offended, and a
priest
profaned;
Because my
prize, my
beauteous
maid, I
hold,
And
heavenly
charms
prefer
to
proffer’d
gold?
A
maid,
unmatch’d in
manners
as in
face,
Skill’d in each
art, and
crown
’d with every
grace;
Not
half
so
dear
were
Clytæmnestra’s
charms,
When first her
blooming
beauties
bless
’d my
arms.
Yet, if the
gods
demand
her,
let
her
sail;
Our
cares
are only for the public
weal:
Let
me be
deem
’d the
hateful
cause
of all,
And
suffer,
rather
than my people
fall.
The
prize, the
beauteous
prize, I will
resign,
So
dearly
valued, and so
justly
mine.
But since for
common
good I
yield
the
fair,
My
private
loss
let
grateful
Greece
repair;
Nor
unrewarded
let
your
prince
complain,
That he
alone
has
fought
and
bled
in
vain.”
“
Insatiate
king
(
Achilles
thus
replies
),
Fond
of the
power, but
fonder
of the
prize
!
Would’st
thou
the
Greeks
their
lawful
prey
should
yield,
The
due
reward
of many a well-
fought
field?
The
spoils
of
cities
razed
and
warriors
slain,
We
share
with
justice, as with
toil
we
gain;
But to
resume
whate’er
thy
avarice
craves
(That
trick
of
tyrants
) may be
borne
by
slaves.
Yet if our
chief
for
plunder
only
fight,
The
spoils
of
Ilion
shall
thy
loss
requite,
Whene’er, by
Jove
’s
decree, our
conquering
powers
Shall
humble
to the
dust
her
lofty
towers.”
Then
thus
the
king: “
Shall
I my
prize
resign
With
tame
content, and
thou
possess
’d of
thine?
Great as
thou
art, and like a
god
in
fight,
Think not to
rob
me of a
soldier
’s right.
At
thy
demand
shall
I
restore
the
maid?
First
let
the just
equivalent
be
paid;
Such as a
king
might
ask; and
let
it be
A
treasure
worthy
her, and
worthy
me.
Or
grant
me this, or with a
monarch
’s
claim
This hand
shall
seize
some other
captive
dame.
The
mighty
Ajax
shall
his
prize
resign;
[55]
Ulysses
’
spoils, or even
thy
own, be
mine.
The man who
suffers,
loudly
may
complain;
And
rage
he may, but he
shall
rage
in
vain.
But this when time
requires.—It now
remains
We
launch
a
bark
to
plough
the
watery
plains,
And
waft
the
sacrifice
to
Chrysa
’s
shores,
With
chosen
pilots, and with
labouring
oars.
Soon
shall
the
fair
the
sable
ship
ascend,
And some
deputed
prince
the
charge
attend:
This
Creta’s
king, or
Ajax
shall
fulfil,
Or
wise
Ulysses
see
perform
’d our will;
Or, if our
royal
pleasure
shall
ordain,
Achilles
’
self
conduct
her o’er the
main;
Let
fierce
Achilles,
dreadful
in his
rage,
The
god
propitiate, and the
pest
assuage.”
At this,
Pelides,
frowning
stern,
replied:
“O
tyrant,
arm
’d with
insolence
and
pride
!
Inglorious
slave
to
interest,
ever
join
’d
With
fraud,
unworthy
of a
royal
mind
!
What
generous
Greek,
obedient
to
thy
word,
Shall
form
an
ambush, or
shall
lift
the
sword?
What
cause
have I to war at
thy
decree?
The
distant
Trojans
never
injured
me;
To
Phthia’s
realms
no
hostile
troops
they
led:
Safe
in her
vales
my
warlike
coursers
fed;
Far
hence
removed, the
hoarse
-
resounding
main,
And
walls
of
rocks,
secure
my
native
reign,
Whose
fruitful
soil
luxuriant
harvests
grace,
Rich
in her
fruits, and in her
martial
race.
Hither
we
sail
’d, a
voluntary
throng,
To
avenge
a
private, not a public
wrong:
What
else
to
Troy
the
assembled
nations
draws,
But
thine,
ungrateful, and
thy
brother
’s
cause?
Is this the
pay
our
blood
and
toils
deserve;
Disgraced
and
injured
by the man we
serve?
And
darest
thou
threat
to
snatch
my
prize
away,
Due
to the
deeds
of many a
dreadful
day?
A
prize
as small, O
tyrant
!
match’d with
thine,
As
thy
own
actions
if
compared
to
mine.
Thine
in each
conquest
is the
wealthy
prey,
Though
mine
the
sweat
and
danger
of the day.
Some
trivial
present
to my
ships
I
bear:
Or
barren
praises
pay
the
wounds
of war.
But know,
proud
monarch, I’m
thy
slave
no more;
My
fleet
shall
waft
me to
Thessalia’s
shore:
Left by
Achilles
on the
Trojan
plain,
What
spoils, what
conquests,
shall
Atrides
gain?”
To this the
king: “
Fly,
mighty
warrior
!
fly;
Thy
aid
we
need
not, and
thy
threats
defy.
There
want
not
chiefs
in such a
cause
to
fight,
And
Jove
himself
shall
guard
a
monarch
’s right.
Of all the
kings
(the
god
’s
distinguish
’d
care
)
To
power
superior
none
such
hatred
bear:
Strife
and
debate
thy
restless
soul
employ,
And wars and
horrors
are
thy
savage
joy,
If
thou
hast
strength, ’
twas
Heaven
that
strength
bestow’d;
For know,
vain
man!
thy
valour
is from
God.
Haste,
launch
thy
vessels,
fly
with
speed
away;
Rule
thy
own
realms
with
arbitrary
sway;
I
heed
thee
not, but
prize
at
equal
rate
Thy
short
-
lived
friendship, and
thy
groundless
hate.
Go,
threat
thy
earth
-
born
Myrmidons:—but here
[56]
’
Tis
mine
to
threaten,
prince, and
thine
to
fear.
Know, if the
god
the
beauteous
dame
demand,
My
bark
shall
waft
her to her
native
land;
But then
prepare,
imperious
prince
!
prepare,
Fierce
as
thou
art, to
yield
thy
captive
fair:
Even in
thy
tent
I’ll
seize
the
blooming
prize,
Thy
loved
Briseïs
with the
radiant
eyes.
Hence
shalt
thou
prove
my might, and
curse
the
hour
Thou
stood
’st a
rival
of
imperial
power;
And
hence, to all our
hosts
it
shall
be known,
That
kings
are
subject
to the
gods
alone.”
Achilles
heard, with
grief
and
rage
oppress’d,
His
heart
swell’d high, and
labour
’d in his
breast;
Distracting
thoughts by
turns
his
bosom
ruled;
Now
fired
by
wrath, and now by
reason
cool’d:
That
prompts
his hand to
draw
the
deadly
sword,
Force
through the
Greeks, and
pierce
their
haughty
lord;
This
whispers
soft
his
vengeance
to
control,
And
calm
the
rising
tempest
of his
soul.
Just as in
anguish
of
suspense
he
stay
’d,
While
half
unsheathed
appear
’d the
glittering
blade,
[57]
Minerva
swift
descended
from
above,
Sent
by the
sister
and the
wife
of
Jove
(For both the
princes
claim
’d her
equal
care
);
Behind
she
stood, and by the
golden
hair
Achilles
seized; to him
alone
confess
’d;
A
sable
cloud
conceal
’d her from the
rest.
He sees, and
sudden
to the
goddess
cries,
Known
by the
flames
that
sparkle
from her
eyes:
“
Descends
Minerva, in her
guardian
care,
A
heavenly
witness
of the
wrongs
I
bear
From
Atreus
’
son?—Then
let
those
eyes
that
view
The
daring
crime,
behold
the
vengeance
too.”
“
Forbear
(the
progeny
of
Jove
replies
)
To
calm
thy
fury
I
forsake
the
skies:
Let
great
Achilles, to the
gods
resign
’d,
To
reason
yield
the
empire
o’er his
mind.
By
awful
Juno
this
command
is
given;
The
king
and you are both the
care
of
heaven.
The
force
of
keen
reproaches
let
him
feel;
But
sheathe,
obedient,
thy
revenging
steel.
For I
pronounce
(and
trust
a
heavenly
power
)
Thy
injured
honour
has its
fated
hour,
When the
proud
monarch
shall
thy
arms
implore,
And
bribe
thy
friendship
with a
boundless
store.
Then
let
revenge
no
longer
bear
the
sway;
Command
thy
passions, and the
gods
obey.”
To her
Pelides:—“With
regardful
ear,
’
Tis
just, O
goddess
! I
thy
dictates
hear.
Hard
as it is, my
vengeance
I
suppress:
Those who
revere
the
gods
the
gods
will
bless.”
He said,
observant
of the
blue
-
eyed
maid;
Then in the
sheath
return
’d the
shining
blade.
The
goddess
swift
to high
Olympus
flies,
And
joins
the
sacred
senate
of the
skies.
Nor
yet the
rage
his
boiling
breast
forsook,
Which
thus
redoubling
on
Atrides
broke:
“O
monster
!
mix’d of
insolence
and
fear,
Thou
dog
in
forehead, but in
heart
a
deer
!
When
wert
thou
known in
ambush
’d
fights
to
dare,
Or
nobly
face
the
horrid
front
of war?
’
Tis
ours, the
chance
of
fighting
fields
to
try;
Thine
to
look
on, and
bid
the
valiant
die:
So much ’
tis
safer
through the
camp
to go,
And
rob
a
subject, than
despoil
a
foe.
Scourge
of
thy
people,
violent
and
base
!
Sent
in
Jove
’s
anger
on a
slavish
race;
Who,
lost
to
sense
of
generous
freedom
past,
Are
tamed
to
wrongs;—or this had been
thy
last.
Now by this
sacred
sceptre
hear
me
swear,
Which never more
shall
leaves
or
blossoms
bear,
Which
sever’d from the
trunk
(as I from
thee
)
On the
bare
mountains
left its
parent
tree;
This
sceptre,
form
’d by
temper’d
steel
to
prove
An
ensign
of the
delegates
of
Jove,
From
whom
the
power
of
laws
and
justice
springs
(
Tremendous
oath
!
inviolate
to
kings
);
By this I
swear:—when
bleeding
Greece
again
Shall
call
Achilles, she
shall
call
in
vain.
When,
flush’d with
slaughter,
Hector
comes to
spread
The
purpled
shore
with
mountains
of the
dead,
Then
shalt
thou
mourn
the
affront
thy
madness
gave,
Forced
to
deplore
when
impotent
to
save:
Then
rage
in
bitterness
of
soul
to know
This
act
has made the
bravest
Greek
thy
foe.”
He
spoke; and
furious
hurl
’d against the
ground
His
sceptre
starr’d with
golden
studs
around:
Then
sternly
silent
sat. With like
disdain
The
raging
king
return
’d his
frowns
again.
To
calm
their
passion
with the
words
of
age,
Slow
from his
seat
arose
the
Pylian
sage,
Experienced
Nestor, in
persuasion
skill
’d;
Words,
sweet
as
honey, from his
lips
distill’d:
[58]
Two
generations
now had
pass
’d away,
Wise
by his
rules, and
happy
by his
sway;
Two
ages
o’er his
native
realm
he
reign
’d,
And now the
example
of the
third
remain
’d.
All
view
’d with
awe
the
venerable
man;
Who
thus
with
mild
benevolence
began:—
“What
shame, what
woe
is this to
Greece
! what
joy
To
Troy
’s
proud
monarch, and the
friends
of
Troy
!
That
adverse
gods
commit
to
stern
debate
The
best, the
bravest, of the
Grecian
state.
Young
as ye are, this
youthful
heat
restrain,
Nor
think your
Nestor
’s years and
wisdom
vain.
A
godlike
race
of
heroes
once I
knew,
Such as no more these
aged
eyes
shall
view
!
Lives
there a
chief
to
match
Pirithous’
fame,
Dryas
the
bold, or
Ceneus’
deathless
name;
Theseus,
endued
with more than
mortal
might,
Or
Polyphemus, like the
gods
in
fight?
With these of old, to
toils
of
battle
bred,
In
early
youth
my
hardy
days I
led;
Fired
with the
thirst
which
virtuous
envy
breeds,
And
smit
with
love
of
honourable
deeds,
Strongest
of men, they
pierced
the
mountain
boar,
Ranged
the
wild
deserts
red
with
monsters’
gore,
And from their
hills
the
shaggy
Centaurs
tore:
Yet these with
soft
persuasive
arts
I
sway
’d;
When
Nestor
spoke, they
listen’d and
obey
’d.
If in my
youth, even these
esteem’d me
wise;
Do you,
young
warriors,
hear
my
age
advise.
Atrides,
seize
not on the
beauteous
slave;
That
prize
the
Greeks
by
common
suffrage
gave:
Nor
thou,
Achilles,
treat
our
prince
with
pride;
Let
kings
be just, and
sovereign
power
preside.
Thee, the first
honours
of the war
adorn,
Like
gods
in
strength, and of a
goddess
born;
Him,
awful
majesty
exalts
above
The
powers
of
earth, and
sceptred
sons
of
Jove.
Let
both
unite
with well-
consenting
mind,
So
shall
authority
with
strength
be
join
’d.
Leave
me, O
king
! to
calm
Achilles
’
rage;
Rule
thou
thyself, as more
advanced
in
age.
Forbid
it,
gods
!
Achilles
should be
lost,
The
pride
of
Greece, and
bulwark
of our
host.”
This said, he
ceased. The
king
of men
replies:
“
Thy
years are
awful, and
thy
words
are
wise.
But that
imperious, that
unconquer’d
soul,
No
laws
can
limit, no
respect
control.
Before his
pride
must his
superiors
fall;
His
word
the
law, and he the
lord
of all?
Him must our
hosts, our
chiefs,
ourself
obey?
What
king
can
bear
a
rival
in his
sway?
Grant
that the
gods
his
matchless
force
have
given;
Has
foul
reproach
a
privilege
from
heaven?”
Here on the
monarch
’s
speech
Achilles
broke,
And
furious,
thus, and
interrupting
spoke:
“
Tyrant, I well
deserved
thy
galling
chain,
To
live
thy
slave, and still to
serve
in
vain,
Should I
submit
to each
unjust
decree:—
Command
thy
vassals, but
command
not me.
Seize
on
Briseïs,
whom
the
Grecians
doom
’d
My
prize
of war, yet
tamely
see
resumed;
And
seize
secure; no more
Achilles
draws
His
conquering
sword
in any
woman’s
cause.
The
gods
command
me to
forgive
the
past:
But
let
this first
invasion
be the last:
For know,
thy
blood, when
next
thou
darest
invade,
Shall
stream
in
vengeance
on my
reeking
blade.”
At this they
ceased: the
stern
debate
expired:
The
chiefs
in
sullen
majesty
retired.
Achilles
with
Patroclus
took his way
Where
near
his
tents
his
hollow
vessels
lay.
Meantime
Atrides
launch
’d with
numerous
oars
A well-
rigg’d
ship
for
Chrysa
’s
sacred
shores:
High on the
deck
was
fair
Chryseïs
placed,
And
sage
Ulysses
with the
conduct
graced:
Safe
in her
sides
the
hecatomb
they
stow’d,
Then
swiftly
sailing,
cut
the
liquid
road.
The
host
to
expiate
next
the
king
prepares,
With
pure
lustrations, and with
solemn
prayers.
Wash’d by the
briny
wave, the
pious
train
[59]
Are
cleansed; and
cast
the
ablutions
in the
main.
Along
the
shore
whole
hecatombs
were
laid,
And
bulls
and
goats
to
Phœbus
’
altars
paid;
The
sable
fumes
in
curling
spires
arise,
And
waft
their
grateful
odours
to the
skies.
The
army
thus
in
sacred
rites
engaged,
Atrides
still with
deep
resentment
raged.
To
wait
his will two
sacred
heralds
stood,
Talthybius
and
Eurybates
the good.
“
Haste
to the
fierce
Achilles
’
tent
(he
cries
),
Thence
bear
Briseïs
as our
royal
prize:
Submit
he must; or if they will not part,
Ourself
in
arms
shall
tear
her from his
heart.”
The
unwilling
heralds
act
their
lord
’s
commands;
Pensive
they
walk
along
the
barren
sands:
Arrived, the
hero
in his
tent
they
find,
With
gloomy
aspect
on his
arm
reclined.
At
awful
distance
long they
silent
stand,
Loth
to
advance, and
speak
their
hard
command;
Decent
confusion
! This the
godlike
man
Perceived, and
thus
with
accent
mild
began:
“With
leave
and
honour
enter
our
abodes,
Ye
sacred
ministers
of men and
gods
!
[60]
I know your
message; by
constraint
you came;
Not you, but your
imperious
lord
I
blame.
Patroclus,
haste, the
fair
Briseïs
bring;
Conduct
my
captive
to the
haughty
king.
But
witness,
heralds, and
proclaim
my
vow,
Witness
to
gods
above, and men
below
!
But first, and
loudest, to your
prince
declare
(That
lawless
tyrant
whose
commands
you
bear
),
Unmoved
as
death
Achilles
shall
remain,
Though
prostrate
Greece
shall
bleed
at every
vein:
The
raging
chief
in
frantic
passion
lost,
Blind
to himself, and
useless
to his
host,
Unskill’d to
judge
the
future
by the
past,
In
blood
and
slaughter
shall
repent
at last.”
Patroclus
now the
unwilling
beauty
brought;
She, in
soft
sorrows, and in
pensive
thought,
Pass’d
silent, as the
heralds
held
her hand,
And
oft
look
’d back,
slow
-
moving
o’er the
strand.
Not so his
loss
the
fierce
Achilles
bore;
But
sad,
retiring
to the
sounding
shore,
O’er the
wild
margin
of the
deep
he
hung,
That
kindred
deep
from
whence
his
mother
sprung:
[61]
There
bathed
in
tears
of
anger
and
disdain,
Thus
loud
lamented
to the
stormy
main:
“O
parent
goddess
! since in
early
bloom
Thy
son
must
fall, by too
severe
a
doom;
Sure
to so
short
a
race
of
glory
born,
Great
Jove
in
justice
should this
span
adorn:
Honour
and
fame
at
least
the
thunderer
owed;
And
ill
he
pays
the
promise
of a
god,
If
yon
proud
monarch
thus
thy
son
defies,
Obscures
my
glories, and
resumes
my
prize.”
Far from the
deep
recesses
of the
main,
Where
aged
Ocean
holds
his
watery
reign,
The
goddess
-
mother
heard. The
waves
divide;
And like a
mist
she
rose
above
the
tide;
Beheld
him
mourning
on the
naked
shores,
And
thus
the
sorrows
of his
soul
explores.
“
Why
grieves
my
son?
Thy
anguish
let
me
share;
Reveal
the
cause, and
trust
a
parent
’s
care.”
He
deeply
sighing
said: “To
tell
my
woe
Is but to
mention
what too well you know.
From
Thebé,
sacred
to
Apollo
’s
name
[62]
(
Aëtion’s
realm
), our
conquering
army
came,
With
treasure
loaded
and
triumphant
spoils,
Whose
just
division
crown
’d the
soldier
’s
toils;
But
bright
Chryseïs,
heavenly
prize
! was
led,
By
vote
selected, to the general’s
bed.
The
priest
of
Phœbus
sought
by
gifts
to
gain
His
beauteous
daughter
from the
victor
’s
chain;
The
fleet
he
reach
’d, and,
lowly
bending
down,
Held
forth
the
sceptre
and the
laurel
crown,
Intreating
all; but
chief
implored
for
grace
The
brother
-
kings
of
Atreus
’
royal
race:
The
generous
Greeks
their
joint
consent
declare,
The
priest
to
reverence, and
release
the
fair;
Not so
Atrides: he, with
wonted
pride,
The
sire
insulted, and his
gifts
denied:
The
insulted
sire
(his
god
’s
peculiar
care
)
To
Phœbus
pray
’d, and
Phœbus
heard
the
prayer:
A
dreadful
plague
ensues: the
avenging
darts
Incessant
fly, and
pierce
the
Grecian
hearts.
A
prophet
then,
inspired
by
heaven,
arose,
And
points
the
crime, and
thence
derives
the
woes:
Myself
the first the
assembled
chiefs
incline
To
avert
the
vengeance
of the
power
divine;
Then
rising
in his
wrath, the
monarch
storm’d;
Incensed
he
threaten
’d, and his
threats
perform
’d:
The
fair
Chryseïs
to her
sire
was
sent,
With
offer’d
gifts
to make the
god
relent;
But now he
seized
Briseïs
’
heavenly
charms,
And of my
valour
’s
prize
defrauds
my
arms,
Defrauds
the
votes
of all the
Grecian
train;
[63]
And
service,
faith, and
justice,
plead
in
vain.
But,
goddess
!
thou
thy
suppliant
son
attend.
To high
Olympus
’
shining
court
ascend,
Urge
all the
ties
to
former
service
owed,
And
sue
for
vengeance
to the
thundering
god.
Oft
hast
thou
triumph
’d in the
glorious
boast,
That
thou
stood
’st
forth
of all the
ethereal
host,
When
bold
rebellion
shook
the
realms
above,
The
undaunted
guard
of
cloud
-
compelling
Jove:
When the
bright
partner
of his
awful
reign,
The
warlike
maid, and
monarch
of the
main,
The
traitor
-
gods, by
mad
ambition
driven,
Durst
threat
with
chains
the
omnipotence
of
Heaven.
Then,
call
’d by
thee, the
monster
Titan
came
(
Whom
gods
Briareus, men
Ægeon
name
),
Through
wondering
skies
enormous
stalk’d
along;
Not he that
shakes
the
solid
earth
so
strong:
With
giant
-
pride
at
Jove
’s high
throne
he
stands,
And
brandish’d
round
him all his
hundred
hands:
The
affrighted
gods
confess
’d their
awful
lord,
They
dropp’d the
fetters,
trembled, and
adored.
[64]
This,
goddess, this to his
remembrance
call,
Embrace
his
knees, at his
tribunal
fall;
Conjure
him far to
drive
the
Grecian
train,
To
hurl
them
headlong
to their
fleet
and
main,
To
heap
the
shores
with
copious
death, and
bring
The
Greeks
to know the
curse
of such a
king.
Let
Agamemnon
lift
his
haughty
head
O’er all his
wide
dominion
of the
dead,
And
mourn
in
blood
that e’er he
durst
disgrace
The
boldest
warrior
of the
Grecian
race.”
“
Unhappy
son
! (
fair
Thetis
thus
replies,
While
tears
celestial
trickle
from her
eyes
)
Why
have I
borne
thee
with a
mother
’s
throes,
To
Fates
averse, and
nursed
for
future
woes?
[65]
So
short
a
space
the
light
of
heaven
to
view
!
So
short
a
space
! and
fill
’d with
sorrow
too!
O might a
parent
’s
careful
wish
prevail,
Far, far from
Ilion
should
thy
vessels
sail,
And
thou, from
camps
remote, the
danger
shun
Which now,
alas
! too
nearly
threats
my
son.
Yet (what I can) to
move
thy
suit
I’ll go
To great
Olympus
crown
’d with
fleecy
snow.
Meantime,
secure
within
thy
ships, from far
Behold
the
field, not
mingle
in the war.
The
sire
of
gods
and all the
ethereal
train,
On the
warm
limits
of the
farthest
main,
Now
mix
with
mortals,
nor
disdain
to
grace
The
feasts
of
Æthiopia’s
blameless
race,
[66]
Twelve
days the
powers
indulge
the
genial
rite,
Returning
with the
twelfth
revolving
light.
Then will I
mount
the
brazen
dome, and
move
The high
tribunal
of
immortal
Jove.”
The
goddess
spoke: the
rolling
waves
unclose;
Then down the
steep
she
plunged
from
whence
she
rose,
And left him
sorrowing
on the
lonely
coast,
In
wild
resentment
for the
fair
he
lost.
In
Chrysa
’s
port
now
sage
Ulysses
rode;
Beneath
the
deck
the
destined
victims
stow
’d:
The
sails
they
furl’d, they
lash
the
mast
aside,
And
dropp
’d their
anchors, and the
pinnace
tied.
Next
on the
shore
their
hecatomb
they
land;
Chryseïs
last
descending
on the
strand.
Her,
thus
returning
from the
furrow’d
main,
Ulysses
led
to
Phœbus
’
sacred
fane;
Where at his
solemn
altar, as the
maid
He
gave
to
Chryses,
thus
the
hero
said:
“
Hail,
reverend
priest
! to
Phœbus
’
awful
dome
A
suppliant
I from great
Atrides
come:
Unransom’d, here
receive
the
spotless
fair;
Accept
the
hecatomb
the
Greeks
prepare;
And may
thy
god
who
scatters
darts
around,
Atoned
by
sacrifice,
desist
to
wound.”
[67]
At this, the
sire
embraced
the
maid
again,
So
sadly
lost, so
lately
sought
in
vain.
Then
near
the
altar
of the
darting
king,
Disposed
in
rank
their
hecatomb
they
bring;
With water
purify
their hands, and take
The
sacred
offering
of the
salted
cake;
While
thus
with
arms
devoutly
raised
in
air,
And
solemn
voice, the
priest
directs
his
prayer:
“
God
of the
silver
bow,
thy
ear
incline,
Whose
power
incircles
Cilla
the
divine;
Whose
sacred
eye
thy
Tenedos
surveys,
And
gilds
fair
Chrysa
with
distinguish
’d
rays
!
If,
fired
to
vengeance
at
thy
priest
’s
request,
Thy
direful
darts
inflict
the
raging
pest:
Once more
attend
!
avert
the
wasteful
woe,
And
smile
propitious, and
unbend
thy
bow.”
So
Chryses
pray
’d.
Apollo
heard
his
prayer:
And now the
Greeks
their
hecatomb
prepare;
Between their
horns
the
salted
barley
threw,
And, with their heads to
heaven, the
victims
slew:
[68]
The
limbs
they
sever
from the
inclosing
hide;
The
thighs,
selected
to the
gods,
divide:
On these, in
double
cauls
involved
with
art,
The
choicest
morsels
lay
from every part.
The
priest
himself before his
altar
stands,
And
burns
the
offering
with his
holy
hands.
Pours
the
black
wine, and sees the
flames
aspire;
The
youth
with
instruments
surround
the
fire:
The
thighs
thus
sacrificed, and
entrails
dress’d,
The
assistants
part,
transfix, and
roast
the
rest:
Then
spread
the
tables, the
repast
prepare;
Each takes his
seat, and each
receives
his
share.
When now the
rage
of
hunger
was
repress’d,
With
pure
libations
they
conclude
the
feast;
The
youths
with
wine
the
copious
goblets
crown
’d,
[69]
And,
pleased,
dispense
the
flowing
bowls
around
With
hymns
divine
the
joyous
banquet
ends,
The
pæans
lengthen’d
till
the
sun
descends:
The
Greeks,
restored, the
grateful
notes
prolong;
Apollo
listens, and
approves
the
song.
’
Twas
night; the
chiefs
beside
their
vessel
lie,
Till
rosy
morn
had
purpled
o’er the
sky:
Then
launch, and
hoist
the
mast:
indulgent
gales,
Supplied
by
Phœbus,
fill
the
swelling
sails;
The
milk
-
white
canvas
bellying
as they
blow,
The parted
ocean
foams
and
roars
below:
Above
the
bounding
billows
swift
they
flew,
Till
now the
Grecian
camp
appear
’d in
view.
Far on the
beach
they
haul
their
bark
to
land,
(The
crooked
keel
divides
the
yellow
sand,)
Then part, where
stretch
’d
along
the
winding
bay,
The
ships
and
tents
in
mingled
prospect
lay.
But
raging
still,
amidst
his
The
stern
Achilles,
stedfast
in his
hate;
Nor
mix
’d in
combat,
nor
in
council
join
’d;
But
wasting
cares
lay
heavy
on his
mind:
In his
black
thoughts
revenge
and
slaughter
roll,
And
scenes
of
blood
rise
dreadful
in his
soul.
Twelve
days were
past, and now the
dawning
light
The
gods
had
summon’d to the
Olympian
height:
Jove, first
ascending
from the
watery
bowers,
Leads
the long
order
of
ethereal
powers.
When, like the
morning
-
mist
in
early
day,
Rose
from the
flood
the
daughter
of the
sea:
And to the
seats
divine
her
flight
address
’d.
There, far
apart, and high
above
the
rest,
The
thunderer
sat; where old
Olympus
shrouds
His
hundred
heads in
heaven, and
props
the
clouds.
Suppliant
the
goddess
stood: one hand she placed
Beneath
his
beard, and one his
knees
embraced.
“If e’er, O
father
of the
gods
! (she said)
My
words
could
please
thee, or my
actions
aid,
Some
marks
of
honour
on my
son
bestow,
And
pay
in
glory
what in life you
owe.
Fame
is at
least
by
heavenly
promise
due
To life so
short, and now
dishonour’d too.
Avenge
this
wrong, O
ever
just and
wise
!
Let
Greece
be
humbled, and the
Trojans
rise;
Till
the
proud
king
and all the
Achaian
race
Shall
heap
with
honours
him they now
disgrace.”
Thus
Thetis
spoke; but
Jove
in
silence
held
The
sacred
counsels
of his
breast
conceal
’d.
Not so
repulsed, the
goddess
closer
press’d,
Still
grasp’d his
knees, and
urged
the
dear
request.
“O
sire
of
gods
and men!
thy
suppliant
hear;
Refuse, or
grant; for what has
Jove
to
fear?
Or oh!
declare, of all the
powers
above,
Is
wretched
Thetis
least
the
care
of
Jove?”
She said; and,
sighing,
thus
the
god
replies,
Who
rolls
the
thunder
o’er the
vaulted
skies:
“What
hast
thou
ask
’d? ah,
why
should
Jove
engage
In
foreign
contests
and
domestic
rage,
The
gods
’
complaints, and
Juno
’s
fierce
alarms,
While I, too
partial,
aid
the
Trojan
arms?
Go,
lest
the
haughty
partner
of my
sway
With
jealous
eyes
thy
close
access
survey;
But part in
peace,
secure
thy
prayer
is
sped:
Witness
the
sacred
honours
of our head,
The
nod
that
ratifies
the will
divine,
The
faithful,
fix
’d,
irrevocable
sign;
This
seals
thy
suit, and this
fulfils
thy
vows
—”
He
spoke, and
awful
bends
his
sable
brows,
[70]
Shakes
his
ambrosial
curls, and
gives
the
nod,
The
stamp
of
fate
and
sanction
of the
god:
High
heaven
with
trembling
the
dread
signal
took,
And all
Olympus
to the
centre
shook.
[71]
Swift
to the
seas
profound
the
goddess
flies,
Jove
to his
starry
mansions
in the
skies.
The
shining
synod
of the
immortals
wait
The coming
god, and from their
thrones
of state
Arising
silent,
wrapp’d in
holy
fear,
Before the
majesty
of
heaven
appear.
Trembling
they
stand, while
Jove
assumes
the
throne,
All, but the
god
’s
imperious
queen
alone:
Late
had she
view
’d the
silver
-
footed
dame,
And all her
passions
kindled
into
flame.
“Say,
artful
manager
of
heaven
(she
cries
),
Who now
partakes
the
secrets
of the
skies?
Thy
Juno
knows not the
decrees
of
fate,
In
vain
the
partner
of
imperial
state.
What
favourite
goddess
then those
cares
divides,
Which
Jove
in
prudence
from his
consort
hides?”
To this the
thunderer: “
Seek
not
thou
to
find
The
sacred
counsels
of
almighty
mind:
Involved
in
darkness
lies
the great
decree,
Nor
can the
depths
of
fate
be
pierced
by
thee.
What
fits
thy
knowledge,
thou
the first
shalt
know;
The first of
gods
above, and men
below;
But
thou,
nor
they,
shall
search
the thoughts that
roll
Deep
in the
close
recesses
of my
soul.”
Full
on the
sire
the
goddess
of the
skies
Roll’d the
large
orbs
of her
majestic
eyes,
And
thus
return
’d:—“
Austere
Saturnius, say,
From
whence
this
wrath, or who
controls
thy
sway?
Thy
boundless
will, for me,
remains
in
force,
And all
thy
counsels
take the
destined
course.
But ’
tis
for
Greece
I
fear: for
late
was seen,
In
close
consult, the
silver
-
footed
queen.
Jove
to his
Thetis
nothing could
deny,
Nor
was the
signal
vain
that
shook
the
sky.
What
fatal
favour
has the
goddess
won,
To
grace
her
fierce,
inexorable
son?
Perhaps
in
Grecian
blood
to
drench
the
plain,
And
glut
his
vengeance
with my people
slain.”
Then
thus
the
god: “O
restless
fate
of
pride,
That
strives
to
learn
what
heaven
resolves
to
hide;
Vain
is the
search,
presumptuous
and
abhorr’d,
Anxious
to
thee, and
odious
to
thy
lord.
Let
this
suffice: the
immutable
decree
No
force
can
shake: what is, that
ought
to be.
Goddess,
submit;
nor
dare
our will
withstand,
But
dread
the
power
of this
avenging
hand:
The united
strength
of all the
gods
above
In
vain
resists
the
omnipotence
of
Jove.”
The
thunderer
spoke,
nor
durst
the
queen
reply;
A
reverent
horror
silenced
all the
sky.
The
feast
disturb’d, with
sorrow
Vulcan
saw
His
mother
menaced, and the
gods
in
awe;
Peace
at his
heart, and
pleasure
his
design,
Thus
interposed
the
architect
divine:
“The
wretched
quarrels
of the
mortal
state
Are far
unworthy,
gods
! of your
debate:
Let
men their days in
senseless
strife
employ,
We, in
eternal
peace
and
constant
joy.
Thou,
goddess
-
mother, with our
sire
comply,
Nor
break
the
sacred
union
of the
sky:
Lest,
roused
to
rage, he
shake
the
bless
’d
abodes,
Launch
the
red
lightning, and
dethrone
the
gods.
If you
submit, the
thunderer
stands
appeased;
The
gracious
power
is
willing
to be
pleased.”
Thus
Vulcan
spoke: and
rising
with a
bound,
The
double
bowl
with
sparkling
nectar
crown
’d,
[72]
Which
held
to
Juno
in a
cheerful
way,
“
Goddess
(he
cried
), be
patient
and
obey.
Dear
as you are, if
Jove
his
arm
extend,
I can but
grieve,
unable
to
defend.
What
god
so
daring
in your
aid
to
move,
Or
lift
his hand against the
force
of
Jove?
Once in your
cause
I
felt
his
matchless
might,
Hurl’d
headlong
down from the
ethereal
height;
[73]
Toss’d all the day in
rapid
circles
round,
Nor
till
the
sun
descended
touch
’d the
ground.
Breathless
I
fell, in
giddy
motion
lost;
The
Sinthians
raised
me on the
Lemnian
coast;
[74]
He said, and to her hands the
goblet
heaved,
Which, with a
smile, the
white
-
arm
’d
queen
received
Then, to the
rest
he
fill
’d; and in his
turn,
Each to his
lips
applied
the
nectar
’d
urn,
Vulcan
with
awkward
grace
his
office
plies,
And
unextinguish’d
laughter
shakes
the
skies.
Thus
the
blest
gods
the
genial
day
prolong,
In
feasts
ambrosial, and
celestial
song.
[75]
Apollo
tuned
the
lyre; the
Muses
round
With
voice
alternate
aid
the
silver
sound.
Meantime
the
radiant
sun
to
mortal
sight
Descending
swift,
roll
’d down the
rapid
light:
Then to their
starry
domes
the
gods
depart,
The
shining
monuments
of
Vulcan
’s
art:
Jove
on his
couch
reclined
his
awful
head,
And
Juno
slumber’d on the
golden
bed.
end chapter
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT.
THE TRIAL OF THE ARMY, AND CATALOGUE OF THE FORCES.
Jupiter, in
pursuance
of the
request
of
Thetis,
sends
a
deceitful
vision
to
Agamemnon,
persuading
him to
lead
the
army
to
battle, in
order
to make the
Greeks
sensible
of their
want
of
Achilles. The general, who is
deluded
with the
hopes
of taking
Troy
without his
assistance, but
fears
the
army
was
discouraged
by his
absence, and the
late
plague, as well as by the
length
of time,
contrives
to make
trial
of their
disposition
by a
stratagem. He first
communicates
his
design
to the
princes
in
council, that he would
propose
a
return
to the
soldiers, and that they should put a
stop
to them if the
proposal
was
embraced. Then he
assembles
the
whole
host, and upon
moving
for a
return
to
Greece, they
unanimously
agree
to it, and
run
to
prepare
the
ships. They are
detained
by the
management
of
Ulysses, who
chastises
the
insolence
of
Thersites. The
assembly
is
recalled,
several
speeches
made on the
occasion, and
at
length
the
advice
of
Nestor
followed, which was to make a general
muster
of
the
troops, and to
divide
them into their
several
nations, before they
proceeded
to
battle. This
gives
occasion
to the
poet
to
enumerate
all the
forces
of the
Greeks
and
Trojans, and in a
large
catalogue.
The time
employed
in this
book
consists
not
entirely
of one day. The
scene
lies
in the
Grecian
camp, and upon the
sea
-
shore;
towards
the end it
removes
to
Troy.
Now
pleasing
sleep
had
seal’d each
mortal
eye,
Stretch’d in the
tents
the
Grecian
leaders
lie:
The
immortals
slumber
’d on their
thrones
above;
All, but the
ever
-
wakeful
eyes
of
Jove.
[76]
To
honour
Thetis
’
son
he
bends
his
care,
And
plunge
the
Greeks
in all the
woes
of war:
Then
bids
an
empty
phantom
rise
to
sight,
And
thus
commands
the
vision
of the night.
“
Fly
hence,
deluding
Dream
! and
light
as
air,
[77]
To
Agamemnon
’s
ample
tent
repair.
Bid
him in
arms
draw
forth
the
embattled
train,
Lead
all his
Grecians
to the
dusty
plain.
Declare, e’en now ’
tis
given
him to
destroy
The
lofty
towers
of
wide
-
extended
Troy.
For now no more the
gods
with
fate
contend,
At
Juno
’s
suit
the
heavenly
factions
end.
Destruction
hangs
o’er
yon
devoted
wall,
And
nodding
Ilion
waits
the
impending
fall.”
Swift
as the
word
the
vain
illusion
fled,
Descends, and
hovers
o’er
Atrides
’ head;
Clothed
in the
figure
of the
Pylian
sage,
Renown’d for
wisdom, and
revered
for
age:
Around his
temples
spreads
his
golden
wing,
And
thus
the
flattering
dream
deceives
the
king.
“
Canst
thou, with all a
monarch
’s
cares
oppress
’d,
O
Atreus
’
son
!
canst
thou
indulge
thy
rest?
[78]
Ill
fits
a
chief
who
mighty
nations
guides,
Directs
in
council, and in war
presides,
To
whom
its
safety
a
whole
people
owes,
To
waste
long nights in
indolent
repose.
[79]
Monarch,
awake
! ’
tis
Jove
’s
command
I
bear;
Thou, and
thy
glory,
claim
his
heavenly
care.
In just
array
draw
forth
the
embattled
train,
Lead
all
thy
Grecians
to the
dusty
plain;
E’en now, O
king
! ’
tis
given
thee
to
destroy
The
lofty
towers
of
wide
-
extended
Troy.
For now no more the
gods
with
fate
contend,
At
Juno
’s
suit
the
heavenly
factions
end.
Destruction
hangs
o’er
yon
devoted
wall,
And
nodding
Ilion
waits
the
impending
fall.
Awake, but
waking
this
advice
approve,
And
trust
the
vision
that
descends
from
Jove.”
The
phantom
said; then
vanish
’d from his
sight,
Resolves
to
air, and
mixes
with the night.
A
thousand
schemes
the
monarch
’s
mind
employ;
Elate
in thought he
sacks
untaken
Troy:
Vain
as he was, and to the
future
blind,
Nor
saw
what
Jove
and
secret
fate
design
’d,
What
mighty
toils
to
either
host
remain,
What
scenes
of
grief, and numbers of the
slain
!
Eager
he
rises, and in
fancy
hears
The
voice
celestial
murmuring
in his
ears.
First on his
limbs
a
slender
vest
he
drew,
Around him
next
the
regal
mantle
threw,
The
embroider’d
sandals
on his
feet
were
tied;
The
starry
falchion
glitter’d at his
side;
And last, his
arm
the
massy
sceptre
loads,
Unstain’d,
immortal, and the
gift
of
gods.
Now
rosy
Morn
ascends
the
court
of
Jove,
Lifts
up her
light, and
opens
day
above.
The
king
despatch’d his
heralds
with
commands
To
range
the
camp
and
summon
all the
bands:
The
gathering
hosts
the
monarch
’s
word
obey;
While to the
fleet
Atrides
bends
his way.
In his
black
ship
the
Pylian
prince
he found;
There
calls
a
senate
of the
peers
around:
The
assembly
placed, the
king
of men
express
’d
The
counsels
labouring
in his
artful
breast.
“
Friends
and
confederates
! with
attentive
ear
Receive
my
words, and
credit
what you
hear.
Late
as I
slumber
’d in the
shades
of night,
A
dream
divine
appear
’d before my
sight;
Whose
visionary
form
like
Nestor
came,
The same in
habit, and in
mien
the same.
[80]
The
heavenly
phantom
hover’d o’er my head,
‘And,
dost
thou
sleep, O
Atreus
’
son? (he said)
Ill
fits
a
chief
who
mighty
nations
guides,
Directs
in
council, and in war
presides;
To
whom
its
safety
a
whole
people
owes,
To
waste
long nights in
indolent
repose.
Monarch,
awake
! ’
tis
Jove
’s
command
I
bear,
Thou
and
thy
glory
claim
his
heavenly
care.
In just
array
draw
forth
the
embattled
train,
And
lead
the
Grecians
to the
dusty
plain;
E’en now, O
king
! ’
tis
given
thee
to
destroy
The
lofty
towers
of
wide
-
extended
Troy.
For now no more the
gods
with
fate
contend,
At
Juno
’s
suit
the
heavenly
factions
end.
Destruction
hangs
o’er
yon
devoted
wall,
And
nodding
Ilion
waits
the
impending
fall.
This
hear
observant, and the
gods
obey
!’
The
vision
spoke, and
pass
’d in
air
away.
Now,
valiant
chiefs
! since
heaven
itself
alarms,
Unite, and
rouse
the
sons
of
Greece
to
arms.
But first, with
caution,
try
what yet they
dare,
Worn
with
nine
years of
unsuccessful
war.
To
move
the
troops
to
measure
back the
main,
Be
mine; and
yours
the
province
to
detain.”
He
spoke, and
sat: when
Nestor,
rising
said,
(
Nestor,
whom
Pylos’
sandy
realms
obey
’d,)
“
Princes
of
Greece, your
faithful
ears
incline,
Nor
doubt
the
vision
of the
powers
divine;
Sent
by great
Jove
to him who
rules
the
host,
Forbid
it,
heaven
! this
warning
should be
lost
!
Then
let
us
haste,
obey
the
god
’s
alarms,
And
join
to
rouse
the
sons
of
Greece
to
arms.”
Thus
spoke
the
sage: the
kings
without
delay
Dissolve
the
council, and their
chief
obey:
The
sceptred
rulers
lead; the
following
host,
Pour’d
forth
by
thousands,
darkens
all the
coast.
As from some
rocky
cleft
the
shepherd
sees
Clustering
in
heaps
on
heaps
the
driving
bees,
Rolling
and
blackening,
swarms
succeeding
swarms,
With
deeper
murmurs
and more
hoarse
alarms;
Dusky
they
spread, a
close
embodied
crowd,
And o’er the
vale
descends
the
living
cloud.
[81]
So, from the
tents
and
ships, a
lengthen
’d
train
Spreads
all the
beach, and
wide
o’
ershades
the
plain:
Along
the
region
runs
a
deafening
sound;
Beneath
their
footsteps
groans
the
trembling
ground.
Fame
flies
before the
messenger
of
Jove,
And
shining
soars, and
claps
her
wings
above.
Nine
sacred
heralds
now,
proclaiming
loud
[82]
The
monarch
’s will,
suspend
the
listening
crowd.
Soon
as the
throngs
in
order
ranged
appear,
And
fainter
murmurs
died
upon the
ear,
The
king
of
kings
his
awful
figure
raised:
High in his hand the
golden
sceptre
blazed;
The
golden
sceptre, of
celestial
flame,
By
Vulcan
form
’d, from
Jove
to
Hermes
came.
To
Pelops
he the
immortal
gift
resign
’d;
The
immortal
gift
great
Pelops
left
behind,
In
Atreus
’ hand, which not with
Atreus
ends,
To
rich
Thyestes
next
the
prize
descends;
And now the
mark
of
Agamemnon
’s
reign,
Subjects
all
Argos, and
controls
the
main.
[83]
On this
bright
sceptre
now the
king
reclined,
And
artful
thus
pronounced
the
speech
design
’d:
“Ye
sons
of
Mars,
partake
your
leader
’s
care,
Heroes
of
Greece, and
brothers
of the war!
Of
partial
Jove
with
justice
I
complain,
And
heavenly
oracles
believed
in
vain
A
safe
return
was
promised
to our
toils,
Renown
’d,
triumphant, and
enrich’d with
spoils.
Now
shameful
flight
alone
can
save
the
host,
Our
blood, our
treasure, and our
glory
lost.
So
Jove
decrees,
resistless
lord
of all!
At
whose
command
whole
empires
rise
or
fall:
He
shakes
the
feeble
props
of
human
trust,
And
towns
and
armies
humbles
to the
dust.
What
shame
to
Greece
a
fruitful
war to
wage,
Oh, lasting
shame
in every
future
age
!
Once great in
arms, the
common
scorn
we
grow,
Repulsed
and
baffled
by a
feeble
foe.
So small their number, that if wars were
ceased,
And
Greece
triumphant
held
a general
feast,
All
rank
’d by
tens,
whole
decades
when they
dine
Must
want
a
Trojan
slave
to
pour
the
wine.
[84]
But other
forces
have our
hopes
o’
erthrown,
And
Troy
prevails
by
armies
not her own.
Now
nine
long years of
mighty
Jove
are
run,
Since first the
labours
of this war
begun:
Our
cordage
torn,
decay’d our
vessels
lie,
And
scarce
insure
the
wretched
power
to
fly.
Haste, then, for
ever
leave
the
Trojan
wall
!
Our
weeping
wives, our
tender
children
call:
Love,
duty,
safety,
summon
us away,
’
Tis
nature
’s
voice, and
nature
we
obey.
Our
shatter’d
barks
may yet
transport
us o’er,
Safe
and
inglorious, to our
native
shore.
Fly,
Grecians,
fly, your
sails
and
oars
employ,
And
dream
no more of
heaven
-
defended
Troy.”
His
deep
design
unknown, the
hosts
approve
Atrides
’
speech. The
mighty
numbers
move.
So
roll
the
billows
to the
Icarian
shore,
From
east
and
south
when
winds
begin
to
roar,
Burst
their
dark
mansions
in the
clouds, and
sweep
The
whitening
surface
of the
ruffled
deep.
And as on
corn
when
western
gusts
descend,
[85]
Before the
blast
the
lofty
harvests
bend:
Thus
o’er the
field
the
moving
host
appears,
With
nodding
plumes
and
groves
of
waving
spears.
The
gathering
murmur
spreads, their
trampling
feet
Beat
the
loose
sands, and
thicken
to the
fleet;
With long-
resounding
cries
they
urge
the
train
To
fit
the
ships, and
launch
into the
main.
They
toil, they
sweat,
thick
clouds
of
dust
arise,
The
doubling
clamours
echo
to the
skies.
E’en then the
Greeks
had left the
hostile
plain,
And
fate
decreed
the
fall
of
Troy
in
vain;
But
Jove
’s
imperial
queen
their
flight
survey
’d,
And
sighing
thus
bespoke
the
blue
-
eyed
maid:
“
Shall
then the
Grecians
fly
! O
dire
disgrace
!
And
leave
unpunish’d this
perfidious
race?
Shall
Troy,
shall
Priam, and the
adulterous
spouse,
In
peace
enjoy
the
fruits
of
broken
vows?
And
bravest
chiefs, in
Helen
’s
quarrel
slain,
Lie
unrevenged
on
yon
detested
plain?
No:
let
my
Greeks,
unmoved
by
vain
alarms,
Once more
refulgent
shine
in
brazen
arms.
Haste,
goddess,
haste
! the
flying
host
detain,
Nor
let
one
sail
be
hoisted
on the
main.”
Pallas
obeys, and from
Olympus
’
height
Swift
to the
ships
precipitates
her
flight.
Ulysses, first in public
cares, she found,
For
prudent
counsel
like the
gods
renown
’d:
Oppress’d with
generous
grief
the
hero
stood,
Nor
drew
his
sable
vessels
to the
flood.
“And is it
thus,
divine
Laertes’
son,
Thus
fly
the
Greeks
(the
martial
maid
begun
),
Thus
to their
country
bear
their own
disgrace,
And
fame
eternal
leave
to
Priam
’s
race?
Shall
beauteous
Helen
still
remain
unfreed,
Still
unrevenged, a
thousand
heroes
bleed
!
Haste,
generous
Ithacus
!
prevent
the
shame,
Recall
your
armies, and your
chiefs
reclaim.
Your own
resistless
eloquence
employ,
And to the
immortals
trust
the
fall
of
Troy.”
The
voice
divine
confess
’d the
warlike
maid,
Ulysses
heard,
nor
uninspired
obey
’d:
Then
meeting
first
Atrides, from his hand
Received
the
imperial
sceptre
of
command.
Thus
graced,
attention
and
respect
to
gain,
He
runs, he
flies
through all the
Grecian
train;
Each
prince
of
name, or
chief
in
arms
approved,
He
fired
with
praise, or with
persuasion
moved.
“
Warriors
like you, with
strength
and
wisdom
bless
’d,
By
brave
examples
should
confirm
the
rest.
The
monarch
’s will not yet
reveal
’d
appears;
He
tries
our
courage, but
resents
our
fears.
The
unwary
Greeks
his
fury
may
provoke;
Not
thus
the
king
in
secret
council
spoke.
Jove
loves
our
chief, from
Jove
his
honour
springs,
Beware
! for
dreadful
is the
wrath
of
kings.”
But if a
clamorous
vile
plebeian
rose,
Him with
reproof
he
check
’d or
tamed
with
blows.
“Be still,
thou
slave, and to
thy
betters
yield;
Unknown
alike
in
council
and in
field
!
Ye
gods, what
dastards
would our
host
command
!
Swept
to the war, the
lumber
of a
land.
Be
silent,
wretch, and think not here
allow
’d
That
worst
of
tyrants, an
usurping
crowd.
To one
sole
monarch
Jove
commits
the
sway;
His are the
laws, and him
let
all
obey.”
[86]
With
words
like these the
troops
Ulysses
ruled,
The
loudest
silenced, and the
fiercest
cool
’d.
Back to the
assembly
roll
the
thronging
train,
Desert
the
ships, and
pour
upon the
plain.
Murmuring
they
move, as when old
ocean
roars,
And
heaves
huge
surges
to the
trembling
shores;
The
groaning
banks
are
burst
with
bellowing
sound,
The
rocks
remurmur
and the
deeps
rebound.
At
length
the
tumult
sinks, the
noises
cease,
And a still
silence
lulls
the
camp
to
peace.
Thersites
only
clamour’d in the
throng,
Loquacious,
loud, and
turbulent
of
tongue:
Awed
by no
shame, by no
respect
controll’d,
In
scandal
busy, in
reproaches
bold:
With
witty
malice
studious
to
defame,
Scorn
all his
joy, and
laughter
all his
aim:—
But
chief
he
gloried
with
licentious
style
To
lash
the great, and
monarchs
to
revile.
His
figure
such as might his
soul
proclaim;
One
eye
was
blinking, and one
leg
was
lame:
His
mountain
shoulders
half
his
breast
o’
erspread,
Thin
hairs
bestrew’d his long
misshapen
head.
Spleen
to
mankind
his
envious
heart
possess
’d,
And much he
hated
all, but most the
best:
Ulysses
or
Achilles
still his
theme;
But
royal
scandal
his
delight
supreme,
Long had he
lived
the
scorn
of every
Greek,
Vex’d when he
spoke, yet still they
heard
him
speak.
Sharp
was his
voice; which in the
shrillest
tone,
Thus
with
injurious
taunts
attack’d the
throne.
“
Amidst
the
glories
of so
bright
a
reign,
What
moves
the great
Atrides
to
complain?
’
Tis
thine
whate
’er the
warrior
’s
breast
inflames,
The
golden
spoil, and
thine
the
lovely
dames.
With all the
wealth
our wars and
blood
bestow,
Thy
tents
are
crowded
and
thy
chests
o’
erflow.
Thus
at
full
ease
in
heaps
of
riches
roll
’d,
What
grieves
the
monarch? Is it
thirst
of
gold?
Say,
shall
we
march
with our
unconquer
’d
powers
(The
Greeks
and I) to
Ilion
’s
hostile
towers,
And
bring
the
race
of
royal
bastards
here,
For
Troy
to
ransom
at a
price
too
dear?
But
safer
plunder
thy
own
host
supplies;
Say,
wouldst
thou
seize
some
valiant
leader
’s
prize?
Or, if
thy
heart
to
generous
love
be
led,
Some
captive
fair, to
bless
thy
kingly
bed?
Whate’er our
master
craves
submit
we must,
Plagued
with his
pride, or
punish’d for his
lust.
Oh
women
of
Achaia; men no more!
Hence
let
us
fly, and
let
him
waste
his
store
In
loves
and
pleasures
on the
Phrygian
shore.
We may be
wanted
on some
busy
day,
When
Hector
comes: so great
Achilles
may:
From him he
forced
the
prize
we
jointly
gave,
From him, the
fierce, the
fearless, and the
brave:
And
durst
he, as he
ought,
resent
that
wrong,
This
mighty
tyrant
were no
tyrant
long.”
Fierce
from his
seat
at this
Ulysses
springs,
[87]
In
generous
vengeance
of the
king
of
kings.
With
indignation
sparkling
in his
eyes,
He
views
the
wretch, and
sternly
thus
replies:
“
Peace,
factious
monster,
born
to
vex
the state,
With
wrangling
talents
form
’d for
foul
debate:
Curb
that
impetuous
tongue,
nor
rashly
vain,
And
singly
mad,
asperse
the
sovereign
reign.
Have we not known
thee,
slave
! of all our
host,
The man who
acts
the
least,
upbraids
the most?
Think not the
Greeks
to
shameful
flight
to
bring,
Nor
let
those
lips
profane
the
name
of
king.
For our
return
we
trust
the
heavenly
powers;
Be that their
care; to
fight
like men be
ours.
But
grant
the
host
with
wealth
the general
load,
Except
detraction, what
hast
thou
bestow
’d?
Suppose
some
hero
should his
spoils
resign,
Art
thou
that
hero, could those
spoils
be
thine?
Gods
!
let
me
perish
on this
hateful
shore,
And
let
these
eyes
behold
my
son
no more;
If, on
thy
next
offence, this hand
forbear
To
strip
those
arms
thou
ill
deserv’st to
wear,
Expel
the
council
where our
princes
meet,
And
send
thee
scourged
and
howling
through the
fleet.”
He said, and
cowering
as the
dastard
bends,
The
weighty
sceptre
on his back
descends.
[88]
On the
round
bunch
the
bloody
tumours
rise:
The
tears
spring
starting
from his
haggard
eyes;
Trembling
he
sat, and
shrunk
in
abject
fears,
From his
vile
visage
wiped
the
scalding
tears;
While to his
neighbour
each
express
’d his thought:
“Ye
gods
! what
wonders
has
Ulysses
wrought
!
What
fruits
his
conduct
and his
courage
yield
!
Great in the
council,
glorious
in the
field.
Generous
he
rises
in the
crown
’s
defence,
To
curb
the
factious
tongue
of
insolence,
Such just
examples
on
offenders
shown,
Sedition
silence, and
assert
the
throne.”
’
Twas
thus
the general
voice
the
hero
praised,
Who,
rising, high the
imperial
sceptre
raised:
The
blue
-
eyed
Pallas, his
celestial
friend,
(In
form
a
herald,)
bade
the
crowds
attend.
The
expecting
crowds
in still
attention
hung,
To
hear
the
wisdom
of his
heavenly
tongue.
Then
deeply
thoughtful,
pausing
ere
he
spoke,
His
silence
thus
the
prudent
hero
broke:
“
Unhappy
monarch
!
whom
the
Grecian
race
With
shame
deserting,
heap
with
vile
disgrace.
Not such at
Argos
was their
generous
vow:
Once all their
voice, but ah!
forgotten
now:
Ne’er to
return, was then the
common
cry,
Till
Troy
’s
proud
structures
should in
ashes
lie.
Behold
them
weeping
for their
native
shore;
What could their
wives
or
helpless
children
more?
What
heart
but
melts
to
leave
the
tender
train,
And, one
short
month,
endure
the
wintry
main?
Few
leagues
removed, we
wish
our
peaceful
seat,
When the
ship
tosses, and the
tempests
beat:
Then well may this long
stay
provoke
their
tears,
The
tedious
length
of
nine
revolving
years.
Not for their
grief
the
Grecian
host
I
blame;
But
vanquish’d!
baffled
! oh,
eternal
shame
!
Expect
the time to
Troy
’s
destruction
given.
And
try
the
faith
of
Chalcas
and of
heaven.
What
pass
’d at
Aulis,
Greece
can
witness
bear,
[89]
And all who
live
to
breathe
this
Phrygian
air.
Beside
a
fountain
’s
sacred
brink
we
raised
Our
verdant
altars, and the
victims
blazed:
’
Twas
where the
plane
-
tree
spread
its
shades
around,
The
altars
heaved; and from the
crumbling
ground
A
mighty
dragon
shot, of
dire
portent;
From
Jove
himself the
dreadful
sign
was
sent.
Straight
to the
tree
his
sanguine
spires
he
roll
’d,
And
curl’d around in many a
winding
fold;
The
topmost
branch
a
mother
-
bird
possess
’d;
Eight
callow
infants
fill
’d the
mossy
nest;
Herself
the
ninth; the
serpent, as he
hung,
Stretch
’d his
black
jaws
and
crush’d the
crying
young;
While
hovering
near, with
miserable
moan,
The
drooping
mother
wail’d her
children
gone.
The
mother
last, as
round
the
nest
she
flew,
Seized
by the
beating
wing, the
monster
slew;
Nor
long
survived: to
marble
turn
’d, he
stands
A lasting
prodigy
on
Aulis
’
sands.
Such was the will of
Jove; and
hence
we
dare
Trust
in his
omen, and
support
the war.
For while around we
gazed
with
wondering
eyes,
And
trembling
sought
the
powers
with
sacrifice,
Full
of his
god, the
reverend
Chalcas
cried,
[90]
‘Ye
Grecian
warriors
!
lay
your
fears
aside.
This
wondrous
signal
Jove
himself
displays,
Of long, long
labours, but
eternal
praise.
As many
birds
as by the
snake
were
slain,
So many years the
toils
of
Greece
remain;
But
wait
the
tenth, for
Ilion
’s
fall
decreed:’
Thus
spoke
the
prophet,
thus
the
Fates
succeed.
Obey, ye
Grecians
! with
submission
wait,
Nor
let
your
flight
avert
the
Trojan
fate.”
He said: the
shores
with
loud
applauses
sound,
The
hollow
ships
each
deafening
shout
rebound.
Then
Nestor
thus
—“These
vain
debates
forbear,
Ye
talk
like
children, not like
heroes
dare.
Where now are all your high
resolves
at last?
Your
leagues
concluded, your
engagements
past?
Vow’d with
libations
and with
victims
then,
Now
vanish
’d like their
smoke: the
faith
of men!
While
useless
words
consume
the
unactive
hours,
No
wonder
Troy
so long
resists
our
powers.
Rise, great
Atrides
! and with
courage
sway;
We
march
to war, if
thou
direct
the way.
But
leave
the few that
dare
resist
thy
laws,
The
mean
deserters
of the
Grecian
cause,
To
grudge
the
conquests
mighty
Jove
prepares,
And
view
with
envy
our
successful
wars.
On that great day, when first the
martial
train,
Big
with the
fate
of
Ilion,
plough
’d the
main,
Jove, on the right, a
prosperous
signal
sent,
And
thunder
rolling
shook
the
firmament.
Encouraged
hence,
maintain
the
glorious
strife,
Till
every
soldier
grasp
a
Phrygian
wife,
Till
Helen
’s
woes
at
full
revenged
appear,
And
Troy
’s
proud
matrons
render
tear
for
tear.
Before that day, if any
Greek
invite
His
country
’s
troops
to
base,
inglorious
flight,
Stand
forth
that
Greek
! and
hoist
his
sail
to
fly,
And
die
the
dastard
first, who
dreads
to
die.
But now, O
monarch
! all
thy
chiefs
advise:
[91]
Nor
what they
offer,
thou
thyself
despise.
Among
those
counsels,
let
not
mine
be
vain;
In
tribes
and
nations
to
divide
thy
train:
His
separate
troops
let
every
leader
call,
Each
strengthen
each, and all
encourage
all.
What
chief, or
soldier, of the
numerous
band,
Or
bravely
fights, or
ill
obeys
command,
When
thus
distinct
they war,
shall
soon
be known
And what the
cause
of
Ilion
not o’
erthrown;
If
fate
resists, or if our
arms
are
slow,
If
gods
above
prevent, or men
below.”
To him the
king: “How much
thy
years
excel
In
arts
of
counsel, and in
speaking
well!
O would the
gods, in
love
to
Greece,
decree
But
ten
such
sages
as they
grant
in
thee;
Such
wisdom
soon
should
Priam
’s
force
destroy,
And
soon
should
fall
the
haughty
towers
of
Troy
!
But
Jove
forbids, who
plunges
those he
hates
In
fierce
contention
and in
vain
debates:
Now great
Achilles
from our
aid
withdraws,
By me
provoked; a
captive
maid
the
cause:
If e’er as
friends
we
join, the
Trojan
wall
Must
shake, and
heavy
will the
vengeance
fall
!
But now, ye
warriors, take a
short
repast;
And, well
refresh’d, to
bloody
conflict
haste.
His
’d
spear
let
every
Grecian
wield,
And every
Grecian
fix
his
brazen
shield,
Let
all
excite
the
fiery
steeds
of war,
And all for
combat
fit
the
rattling
car.
This day, this
dreadful
day,
let
each
contend;
No
rest, no
respite,
till
the
shades
descend;
Till
darkness, or
till
death,
shall
cover
all:
Let
the war
bleed, and
let
the
mighty
fall;
Till
bathed
in
sweat
be every
manly
breast,
With the
huge
shield
each
brawny
arm
depress’d,
Each
aching
nerve
refuse
the
lance
to
throw,
And each
spent
courser
at the
chariot
blow.
Who
dares,
inglorious, in his
ships
to
stay,
Who
dares
to
tremble
on this
signal
day;
That
wretch, too
mean
to
fall
by
martial
power,
The
birds
shall
mangle, and the
dogs
devour.”
The
monarch
spoke; and
straight
a
murmur
rose,
Loud
as the
surges
when the
tempest
blows,
That
dash’d on
broken
rocks
tumultuous
roar,
And
foam
and
thunder
on the
stony
shore.
Straight
to the
tents
the
troops
dispersing
bend,
The
fires
are
kindled, and the
smokes
ascend;
With
hasty
feasts
they
sacrifice, and
pray,
To
avert
the
dangers
of the
doubtful
day.
A
steer
of
five
years’
age,
large
limb’d, and
fed,
[92]
To
Jove
’s high
altars
Agamemnon
led:
There
bade
the
noblest
of the
Grecian
peers;
And
Nestor
first, as most
advanced
in years.
Next
came
Idomeneus,
[93]
and
Tydeus
’
son,
[94]
Ajax
the less, and
Ajax
Telamon;
[95]
Then
wise
Ulysses
in his
rank
was placed;
And
Menelaus
came,
unbid, the last.
[96]
The
chiefs
surround
the
destined
beast, and take
The
sacred
offering
of the
salted
cake:
When
thus
the
king
prefers
his
solemn
prayer;
“O
thou
!
whose
thunder
rends
the
clouded
air,
Who in the
heaven
of
heavens
hast
fixed
thy
throne,
Supreme
of
gods
!
unbounded, and
alone
!
Hear
! and before the
burning
sun
descends,
Before the night her
gloomy
veil
extends,
Low
in the
dust
be
laid
yon
hostile
spires,
Be
Priam
’s
palace
sunk
in
Grecian
fires.
In
Hector
’s
breast
be
plunged
this
shining
sword,
And
slaughter
’d
heroes
groan
around their
lord
!”
Thus
prayed
the
chief: his
Great
Jove
refused, and
toss’d in
empty
air:
The
God
averse, while yet the
fumes
arose,
Prepared
new
toils, and
doubled
woes
on
woes.
Their
prayers
perform
’d the
chiefs
the
rite
pursue,
The
barley
sprinkled, and the
victim
slew.
The
limbs
they
sever
from the
inclosing
hide,
The
thighs,
selected
to the
gods,
divide.
On these, in
double
cauls
involved
with
art,
The
choicest
morsels
lie
from every part,
From the
cleft
wood
the
crackling
flames
aspire
While the
fat
victims
feed
the
sacred
fire.
The
thighs
thus
sacrificed, and
entrails
dress
’d
The
assistants
part,
transfix, and
roast
the
rest;
Then
spread
the
tables, the
repast
prepare,
Each takes his
seat, and each
receives
his
share.
Soon
as the
rage
of
hunger
was
suppress
’d,
The
generous
Nestor
thus
the
prince
address
’d.
“Now
bid
thy
heralds
sound
the
loud
alarms,
And
call
the
squadrons
sheathed
in
brazen
arms;
Now
seize
the
occasion, now the
troops
survey,
And
lead
to war when
heaven
directs
the way.”
He said; the
monarch
issued
his
commands;
Straight
the
loud
heralds
call
the
gathering
bands;
The
chiefs
inclose
their
king; the
hosts
divide,
In
tribes
and
nations
rank
’d on
either
side.
High in the
midst
the
blue
-
eyed
virgin
flies;
From
rank
to
rank
she
darts
her
ardent
eyes;
The
dreadful
ægis,
Jove
’s
immortal
shield,
Blazed
on her
arm, and
lighten’d all the
field:
Round
the
vast
orb
a
hundred
serpents
roll
’d,
Form’d the
bright
fringe, and
seem
’d to
burn
in
gold,
With this each
Grecian
’s
manly
breast
she
warms,
Swells
their
bold
hearts, and
strings
their
nervous
arms,
No more they
sigh,
inglorious, to
return,
But
breathe
revenge, and for the
combat
burn.
As on some
mountain, through the
lofty
grove,
The
crackling
flames
ascend, and
blaze
above;
The
fires
expanding, as the
winds
arise,
Shoot
their long
beams, and
kindle
half
the
skies:
So from the
polish’d
arms, and
brazen
shields,
A
gleamy
splendour
flash
’d
along
the
fields.
Not less their number than the
embodied
cranes,
Or
milk
-
white
swans
in
Asius’
watery
plains.
That, o’er the
windings
of
Cayster’s
springs,
[97]
Stretch
their long
necks, and
clap
their
rustling
wings,
Now
tower
aloft, and course in
airy
rounds,
Now
light
with
noise; with
noise
the
field
resounds.
Thus
numerous
and
confused,
extending
wide,
The
legions
crowd
Scamander’s
flowery
side;
[98]
With
rushing
troops
the
plains
are
cover
’d o’er,
And
thundering
footsteps
shake
the
sounding
shore.
Along
the
river
’s
level
meads
they
stand,
Thick
as in
spring
the
flowers
adorn
the
land,
Or
leaves
the
trees; or
thick
as
insects
play,
The
wandering
nation
of a
summer’s day:
That,
drawn
by
milky
steams, at evening
hours,
In
gather’d
swarms
surround
the
rural
bowers;
From
pail
to
pail
with
busy
murmur
run
The
gilded
legions,
glittering
in the
sun.
So
throng
’d, so
close, the
Grecian
squadrons
stood
In
radiant
arms, and
thirst
for
Trojan
blood.
Each
leader
now his
scatter’d
force
conjoins
In
close
array, and
forms
the
deepening
lines.
Not with more
ease
the
skilful
shepherd
-
swain
Collects
his
flocks
from
thousands
on the
plain.
The
king
of
kings,
majestically
tall,
Towers
o’er his
armies, and
outshines
them all;
Like some
proud
bull, that
round
the
pastures
leads
His
subject
herds, the
monarch
of the
meads,
Great as the
gods, the
exalted
chief
was seen,
His
strength
like
Neptune, and like
Mars
his
mien;
[99]
Jove
o’er his
eyes
celestial
glories
spread,
And
dawning
conquest
played
around his head.
Say,
virgins,
seated
round
the
throne
divine,
All-knowing
goddesses
!
immortal
nine
!
[100]
Since
earth
’s
wide
regions,
heaven
’s
umneasur’d
height,
And
hell’s
abyss,
hide
nothing from your
sight,
(We,
wretched
mortals
!
lost
in
doubts
below,
But
guess
by
rumour, and but
boast
we know,)
O say what
heroes,
fired
by
thirst
of
fame,
Or
urged
by
wrongs, to
Troy
’s
destruction
came.
To
count
them all,
demands
a
thousand
tongues,
A
throat
of
brass, and
adamantine
lungs.
Daughters
of
Jove,
assist
!
inspired
by you
The
mighty
labour
dauntless
I
pursue;
What
crowded
armies, from what
climes
they
bring,
Their
names, their numbers, and their
chiefs
I
sing.
THE CATALOGUE OF THE SHIPS. [101]
The
hardy
warriors
whom
Bœotia
bred,
Penelius,
Leitus,
Prothoënor,
led:
With these
Arcesilaus
and
Clonius
stand,
Equal
in
arms, and
equal
in
command.
These head the
troops
that
rocky
Aulis
yields,
And
Eteon’s
hills, and
Hyrie’s
watery
fields,
And
Schoenos,
Scholos,
Græa
near
the
main,
And
Mycalessia’s
ample
piny
plain;
Those who in
Peteon
or
Ilesion
dwell,
Or
Harma
where
Apollo
’s
prophet
fell;
Heleon
and
Hylè, which the
springs
o’
erflow;
And
Medeon
lofty, and
Ocalea
low;
Or in the
meads
of
Haliartus
stray,
Or
Thespia
sacred
to the
god
of day:
Onchestus,
Neptune
’s
celebrated
groves;
Copæ, and
Thisbè,
famed
for
silver
doves;
For
flocks
Erythræ
,
Glissa
for the
vine;
Platea
green, and
Nysa
the
divine;
And they
whom
Thebé
’s well-
built
walls
inclose,
Where
Mydè,
Eutresis,
Coronè,
rose;
And
Arnè
rich, with
purple
harvests
crown
’d;
And
Anthedon,
Bœotia
’s
utmost
bound.
Full
fifty
ships
they
send, and each
conveys
Twice
sixty
warriors
through the
foaming
seas.
[102]
To these
succeed
Aspledon’s
martial
train,
Who
plough
the
spacious
Orchomenian
plain.
Two
valiant
brothers
rule
the
undaunted
throng,
Iälmen
and
Ascalaphus
the
strong:
Sons
of
Astyochè, the
heavenly
fair,
Whose
virgin
charms
subdued
the
god
of war:
(In
Actor’s
court
as she
retired
to
rest,
The
strength
of
Mars
the
blushing
maid
compress’d)
Their
troops
in
thirty
sable
vessels
sweep,
With
equal
oars, the
hoarse
-
resounding
deep.
The
Phocians
next
in
forty
barks
repair;
Epistrophus
and
Schedius
head the war:
From those
rich
regions
where
Cephisus
leads
His
silver
current
through the
flowery
meads;
From
Panopëa,
Chrysa
the
divine,
Where
Anemoria’s
stately
turrets
shine,
Where
Pytho,
Daulis,
Cyparissus
stood,
And
fair
Lilæ
views
the
rising
flood.
These,
ranged
in
order
on the
floating
tide,
Close, on the left, the
bold
Bœotians’
side.
Fierce
Ajax
led
the
Locrian
squadrons
on,
Ajax
the less,
Oïleus’
valiant
son;
Skill
’d to
direct
the
flying
dart
aright;
Swift
in
pursuit, and
active
in the
fight.
Him, as their
chief, the
chosen
troops
attend,
Which
Bessa,
Thronus, and
rich
Cynos
send;
Opus,
Calliarus, and
Scarphe’s
bands;
And those who
dwell
where
pleasing
Augia
stands,
And where
Boägrius
floats
the
lowly
lands,
Or in
fair
Tarphe’s
sylvan
seats
reside:
In
forty
vessels
cut
the
yielding
tide.
Eubœa
next
her
martial
sons
prepares,
And
sends
the
brave
Abantes
to the wars:
Breathing
revenge, in
arms
they take their way
From
Chalcis’
walls, and
strong
Eretria;
The
Isteian
fields
for
generous
vines
renown
’d,
The
fair
Caristos, and the
Styrian
ground;
Where
Dios
from her
towers
o’
erlooks
the
plain,
And high
Cerinthus
views
the
neighbouring
main.
Down their
broad
shoulders
falls
a
length
of
hair;
Their hands
dismiss
not the long
lance
in
air;
But with
protended
spears
in
fighting
fields
Pierce
the
tough
corslets
and the
brazen
shields.
Twice
twenty
ships
transport
the
warlike
bands,
Which
bold
Elphenor,
fierce
in
arms,
commands.
Full
fifty
more from
Athens
stem
the
main,
Led
by
Menestheus
through the
liquid
plain.
(
Athens
the
fair, where great
Erectheus
sway
’d,
That
owed
his
nurture
to the
blue
-
eyed
maid,
But from the
teeming
furrow
took his
birth,
The
mighty
offspring
of the
foodful
earth.
Him
Pallas
placed
amidst
her
wealthy
fane,
Adored
with
sacrifice
and
oxen
slain;
Where, as the years
revolve, her
altars
blaze,
And all the
tribes
resound
the
goddess
’
praise.)
No
chief
like
thee,
Menestheus
!
Greece
could
yield,
To
marshal
armies
in the
dusty
field,
The
extended
wings
of
battle
to
display,
Or
close
the
embodied
host
in
firm
array.
Nestor
alone,
improved
by
length
of days,
For
martial
conduct
bore
an
equal
praise.
With these
appear
the
Salaminian
bands,
Whom
the
gigantic
Telamon
commands;
In
twelve
black
ships
to
Troy
they
steer
their course,
And with the great
Athenians
join
their
force.
Next
move
to war the
generous
Argive
train,
From high
Trœzenè, and
Maseta’s
plain,
And
fair
Ægina
circled
by the
main:
Whom
strong
Tyrinthe’s
lofty
walls
surround,
And
Epidaure
with
viny
harvests
crown
’d:
And where
fair
Asinen
and
Hermoin
show
Their
cliffs
above, and
ample
bay
below.
These by the
brave
Euryalus
were
led,
Great
Sthenelus, and greater
Diomed;
But
chief
Tydides
bore
the
sovereign
sway:
In
fourscore
barks
they
plough
the
watery
way.
The
proud
Mycenè
arms
her
martial
powers,
Cleonè,
Corinth, with
imperial
towers,
[103]
Fair
Aræthyrea,
Ornia’s
fruitful
plain,
And
Ægion, and
Adrastus’
ancient
reign;
And those who
dwell
along
the
sandy
shore,
And where
Pellenè
yields
her
fleecy
store,
Where
Helicè
and
Hyperesia
lie,
And
Gonoëssa’s
spires
salute
the
sky.
Great
Agamemnon
rules
the
numerous
band,
A
hundred
vessels
in long
order
stand,
And
crowded
nations
wait
his
dread
command.
High on the
deck
the
king
of men
appears,
And his
refulgent
arms
in
triumph
wears;
Proud
of his
host,
unrivall’d in his
reign,
In
silent
pomp
he
moves
along
the
main.
His
brother
follows, and to
vengeance
warms
The
hardy
Spartans,
exercised
in
arms:
Phares
and
Brysia’s
valiant
troops, and those
Whom
Lacedæmon’s
lofty
hills
inclose;
Or
Messé’s
towers
for
silver
doves
renown
’d,
Amyclæ,
Laäs,
Augia
’s
happy
ground,
And those
whom
Œtylos’
low
walls
contain,
And
Helos, on the
margin
of the
main.
These, o’er the
bending
ocean,
Helen
’s
cause,
In
sixty
ships
with
Menelaus
draws:
Eager
and
loud
from man to man he
flies,
Revenge
and
fury
flaming
in his
eyes;
While
vainly
fond, in
fancy
oft
he
hears
The
fair
one’s
grief, and sees her
falling
tears.
In
ninety
sail, from
Pylos
’
sandy
coast,
Nestor
the
sage
conducts
his
chosen
host:
From
Amphigenia’s
ever
-
fruitful
land,
Where
Æpy
high, and little
Pteleon
stand;
Where
beauteous
Arene
her
structures
shows,
And
Thryon’s
walls
Alpheus’
streams
inclose:
And
Dorion,
famed
for
Thamyris’
disgrace,
Superior
once of all the
tuneful
race,
Till,
vain
of
mortals
’
empty
praise, he
strove
To
match
the
seed
of
cloud
-
compelling
Jove
!
Too
daring
bard
!
whose
unsuccessful
pride
The
immortal
Muses
in their
art
defied.
The
avenging
Muses
of the
light
of day
Deprived
his
eyes, and
snatch
’d his
voice
away;
No more his
heavenly
voice
was
heard
to
sing,
His hand no more
awaked
the
silver
string.
Where under high
Cyllenè,
crown
’d with
wood,
The
shaded
tomb
of old
Æpytus
stood;
From
Ripè,
Stratie,
Tegea’s
bordering
towns,
The
Phenean
fields, and
Orchomenian
downs,
Where the
fat
herds
in
plenteous
pasture
rove;
And
Stymphelus
with her
surrounding
grove;
Parrhasia, on her
snowy
cliffs
reclined,
And high
Enispè
shook
by
wintry
wind,
And
fair
Mantinea’s
ever
-
pleasing
site;
In
sixty
sail
the
Arcadian
bands
unite.
Bold
Agapenor,
glorious
at their head,
(
Ancæus’
son
) the
mighty
squadron
led.
Their
ships,
supplied
by
Agamemnon
’s
care,
Through
roaring
seas
the
wondering
warriors
bear;
The first to
battle
on the
appointed
plain,
But new to all the
dangers
of the
main.
Those, where
fair
Elis
and
Buprasium
join;
Whom
Hyrmin, here, and
Myrsinus
confine,
And
bounded
there, where o’er the
valleys
rose
The
Olenian
rock; and where
Alisium
flows;
Beneath
four
chiefs
(a
numerous
army
) came:
The
strength
and
glory
of the
Epean
name.
In
separate
squadrons
these their
train
divide,
Each
leads
ten
vessels
through the
yielding
tide.
One was
Amphimachus, and
Thalpius
one;
(
Eurytus’ this, and that
Teätus’
son;)
Diores
sprung
from
Amarynceus’
line;
And great
Polyxenus, of
force
divine.
But those who
view
fair
Elis
o’er the
seas
From the
blest
islands
of the
Echinades,
In
forty
vessels
under
Meges
move,
Begot
by
Phyleus, the
beloved
of
Jove:
To
strong
Dulichium
from his
sire
he
fled,
And
thence
to
Troy
his
hardy
warriors
led.
Ulysses
follow
’d through the
watery
road,
A
chief, in
wisdom
equal
to a
god.
With those
whom
Cephalenia’s
line
inclosed,
Or
till
their
fields
along
the
coast
opposed;
Or where
fair
Ithaca
o’
erlooks
the
floods,
Where high
Neritos
shakes
his
waving
woods,
Where
Ægilipa’s
rugged
sides
are seen,
Crocylia
rocky, and
Zacynthus
green.
These in
twelve
galleys
with
vermilion
prores,
Beneath
his
conduct
sought
the
Phrygian
shores.
Thoas
came
next,
Andræmon’s
valiant
son,
From
Pleuron’s
walls, and
chalky
Calydon,
And
rough
Pylene, and the
Olenian
steep,
And
Chalcis,
beaten
by the
rolling
deep.
He
led
the
warriors
from the
Ætolian
shore,
For now the
sons
of
Œneus
were no more!
The
glories
of the
mighty
race
were
fled
!
Œneus
himself, and
Meleager
dead
!
To
Thoas
’
care
now
trust
the
martial
train,
His
forty
vessels
follow
through the
main.
Next,
eighty
barks
the
Cretan
king
commands,
Of
Gnossus,
Lyctus, and
Gortyna’s
bands;
And those who
dwell
where
Rhytion’s
domes
arise,
Or
white
Lycastus
glitters
to the
skies,
Or where by
Phæstus
silver
Jardan
runs;
Crete
’s
hundred
cities
pour
forth
all her
sons.
These
march
’d,
Idomeneus,
beneath
thy
care,
And
Merion,
dreadful
as the
god
of war.
Tlepolemus, the
son
of
Hercules,
Led
nine
swift
vessels
through the
foamy
seas,
From
Rhodes, with
everlasting
sunshine
bright,
Jalyssus,
Lindus, and
Camirus
white.
His
captive
mother
fierce
Alcides
bore
From
Ephyr’s
walls
and
Sellè’s
winding
shore,
Where
mighty
towns
in
ruins
spread
the
plain,
And
saw
their
blooming
warriors
early
slain.
The
hero, when to
manly
years he
grew,
Alcides
’
uncle, old
Licymnius,
slew;
For this,
constrain’d to
quit
his
native
place,
And
shun
the
vengeance
of the
Herculean
race,
A
fleet
he
built, and with a
numerous
train
Of
willing
exiles
wander
’d o’er the
main;
Where, many
seas
and many
sufferings
past,
On
happy
Rhodes
the
chief
arrived
at last:
There in three
tribes
divides
his
native
band,
And
rules
them
peaceful
in a
foreign
land;
Increased
and
prosper’d in their new
abodes
By
mighty
Jove, the
sire
of men and
gods;
With
joy
they
saw
the
growing
empire
rise,
And
showers
of
wealth
descending
from the
skies.
Three
ships
with
Nireus
sought
the
Trojan
shore,
Nireus,
whom
Agäle
to
Charopus
bore,
Nireus, in
faultless
shape
and
blooming
grace,
The
loveliest
youth
of all the
Grecian
race;
[104]
Pelides
only
match
’d his
early
charms;
But few his
troops, and small his
strength
in
arms.
Next
thirty
galleys
cleave
the
liquid
plain,
Of those
Calydnæ’s
sea
-
girt
isles
contain;
With them the
youth
of
Nisyrus
repair,
Casus
the
strong, and
Crapathus
the
fair;
Cos, where
Eurypylus
possess
’d the
sway,
Till
great
Alcides
made the
realms
obey:
These
Antiphus
and
bold
Phidippus
bring,
Sprung
from the
god
by
Thessalus
the
king.
Now,
Muse,
recount
Pelasgic
Argos
’
powers,
From
Alos,
Alopé, and
Trechin’s
towers:
From
Phthia
’s
spacious
vales; and
Hella,
bless
’d
With
female
beauty
far
beyond
the
rest.
Full
fifty
ships
beneath
Achilles
’
care,
The
Achaians,
Myrmidons,
Hellenians
bear;
Thessalians
all, though
various
in their
name;
The same their
nation, and their
chief
the same.
But now
inglorious,
stretch
’d
along
the
shore,
They
hear
the
brazen
voice
of war no more;
No more the
foe
they
face
in
dire
array:
Close
in his
fleet
the
angry
leader
lay;
Since
fair
Briseïs
from his
arms
was
torn,
The
noblest
spoil
from
sack’d
Lyrnessus
borne,
Then, when the
chief
the
Theban
walls
o’
erthrew,
And the
bold
sons
of great
Evenus
slew.
There
mourn
’d
Achilles,
plunged
in
depth
of
care,
But
soon
to
rise
in
slaughter,
blood, and war.
To these the
youth
of
Phylacè
succeed,
Itona,
famous
for her
fleecy
breed,
And
grassy
Pteleon
deck
’d with
cheerful
greens,
The
bowers
of
Ceres, and the
sylvan
scenes.
Sweet
Pyrrhasus, with
blooming
flowerets
crown
’d,
And
Antron’s
watery
dens, and
cavern’d
ground.
These own’d, as
chief,
Protesilas
the
brave,
Who now
lay
silent
in the
gloomy
grave:
The first who
boldly
touch
’d the
Trojan
shore,
And
dyed
a
Phrygian
lance
with
Grecian
gore;
There
lies, far
distant
from his
native
plain;
Unfinish’d his
proud
palaces
remain,
And his
sad
consort
beats
her
breast
in
vain.
His
troops
in
forty
ships
Podarces
led,
Iphiclus’
son, and
brother
to the
dead;
Nor
he
unworthy
to
command
the
host;
Yet still they
mourn
’d their
ancient
leader
lost.
The men who
Glaphyra’s
fair
soil
partake,
Where
hills
incircle
Bœbe’s
lowly
lake,
Where
Phære
hears
the
neighbouring
waters
fall,
Or
proud
Iölcus
lifts
her
airy
wall,
In
ten
black
ships
embark’d for
Ilion
’s
shore,
With
bold
Eumelus,
whom
Alcestè
bore:
All
Pelias’
race
Alcestè
far
outshined,
The
grace
and
glory
of the
beauteous
kind,
The
troops
Methonè
or
Thaumacia
yields,
Olizon’s
rocks, or
Melibœa’s
fields,
With
Philoctetes
sail
’d
whose
matchless
art
From the
tough
bow
directs
the
feather
’d
dart.
Seven
were his
ships; each
vessel
fifty
row,
Skill
’d in his
science
of the
dart
and
bow.
But he
lay
raging
on the
Lemnian
ground,
A
poisonous
hydra
gave
the
burning
wound;
There
groan
’d the
chief
in
agonizing
pain,
Whom
Greece
at
length
shall
wish,
nor
wish
in
vain.
His
forces
Medon
led
from
Lemnos’
shore,
Oïleus
’
son,
whom
beauteous
Rhena
bore.
The
Œchalian
race, in those high
towers
contain
’d
Where once
Eurytus
in
proud
triumph
reign
’d,
Or where her
humbler
turrets
Tricca
rears,
Or where
Ithome,
rough
with
rocks,
appears,
In
thirty
sail
the
sparkling
waves
divide,
Which
Podalirius
and
Machaon
guide.
To these his
skill
their
parent
-
god
imparts,
Divine
professors
of the
healing
arts.
The
bold
Ormenian
and
Asterian
bands
In
forty
barks
Eurypylus
commands.
Where
Titan
hides
his
hoary
head in
snow,
And where
Hyperia’s
silver
fountains
flow.
Thy
troops,
Argissa,
Polypœtes
leads,
And
Eleon,
shelter’d by
Olympus
’
shades,
Gyrtonè’s
warriors; and where
Orthè
lies,
And
Oloösson’s
chalky
cliffs
arise.
Sprung
from
Pirithous
of
immortal
race,
The
fruit
of
fair
Hippodame’s
embrace,
(That day, when
hurl
’d from
Pelion’s
cloudy
head,
To
distant
dens
the
shaggy
Centaurs
fled
)
With
Polypœtes
join
’d in
equal
sway
Leonteus
leads, and
forty
ships
obey.
In
twenty
sail
the
bold
Perrhæbians
came
From
Cyphus,
Guneus
was their
leader
’s
name.
With these the
Enians
join
’d, and those who
freeze
Where
cold
Dodona
lifts
her
holy
trees;
Or where the
pleasing
Titaresius
glides,
And into
Peneus
rolls
his
easy
tides;
Yet o’er the
silvery
surface
pure
they
flow,
The
sacred
stream
unmix’d with
streams
below,
Sacred
and
awful
! from the
dark
abodes
Styx
pours
them
forth, the
dreadful
oath
of
gods
!
Last, under
Prothous
the
Magnesians
stood,
(
Prothous
the
swift, of old
Tenthredon’s
blood;)
Who
dwell
where
Pelion,
crown
’d with
piny
boughs,
Obscures
the
glade, and
nods
his
shaggy
brows;
Or where through
flowery
Tempe
Peneus
stray
’d:
(The
region
stretch
’d
beneath
his
mighty
shade:)
In
forty
sable
barks
they
stemm’d the
main;
Such were the
chiefs, and such the
Grecian
train.
Say
next, O
Muse
! of all
Achaia
breeds,
Who
bravest
fought, or
rein’d the
noblest
steeds?
Eumelus
’
mares
were
foremost
in the
chase,
As
eagles
fleet, and of
Pheretian
race;
Bred
where
Pieria’s
fruitful
fountains
flow,
And
train
’d by him who
bears
the
silver
bow.
Fierce
in the
fight
their
nostrils
breathed
a
flame,
Their
height, their
colour, and their
age
the same;
O’er
fields
of
death
they
whirl
the
rapid
car,
And
break
the
ranks, and
thunder
through the war.
Ajax
in
arms
the first
renown
acquired,
While
stern
Achilles
in his
wrath
retired:
(His was the
strength
that
mortal
might
exceeds,
And his the
unrivall
’d
race
of
heavenly
steeds:)
But
Thetis
’
son
now
shines
in
arms
no more;
His
troops,
neglected
on the
sandy
shore.
In
empty
air
their
sportive
javelins
throw,
Or
whirl
the
disk, or
bend
an
idle
bow:
Unstain
’d with
blood
his
cover
’d
chariots
stand;
The
immortal
coursers
graze
along
the
strand;
But the
brave
chiefs
the
inglorious
life
deplored,
And,
wandering
o’er the
camp,
required
their
lord.
Now, like a
deluge,
covering
all around,
The
shining
armies
sweep
along
the
ground;
Swift
as a
flood
of
fire, when
storms
arise,
Floats
the
wild
field, and
blazes
to the
skies.
Earth
groan
’d
beneath
them; as when
angry
Jove
Hurls
down the
forky
lightning
from
above,
On
Arimé
when he the
thunder
throws,
And
fires
Typhœus
with
redoubled
blows,
Where
Typhon,
press
’d
beneath
the
burning
load,
Still
feels
the
fury
of the
avenging
god.
But
various
Iris,
Jove
’s
commands
to
bear,
Speeds
on the
wings
of
winds
through
liquid
air;
In
Priam
’s
porch
the
Trojan
chiefs
she found,
The old
consulting, and the
youths
around.
Polites’
shape, the
monarch
’s
son, she
chose,
Who from
Æsetes’
tomb
observed
the
foes,
[105]
High on the
mound; from
whence
in
prospect
lay
The
fields, the
tents, the
navy, and the
bay.
In this
dissembled
form, she
hastes
to
bring
The
unwelcome
message
to the
Phrygian
king.
“
Cease
to
consult, the time for
action
calls;
War,
horrid
war,
approaches
to your
walls
!
Assembled
armies
oft
have I
beheld;
But ne’er
till
now such numbers
charged
a
field:
Thick
as
autumnal
leaves
or
driving
sand,
The
moving
squadrons
blacken
all the
strand.
Thou,
godlike
Hector
! all
thy
force
employ,
Assemble
all the united
bands
of
Troy;
In just
array
let
every
leader
call
The
foreign
troops: this day
demands
them all!”
The
voice
divine
the
mighty
chief
alarms;
The
council
breaks, the
warriors
rush
to
arms.
The
gates
unfolding
pour
forth
all their
train,
Nations
on
nations
fill
the
dusky
plain,
Men,
steeds, and
chariots,
shake
the
trembling
ground:
The
tumult
thickens, and the
skies
resound.
Amidst
the
plain, in
sight
of
Ilion,
stands
A
rising
mount, the work of
human
hands;
(This for
Myrinne’s
tomb
the
immortals
know,
Though
call
’d
Bateïa
in the world
below;)
Beneath
their
chiefs
in
martial
order
here,
The
auxiliar
troops
and
Trojan
hosts
appear.
The
godlike
Hector, high
above
the
rest,
Shakes
his
huge
spear, and
nods
his
plumy
crest:
In
throngs
around his
native
bands
repair,
And
groves
of
lances
glitter
in the
air.
Divine
Æneas
brings
the
Dardan
race,
Anchises
’
son, by
Venus’
stolen
embrace,
Born
in the
shades
of
Ida’s
secret
grove;
(A
mortal
mixing
with the
queen
of
love;)
Archilochus
and
Acamas
divide
The
warrior
’s
toils, and
combat
by his
side.
Who
fair
Zeleia’s
wealthy
valleys
till,
[106]
Fast
by the
foot
of
Ida
’s
sacred
hill,
Or
drink,
Æsepus, of
thy
sable
flood,
Were
led
by
Pandarus, of
royal
blood;
To
whom
his
art
Apollo
deign’d to
show,
Graced
with the
presents
of his
shafts
and
bow.
From
rich
Apæsus
and
Adrestia’s
towers,
High
Teree’s
summits, and
Pityea’s
bowers;
From these the
congregated
troops
obey
Young
Amphius
and
Adrastus
’
equal
sway;
Old
Merops’
sons;
whom,
skill
’d in
fates
to come,
The
sire
forewarn’d, and
prophesied
their
doom:
Fate
urged
them on! the
sire
forewarn
’d in
vain,
They
rush
’d to war, and
perish
’d on the
plain.
From
Practius’
stream,
Percotè’s
pasture
lands,
And
Sestos
and
Abydos’
neighbouring
strands,
From great
Arisba’s
walls
and
Sellè
’s
coast,
Asius
Hyrtacides
conducts
his
host:
High on his
car
he
shakes
the
flowing
reins,
His
fiery
coursers
thunder
o’er the
plains.
The
fierce
Pelasgi
next, in war
renown
’d,
March
from
Larissa
’s
ever
-
fertile
ground:
In
equal
arms
their
brother
leaders
shine,
Hippothous
bold, and
Pyleus
the
divine.
Next
Acamas
and
Pyrous
lead
their
hosts,
In
dread
array, from
Thracia’s
wintry
coasts;
Round
the
bleak
realms
where
Hellespontus
roars,
And
Boreas
beats
the
hoarse
-
resounding
shores.
With great
Euphemus
the
Ciconians
move,
Sprung
from
Trœzenian
Ceüs,
loved
by
Jove.
Pyræchmes
the
Pæonian
troops
attend,
Skill
’d in the
fight
their
crooked
bows
to
bend;
From
Axius’
ample
bed
he
leads
them on,
Axius, that
laves
the
distant
Amydon,
Axius, that
swells
with all his
neighbouring
rills,
And
wide
around the
floating
region
fills.
The
Paphlagonians
Pylæmenes
rules,
Where
rich
Henetia
breeds
her
savage
mules,
Where
Erythinus’
rising
cliffs
are seen,
Thy
groves
of
box,
Cytorus
!
ever
green,
And where
Ægialus
and
Cromna
lie,
And
lofty
Sesamus
invades
the
sky,
And where
Parthenius,
roll
’d through
banks
of
flowers,
Reflects
her
bordering
palaces
and
bowers.
Here
march
’d in
arms
the
Halizonian
band,
Whom
Odius
and
Epistrophus
command,
From those far
regions
where the
sun
refines
The
ripening
silver
in
Alybean
mines.
There
mighty
Chromis
led
the
Mysian
train,
And
augur
Ennomus,
inspired
in
vain;
For
stern
Achilles
lopp’d his
sacred
head,
Roll
’d down
Scamander
with the
vulgar
dead.
Phorcys
and
brave
Ascanius
here
unite
The
Ascanian
Phrygians,
eager
for the
fight.
Of those who
round
Mæonia’s
realms
reside,
Or
whom
the
vales
in
shades
of
Tmolus
hide,
Mestles
and
Antiphus
the
charge
partake,
Born
on the
banks
of
Gyges’
silent
lake.
There, from the
fields
where
wild
Mæander
flows,
High
Mycale, and
Latmos’
shady
brows,
And
proud
Miletus, came the
Carian
throngs,
With
mingled
clamours
and with
barbarous
tongues.
[107]
Amphimachus
and
Naustes
guide
the
train,
Naustes
the
bold,
Amphimachus
the
vain,
Who,
trick
’d with
gold, and
glittering
on his
car,
Rode
like a
woman
to the
field
of war.
Fool
that he was! by
fierce
Achilles
slain,
The
river
swept
him to the
briny
main:
There
whelm’d with
waves
the
gaudy
warrior
lies
The
valiant
victor
seized
the
golden
prize.
The
forces
last in
fair
array
succeed,
Which
blameless
Glaucus
and
Sarpedon
lead
The
warlike
bands
that
distant
Lycia
yields,
Where
gulfy
Xanthus
foams
along
the
fields.
end chapter
BOOK III.
ARGUMENT.
THE DUEL OF MENELAUS AND PARIS.
The
armies
being
ready
to
engage, a
single
combat
is
agreed
upon between
Menelaus
and
Paris
(by the
intervention
of
Hector
) for the
determination
of the
war.
Iris
is
sent
to
call
Helen
to
behold
the
fight. She
leads
her to the
walls
of
Troy, where
Priam
sat
with his
counsellers
observing
the
Grecian
leaders
on
the
plain
below, to
whom
Helen
gives
an
account
of the
chief
of them. The
kings
on
either
part take the
solemn
oath
for the
conditions
of the
combat. The
duel
ensues;
wherein
Paris
being
overcome, he is
snatched
away in a
cloud
by
Venus,
and
transported
to his
apartment. She then
calls
Helen
from the
walls, and
brings
the
lovers
together.
Agamemnon, on the part of the
Grecians,
demands
the
restoration
of
Helen, and the
performance
of the
articles.
The three-and-
twentieth
day still
continues
throughout
this
book. The
scene
is
sometimes
in the
fields
before
Troy, and
sometimes
in
Troy
itself.
Thus
by their
leaders
’
care
each
martial
band
Moves
into
ranks, and
stretches
o’er the
land.
With
shouts
the
Trojans,
rushing
from
afar,
Proclaim
their
motions, and
provoke
the war.
So when
inclement
winters
vex
the
plain
With
piercing
frosts, or
thick
-
descending
rain,
To
warmer
seas
the
cranes
embodied
fly,
[108]
With
noise, and
order, through the
midway
sky;
To
pigmy
nations
wounds
and
death
they
bring,
And all the war
descends
upon the
wing,
But
silent,
breathing
rage,
resolved
and
skill
’d
[109]
By
mutual
aids
to
fix
a
doubtful
field,
Swift
march
the
Greeks: the
rapid
dust
around
Darkening
arises
from the
labour
’d
ground.
Thus
from his
flaggy
wings
when
Notus
sheds
A night of
vapours
round
the
mountain
heads,
Swift
-
gliding
mists
the
dusky
fields
invade,
To
thieves
more
grateful
than the
midnight
shade;
While
scarce
the
swains
their
feeding
flocks
survey,
Lost
and
confused
amidst
the
thicken
’d day:
So
wrapp
’d in
gathering
dust, the
Grecian
train,
A
moving
cloud,
swept
on, and
hid
the
plain.
Now
front
to
front
the
hostile
armies
stand,
Eager
of
fight, and only
wait
command;
When, to the
van, before the
sons
of
fame
Whom
Troy
sent
forth, the
beauteous
Paris
came:
In
form
a
god
! the
panther’s
speckled
hide
Flow’d o’er his
armour
with an
easy
pride:
His
bended
bow
across
his
shoulders
flung,
His
sword
beside
him
negligently
hung;
Two
pointed
spears
he
shook
with
gallant
grace,
And
dared
the
bravest
of the
Grecian
race.
As
thus, with
glorious
air
and
proud
disdain,
He
boldly
stalk
’d, the
foremost
on the
plain,
Him
Menelaus,
loved
of
Mars,
espies,
With
heart
elated, and with
joyful
eyes:
So
joys
a
lion, if the
branching
deer,
Or
mountain
goat, his
bulky
prize,
appear;
Eager
he
seizes
and
devours
the
slain,
Press’d by
bold
youths
and
baying
dogs
in
vain.
Thus
fond
of
vengeance, with a
furious
bound,
In
clanging
arms
he
leaps
upon the
ground
From his high
chariot: him,
approaching
near,
The
beauteous
champion
views
with
marks
of
fear,
Smit
with a
conscious
sense,
retires
behind,
And
shuns
the
fate
he well
deserved
to
find.
As when some
shepherd, from the
rustling
trees
[110]
Shot
forth
to
view, a
scaly
serpent
sees,
Trembling
and
pale, he
starts
with
wild
affright
And all
confused
precipitates
his
flight:
So from the
king
the
shining
warrior
flies,
And
plunged
amid
the
thickest
Trojans
lies.
As
godlike
Hector
sees the
prince
retreat,
He
thus
upbraids
him with a
generous
heat:
“
Unhappy
Paris
!
[111]
but to
women
brave
!
So
fairly
form
’d, and only to
deceive
!
Oh,
hadst
thou
died
when first
thou
saw
’st the
light,
Or
died
at
least
before
thy
nuptial
rite
!
A better
fate
than
vainly
thus
to
boast,
And
fly, the
scandal
of
thy
Trojan
host.
Gods
! how the
scornful
Greeks
exult
to see
Their
fears
of
danger
undeceived
in
thee
!
Thy
figure
promised
with a
martial
air,
But
ill
thy
soul
supplies
a
form
so
fair.
In
former
days, in all
thy
gallant
pride,
When
thy
tall
ships
triumphant
stemm
’d the
tide,
When
Greece
beheld
thy
painted
canvas
flow,
And
crowds
stood
wondering
at the
passing
show,
Say, was it
thus, with such a
baffled
mien,
You
met
the
approaches
of the
Spartan
queen,
Thus
from her
realm
convey
’d the
beauteous
prize,
And both her
warlike
lords
outshined
in
Helen
’s
eyes?
This
deed,
thy
foes
’
delight,
thy
own
disgrace,
Thy
father
’s
grief, and
ruin
of
thy
race;
This
deed
recalls
thee
to the
proffer
’d
fight;
Or
hast
thou
injured
whom
thou
dar’st not right?
Soon
to
thy
cost
the
field
would make
thee
know
Thou
keep
’st the
consort
of a
braver
foe.
Thy
graceful
form
instilling
soft
desire,
Thy
curling
tresses, and
thy
silver
lyre,
Beauty
and
youth; in
vain
to these you
trust,
When
youth
and
beauty
shall
be
laid
in
dust:
Troy
yet may
wake, and one
avenging
blow
Crush
the
dire
author
of his
country
’s
woe.”
His
silence
here, with
blushes,
Paris
breaks:
“’
Tis
just, my
brother, what your
anger
speaks:
But who like
thee
can
boast
a
soul
sedate,
So
firmly
proof
to all the
shocks
of
fate?
Thy
force, like
steel, a
temper
’d
hardness
shows,
Still
edged
to
wound, and still
untired
with
blows,
Like
steel,
uplifted
by some
strenuous
swain,
With
falling
woods
to
strew
the
wasted
plain.
Thy
gifts
I
praise;
nor
thou
despise
the
charms
With which a
lover
golden
Venus
arms;
Soft
moving
speech, and
pleasing
outward
show,
No
wish
can
gain
them, but the
gods
bestow.
Yet, would’st
thou
have the
proffer
’d
combat
stand,
The
Greeks
and
Trojans
seat
on
either
hand;
Then
let
a
midway
space
our
hosts
divide,
And, on that
stage
of war, the
cause
be
tried:
By
Paris
there the
Spartan
king
be
fought,
For
beauteous
Helen
and the
wealth
she
brought;
And who his
rival
can in
arms
subdue,
His be the
fair, and his the
treasure
too.
Thus
with a lasting
league
your
toils
may
cease,
And
Troy
possess
her
fertile
fields
in
peace;
Thus
may the
Greeks
review
their
native
shore,
Much
famed
for
generous
steeds, for
beauty
more.”
He said. The
challenge
Hector
heard
with
joy,
Then with his
spear
restrain
’d the
youth
of
Troy,
Held
by the
midst,
athwart; and
near
the
foe
Advanced
with
steps
majestically
slow:
While
round
his
dauntless
head the
Grecians
pour
Their
stones
and
arrows
in a
mingled
shower.
Then
thus
the
monarch, great
Atrides,
cried:
“
Forbear, ye
warriors
!
lay
the
darts
aside:
A
parley
Hector
asks, a
message
bears;
We know him by the
various
plume
he
wears.”
Awed
by his high
command
the
Greeks
attend,
The
tumult
silence, and the
fight
suspend.
While from the
centre
Hector
rolls
his
eyes
On
either
host, and
thus
to both
applies:
“
Hear, all ye
Trojan, all ye
Grecian
bands,
What
Paris,
author
of the war,
demands.
Your
shining
swords
within
the
sheath
restrain,
And
pitch
your
lances
in the
yielding
plain.
Here in the
midst, in
either
army
’s
sight,
He
dares
the
Spartan
king
to
single
fight;
And wills that
Helen
and the
ravish’d
spoil,
That
caused
the
contest,
shall
reward
the
toil.
Let
these the
brave
triumphant
victor
grace,
And
different
nations
part in
leagues
of
peace.”
He
spoke: in still
suspense
on
either
side
Each
army
stood: the
Spartan
chief
replied:
“Me too, ye
warriors,
hear,
whose
fatal
right
A world
engages
in the
toils
of
fight.
To me the
labour
of the
field
resign;
Me
Paris
injured; all the war be
mine.
Fall
he that must,
beneath
his
rival
’s
arms;
And
live
the
rest,
secure
of
future
harms.
Two
lambs,
devoted
by your
country
’s
rite,
To
earth
a
sable, to the
sun
a
white,
Prepare, ye
Trojans
! while a
third
we
bring
Select
to
Jove, the
inviolable
king.
Let
reverend
Priam
in the
truce
engage,
And
add
the
sanction
of
considerate
age;
His
sons
are
faithless,
headlong
in
debate,
And
youth
itself
an
empty
wavering
state;
Cool
age
advances,
venerably
wise,
Turns
on all hands its
deep
-
discerning
eyes;
Sees
what
befell, and what may yet
befall,
Concludes
from both, and
best
provides
for all.
The
nations
hear
with
rising
hopes
possess
’d,
And
peaceful
prospects
dawn
in every
breast.
Within
the
lines
they
drew
their
steeds
around,
And from their
chariots
issued
on the
ground;
Next, all
unbuckling
the
rich
mail
they
wore,
Laid
their
bright
arms
along
the
sable
shore.
On
either
side
the
meeting
hosts
are seen
With
lances
fix
’d, and
close
the
space
between.
Two
heralds
now,
despatch
’d to
Troy,
invite
The
Phrygian
monarch
to the
peaceful
rite.
Talthybius
hastens
to the
fleet, to
bring
The
lamb
for
Jove, the
inviolable
king.
Meantime
to
beauteous
Helen, from the
skies
The
various
goddess
of the
rainbow
flies:
(Like
fair
Laodice
in
form
and
face,
The
loveliest
nymph
of
Priam
’s
royal
race:)
Her in the
palace, at her
loom
she found;
The
golden
web
her own
sad
story
crown
’d,
The
Trojan
wars she
weaved
(
herself
the
prize
)
And the
dire
triumphs
of her
fatal
eyes.
To
whom
the
goddess
of the
painted
bow:
“
Approach, and
view
the
wondrous
scene
below
!
[112]
Each
hardy
Greek, and
valiant
Trojan
knight,
So
dreadful
late, and
furious
for the
fight,
Now
rest
their
spears, or
lean
upon their
shields;
Ceased
is the war, and
silent
all the
fields.
Paris
alone
and
Sparta’s
king
advance,
In
single
fight
to
toss
the
beamy
lance;
Each
met
in
arms, the
fate
of
combat
tries,
Thy
love
the
motive, and
thy
charms
the
prize.”
This said, the many-
coloured
maid
inspires
Her
husband’s
love, and
wakes
her
former
fires;
Her
country,
parents, all that once were
dear,
Rush
to her thought, and
force
a
tender
tear,
O’er her
fair
face
a
snowy
veil
she
threw,
And,
softly
sighing, from the
loom
withdrew.
Her
handmaids,
Clymene
and
Æthra,
wait
Her
silent
footsteps
to the
Scæan
gate.
There
sat
the
seniors
of the
Trojan
race:
(Old
Priam
’s
chiefs, and most in
Priam
’s
grace,)
The
king
the first;
Thymœtes
at his
side;
Lampus
and
Clytius, long in
council
tried;
Panthus, and
Hicetaon, once the
strong;
And
next, the
wisest
of the
reverend
throng,
Antenor
grave, and
sage
Ucalegon,
Lean’d on the
walls
and
bask’d before the
sun:
Chiefs, who no more in
bloody
fights
engage,
But
wise
through time, and
narrative
with
age,
In
summer
days, like
grasshoppers
rejoice,
A
bloodless
race, that
send
a
feeble
voice.
These, when the
Spartan
queen
approach
’d the
tower,
In
secret
own’d
resistless
beauty
’s
power:
They
cried, “No
wonder
[113]
such
celestial
charms
For
nine
long years have set the world in
arms;
What
winning
graces
! what
majestic
mien
!
She
moves
a
goddess, and she
looks
a
queen
!
Yet
hence, O
Heaven,
convey
that
fatal
face,
And from
destruction
save
the
Trojan
race.”
The good old
Priam
welcomed
her, and
cried,
“
Approach, my
child, and
grace
thy
father
’s
side.
See on the
plain
thy
Grecian
spouse
appears,
The
friends
and
kindred
of
thy
former
years.
No
crime
of
thine
our
present
sufferings
draws,
Not
thou, but
Heaven
’s
disposing
will, the
cause
The
gods
these
armies
and this
force
employ,
The
hostile
gods
conspire
the
fate
of
Troy.
But
lift
thy
eyes, and say, what
Greek
is he
(Far as from
hence
these
aged
orbs
can see)
Around
whose
brow
such
martial
graces
shine,
So
tall, so
awful, and almost
divine
!
Though some of
larger
stature
tread
the
green,
None
match
his
grandeur
and
exalted
mien:
He
seems
a
monarch, and his
country
’s
pride.”
Thus
ceased
the
king, and
thus
the
fair
replied:
“Before
thy
presence,
father, I
appear,
With
conscious
shame
and
reverential
fear.
Ah! had I
died,
ere
to these
walls
I
fled,
False
to my
country, and my
nuptial
bed;
My
brothers,
friends, and
daughter
left
behind,
False
to them all, to
Paris
only
kind
!
For this I
mourn,
till
grief
or
dire
disease
Shall
waste
the
form
whose
fault
it was to
please
!
The
king
of
kings,
Atrides, you
survey,
Great in the war, and great in
arts
of
sway:
My
brother
once, before my days of
shame
!
And oh! that still he
bore
a
brother
’s
name
!”
With
wonder
Priam
view
’d the
godlike
man,
Extoll’d the
happy
prince, and
thus
began:
“O
bless
’d
Atrides
!
born
to
prosperous
fate,
Successful
monarch
of a
mighty
state!
How
vast
thy
empire
! Of your
matchless
train
What numbers
lost, what numbers yet
remain
!
In
Phrygia
once were
gallant
armies
known,
In
ancient
time, when
Otreus
fill
’d the
throne,
When
godlike
Mygdon
led
their
troops
of
horse,
And I, to
join
them,
raised
the
Trojan
force:
Against the
manlike
Amazons
we
stood,
[114]
And
Sangar’s
stream
ran
purple
with their
blood.
But far
inferior
those, in
martial
grace,
And
strength
of numbers, to this
Grecian
race.”
This said, once more he
view
’d the
warrior
train;
“What’s he,
whose
arms
lie
scatter
’d on the
plain?
Broad
is his
breast, his
shoulders
larger
spread,
Though great
Atrides
overtops
his head.
Nor
yet
appear
his
care
and
conduct
small;
From
rank
to
rank
he
moves, and
orders
all.
The
stately
ram
thus
measures
o’er the
ground,
And,
master
of the
flock,
surveys
them
round.”
Then
Helen
thus: “
Whom
your
discerning
eyes
Have
singled
out, is
Ithacus
the
wise;
A
barren
island
boasts
his
glorious
birth;
His
fame
for
wisdom
fills
the
spacious
earth.”
Antenor
took the
word, and
thus
began:
[115]
“
Myself, O
king
! have seen that
wondrous
man
When,
trusting
Jove
and
hospitable
laws,
To
Troy
he came, to
plead
the
Grecian
cause;
(Great
Menelaus
urged
the same
request;)
My house was
honour
’d with each
royal
guest:
I
knew
their
persons, and
admired
their parts,
Both
brave
in
arms, and both
approved
in
arts.
Erect, the
Spartan
most
engaged
our
view;
Ulysses
seated, greater
reverence
drew.
When
Atreus
’
son
harangued
the
listening
train,
Just was his
sense, and his
expression
plain,
His
words
succinct, yet
full, without a
fault;
He
spoke
no more than just the
thing
he
ought.
But when
Ulysses
rose, in thought
profound,
[116]
His
modest
eyes
he
fix
’d upon the
ground;
As one
unskill’d or
dumb, he
seem
’d to
stand,
Nor
raised
his head,
nor
stretch
’d his
sceptred
hand;
But, when he
speaks, what
elocution
flows
!
Soft
as the
fleeces
of
descending
snows,
[117]
The
copious
accents
fall, with
easy
art;
Melting
they
fall, and
sink
into the
heart
!
Wondering
we
hear, and
fix
’d in
deep
surprise,
Our
ears
refute
the
censure
of our
eyes.”
The
king
then
ask
’d (as yet the
camp
he
view
’d)
“What
chief
is that, with
giant
strength
endued,
Whose
brawny
shoulders, and
whose
swelling
chest,
And
lofty
stature, far
exceed
the
rest?
“
Ajax
the great, (the
beauteous
queen
replied,)
Himself a
host: the
Grecian
strength
and
pride.
See!
bold
Idomeneus
superior
towers
Amid
yon
circle
of his
Cretan
powers,
Great as a
god
! I
saw
him once before,
With
Menelaus
on the
Spartan
shore.
The
rest
I know, and could in
order
name;
All
valiant
chiefs, and men of
mighty
fame.
Yet two are
wanting
of the
numerous
train,
Whom
long my
eyes
have
sought, but
sought
in
vain:
Castor
and
Pollux, first in
martial
force,
One
bold
on
foot, and one
renown
’d for
horse.
My
brothers
these; the same our
native
shore,
One house
contain
’d us, as one
mother
bore.
Perhaps
the
chiefs, from
warlike
toils
at
ease,
For
distant
Troy
refused
to
sail
the
seas;
Perhaps
their
swords
some
nobler
quarrel
draws,
Ashamed
to
combat
in their
sister
’s
cause.”
So
spoke
the
fair,
nor
knew
her
brothers
’
doom;
[118]
Wrapt
in the
cold
embraces
of the
tomb;
Adorn’d with
honours
in their
native
shore,
Silent
they
slept, and
heard
of wars no more.
Meantime
the
heralds, through the
crowded
town,
Bring
the
rich
wine
and
destined
victims
down.
Idæus’
arms
the
golden
goblets
press
’d,
[119]
Who
thus
the
venerable
king
address
’d:
“
Arise, O
father
of the
Trojan
state!
The
nations
call,
thy
joyful
people
wait
To
seal
the
truce, and end the
dire
debate.
Paris,
thy
son, and
Sparta
’s
king
advance,
In
measured
lists
to
toss
the
weighty
lance;
And who his
rival
shall
in
arms
subdue,
His be the
dame, and his the
treasure
too.
Thus
with a lasting
league
our
toils
may
cease,
And
Troy
possess
her
fertile
fields
in
peace:
So
shall
the
Greeks
review
their
native
shore,
Much
famed
for
generous
steeds, for
beauty
more.”
With
grief
he
heard, and
bade
the
chiefs
prepare
To
join
his
milk
-
white
coursers
to the
car;
He
mounts
the
seat,
Antenor
at his
side;
The
gentle
steeds
through
Scæa’s
gates
they
guide:
[120]
Next
from the
car
descending
on the
plain,
Amid
the
Grecian
host
and
Trojan
train,
Slow
they
proceed: the
sage
Ulysses
then
Arose, and with him
rose
the
king
of men.
On
either
side
a
sacred
herald
stands,
The
wine
they
mix, and on each
monarch
’s hands
Pour
the
full
urn; then
draws
the
Grecian
lord
His
cutlass
sheathed
beside
his
ponderous
sword;
From the
sign
’d
victims
crops
the
curling
hair;
[121]
The
heralds
part it, and the
princes
share;
Then
loudly
thus
before the
attentive
bands
He
calls
the
gods, and
spreads
his
lifted
hands:
“O first and greatest
power
!
whom
all
obey,
Who high on
Ida
’s
holy
mountain
sway,
Eternal
Jove
! and you
bright
orb
that
roll
From
east
to
west, and
view
from
pole
to
pole
!
Thou
mother
Earth
! and all ye
living
floods
!
Infernal
furies, and
Tartarean
gods,
Who
rule
the
dead, and
horrid
woes
prepare
For
perjured
kings, and all who
falsely
swear
!
Hear, and be
witness. If, by
Paris
slain,
Great
Menelaus
press
the
fatal
plain;
The
dame
and
treasures
let
the
Trojan
keep,
And
Greece
returning
plough
the
watery
deep.
If by my
brother
’s
lance
the
Trojan
bleed,
Be his the
wealth
and
beauteous
dame
decreed:
The
appointed
fine
let
Ilion
justly
pay,
And every
age
record
the
signal
day.
This if the
Phrygians
shall
refuse
to
yield,
Arms
must
revenge, and
Mars
decide
the
field.”
With that the
chief
the
tender
victims
slew,
And in the
dust
their
bleeding
bodies
threw;
The
vital
spirit
issued
at the
wound,
And left the
members
quivering
on the
ground.
From the same
urn
they
drink
the
mingled
wine,
And
add
libations
to the
powers
divine.
While
thus
their
prayers
united
mount
the
sky,
“
Hear,
mighty
Jove
! and
hear, ye
gods
on high!
And may their
blood, who first the
league
confound,
Shed
like this
wine,
disdain
the
thirsty
ground;
May all their
consorts
serve
promiscuous
lust,
And all their
lust
be
scatter
’d as the
dust
!”
Thus
either
host
their
imprecations
join
’d,
Which
Jove
refused, and
mingled
with the
wind.
The
rites
now
finish’d,
reverend
Priam
rose,
And
thus
express
’d a
heart
o’
ercharged
with
woes:
“Ye
Greeks
and
Trojans,
let
the
chiefs
engage,
But
spare
the
weakness
of my
feeble
age:
In
yonder
walls
that
object
let
me
shun,
Nor
view
the
danger
of so
dear
a
son.
Whose
arms
shall
conquer
and what
prince
shall
fall,
Heaven
only knows; for
heaven
disposes
all.”
This said, the
hoary
king
no
longer
stay
’d,
But on his
car
the
slaughter
’d
victims
laid:
Then
seized
the
reins
his
gentle
steeds
to
guide,
And
drove
to
Troy,
Antenor
at his
side.
Bold
Hector
and
Ulysses
now
dispose
The
lists
of
combat, and the
ground
inclose:
Next
to
decide, by
sacred
lots
prepare,
Who first
shall
launch
his
pointed
spear
in
air.
The people
pray
with
elevated
hands,
And
words
like these are
heard
through all the
bands:
“
Immortal
Jove, high
Heaven
’s
superior
lord,
On
lofty
Ida
’s
holy
mount
adored
!
Whoe’er
involved
us in this
dire
debate,
O
give
that
author
of the war to
fate
And
shades
eternal
!
let
division
cease,
And
joyful
nations
join
in
leagues
of
peace.”
With
eyes
averted
Hector
hastes
to
turn
The
lots
of
fight
and
shakes
the
brazen
urn.
Then,
Paris,
thine
leap’d
forth; by
fatal
chance
Ordain’d the first to
whirl
the
weighty
lance.
Both
armies
sat
the
combat
to
survey.
Beside
each
chief
his
azure
armour
lay,
And
round
the
lists
the
generous
coursers
neigh.
The
beauteous
warrior
now
arrays
for
fight,
In
gilded
arms
magnificently
bright:
The
purple
cuishes
clasp
his
thighs
around,
With
flowers
adorn
’d, with
silver
buckles
bound:
Lycaon’s
corslet
his
fair
body
dress
’d,
Braced
in and
fitted
to his
softer
breast;
A
radiant
baldric, o’er his
shoulder
tied,
Sustain’d the
sword
that
glitter
’d at his
side:
His
youthful
face
a
polish
’d
helm
o’
erspread;
The
waving
horse
-
hair
nodded
on his head:
His
figured
shield, a
shining
orb, he takes,
And in his hand a
pointed
javelin
shakes.
With
equal
speed
and
fired
by
equal
charms,
The
Spartan
hero
sheathes
his
limbs
in
arms.
Now
round
the
lists
the
admiring
armies
stand,
With
javelins
fix
’d, the
Greek
and
Trojan
band.
Amidst
the
dreadful
vale, the
chiefs
advance,
All
pale
with
rage, and
shake
the
threatening
lance.
The
Trojan
first his
shining
javelin
threw;
Full
on
Atrides
’
ringing
shield
it
flew,
Nor
pierced
the
brazen
orb, but with a
bound
[122]
Leap’d from the
buckler,
blunted, on the
ground.
Atrides
then his
massy
lance
prepares,
In
act
to
throw, but first
prefers
his
prayers:
“
Give
me, great
Jove
! to
punish
lawless
lust,
And
lay
the
Trojan
gasping
in the
dust:
Destroy
the
aggressor,
aid
my
righteous
cause,
Avenge
the
breach
of
hospitable
laws
!
Let
this
example
future
times
reclaim,
And
guard
from
wrong
fair
friendship
’s
holy
name,”
He said, and
poised
in
air
the
javelin
sent,
Through
Paris
’
shield
the
forceful
weapon
went,
His
corslet
pierces, and his
garment
rends,
And
glancing
downward,
near
his
flank
descends.
The
wary
Trojan,
bending
from the
blow,
Eludes
the
death, and
disappoints
his
foe:
But
fierce
Atrides
waved
his
sword, and
strook
Full
on his
casque: the
crested
helmet
shook;
The
brittle
steel,
unfaithful
to his hand,
Broke
short: the
fragments
glitter
’d on the
sand.
The
raging
warrior
to the
spacious
skies
Raised
his
upbraiding
voice
and
angry
eyes:
“Then is it
vain
in
Jove
himself to
trust?
And is it
thus
the
gods
assist
the just?
When
crimes
provoke
us,
Heaven
success
denies;
The
dart
falls
harmless, and the
falchion
flies.”
Furious
he said, and
towards
the
Grecian
crew
(
Seized
by the
crest
) the
unhappy
warrior
drew;
Struggling
he
followed, while the
embroider
’d
thong
That
tied
his
helmet,
dragg’d the
chief
along.
Then had his
ruin
crown
’d
Atrides
’
joy,
But
Venus
trembled
for the
prince
of
Troy:
Unseen
she came, and
burst
the
golden
band;
And left an
empty
helmet
in his hand.
The
casque,
enraged,
amidst
the
Greeks
he
threw;
The
Greeks
with
smiles
the
polish
’d
trophy
view.
Then, as once more he
lifts
the
deadly
dart,
In
thirst
of
vengeance, at his
rival
’s
heart;
The
queen
of
love
her
favour
’d
champion
shrouds
(For
gods
can all
things
) in a
veil
of
clouds.
Raised
from the
field
the
panting
youth
she
led,
And
gently
laid
him on the
bridal
bed,
With
pleasing
sweets
his
fainting
sense
renews,
And all the
dome
perfumes
with
heavenly
dews.
Meantime
the
brightest
of the
female
kind,
The
matchless
Helen, o’er the
walls
reclined;
To her,
beset
with
Trojan
beauties, came,
In
borrow’d
form, the
laughter
-
loving
dame.
(She
seem
’d an
ancient
maid, well-
skill
’d to
cull
The
snowy
fleece, and
wind
the
twisted
wool.)
The
goddess
softly
shook
her
silken
vest,
That
shed
perfumes, and
whispering
thus
address
’d:
“
Haste,
happy
nymph
! for
thee
thy
Paris
calls,
Safe
from the
fight, in
yonder
lofty
walls,
Fair
as a
god; with
odours
round
him
spread,
He
lies, and
waits
thee
on the well-known
bed;
Not like a
warrior
parted from the
foe,
But some
gay
dancer
in the public
show.”
She
spoke, and
Helen
’s
secret
soul
was
moved;
She
scorn
’d the
champion, but the man she
loved.
Fair
Venus
’
neck, her
eyes
that
sparkled
fire,
And
breast,
reveal
’d the
queen
of
soft
desire.
[123]
Struck
with her
presence,
straight
the
lively
red
Forsook
her
cheek; and
trembling,
thus
she said:
“Then is it still
thy
pleasure
to
deceive?
And
woman
’s
frailty
always to
believe
!
Say, to new
nations
must I
cross
the
main,
Or
carry
wars to some
soft
Asian
plain?
For
whom
must
Helen
break
her
second
vow?
What other
Paris
is
thy
darling
now?
Left to
Atrides, (
victor
in the
strife,)
An
odious
conquest
and a
captive
wife,
Hence
let
me
sail; and if
thy
Paris
bear
My
absence
ill,
let
Venus
ease
his
care.
A
handmaid
goddess
at his
side
to
wait,
Renounce
the
glories
of
thy
heavenly
state,
Be
fix
’d for
ever
to the
Trojan
shore,
His
spouse, or
slave; and
mount
the
skies
no more.
For me, to
lawless
love
no
longer
led,
I
scorn
the
coward, and
detest
his
bed;
Else
should I
merit
everlasting
shame,
And
keen
reproach, from every
Phrygian
dame:
Ill
suits
it now the
joys
of
love
to know,
Too
deep
my
anguish, and too
wild
my
woe.”
Then
thus
incensed, the
Paphian
queen
replies:
“
Obey
the
power
from
whom
thy
glories
rise:
Should
Venus
leave
thee, every
charm
must
fly,
Fade
from
thy
cheek, and
languish
in
thy
eye.
Cease
to
provoke
me,
lest
I make
thee
more
The world’s
aversion, than their
love
before;
Now the
bright
prize
for which
mankind
engage,
Than, the
sad
victim, of the public
rage.”
At this, the
fairest
of her
sex
obey
’d,
And
veil
’d her
blushes
in a
silken
shade;
Unseen, and
silent, from the
train
she
moves,
Led
by the
goddess
of the
Smiles
and
Loves.
Arrived, and
enter
’d at the
palace
gate,
The
maids
officious
round
their
mistress
wait;
Then, all
dispersing,
various
tasks
attend;
The
queen
and
goddess
to the
prince
ascend.
Full
in her
Paris
’
sight, the
queen
of
love
Had placed the
beauteous
progeny
of
Jove;
Where, as he
view
’d her
charms, she
turn
’d away
Her
glowing
eyes, and
thus
began
to say:
“Is this the
chief, who,
lost
to
sense
of
shame,
Late
fled
the
field, and yet
survives
his
fame?
O
hadst
thou
died
beneath
the
righteous
sword
Of that
brave
man
whom
once I
call
’d my
lord
!
The
boaster
Paris
oft
desired
the day
With
Sparta
’s
king
to
meet
in
single
fray:
Go now, once more
thy
rival
’s
rage
excite,
Provoke
Atrides, and
renew
the
fight:
Yet
Helen
bids
thee
stay,
lest
thou
unskill
’d
Shouldst
fall
an
easy
conquest
on the
field.”
The
prince
replies: “Ah
cease,
divinely
fair,
Nor
add
reproaches
to the
wounds
I
bear;
This day the
foe
prevail
’d by
Pallas
’
power:
We yet may
vanquish
in a
happier
hour:
There
want
not
gods
to
favour
us
above;
But
let
the
business
of our life be
love:
These
softer
moments
let
delights
employ,
And
kind
embraces
snatch
the
hasty
joy.
Not
thus
I
loved
thee, when from
Sparta
’s
shore
My
forced, my
willing
heavenly
prize
I
bore,
When first
entranced
in
Cranae’s
isle
I
lay,
[124]
Mix’d with
thy
soul, and all
dissolved
away!”
Thus
having
spoke, the
enamour’d
Phrygian
boy
Rush
’d to the
bed,
impatient
for the
joy.
Him
Helen
follow
’d
slow
with
bashful
charms,
And
clasp
’d the
blooming
hero
in her
arms.
While these to
love
’s
delicious
rapture
yield,
The
stern
Atrides
rages
round
the
field:
So some
fell
lion
whom
the
woods
obey,
Roars
through the
desert, and
demands
his
prey.
Paris
he
seeks,
impatient
to
destroy,
But
seeks
in
vain
along
the
troops
of
Troy;
Even those had
yielded
to a
foe
so
brave
The
recreant
warrior,
hateful
as the
grave.
Then
speaking
thus, the
king
of
kings
arose,
“Ye
Trojans,
Dardans, all our
generous
foes
!
Hear
and
attest
! from
Heaven
with
conquest
crown
’d,
Our
brother
’s
arms
the just
success
have found:
Be
therefore
now the
Spartan
wealth
restor’d,
Let
Argive
Helen
own her
lawful
lord;
The
appointed
fine
let
Ilion
justly
pay,
And
age
to
age
record
this
signal
day.”
He
ceased; his
army
’s
loud
applauses
rise,
And the long
shout
runs
echoing
through the
skies.
end chapter
BOOK IV.
ARGUMENT.
THE BREACH OF THE TRUCE, AND THE FIRST BATTLE.
The
gods
deliberate
in
council
concerning
the
Trojan
war: they
agree
upon the
continuation
of it, and
Jupiter
sends
down
Minerva
to
break
the
truce. She
persuades
Pandarus
to
aim
an
arrow
at
Menelaus, who is
wounded, but
cured
by
Machaon. In the
meantime
some of the
Trojan
troops
attack
the
Greeks.
Agamemnon
is
distinguished
in all the parts of a good general; he
reviews
the
troops, and
exhorts
the
leaders, some by
praises
and
others
by
reproof.
Nestor
is
particularly
celebrated
for his
military
discipline. The
battle
joins, and
great numbers are
slain
on both
sides.
The same day
continues
through this as through the last
book
(as it does
also through the two
following, and almost to the end of the
seventh
book
). The
scene
is
wholly
in the
field
before
Troy.
And now
Olympus
’
shining
gates
unfold;
The
gods, with
Jove,
assume
their
thrones
of
gold:
Immortal
Hebe,
fresh
with
bloom
divine,
The
golden
goblet
crowns
with
purple
wine:
While the
full
bowls
flow
round, the
powers
employ
Their
careful
eyes
on long-
contended
Troy.
When
Jove,
disposed
to
tempt
Saturnia’s
spleen,
Thus
waked
the
fury
of his
partial
queen,
“Two
powers
divine
the
son
of
Atreus
aid,
Imperial
Juno, and the
martial
maid;
[125]
But high in
heaven
they
sit, and
gaze
from far,
The
tame
spectators
of his
deeds
of war.
Not
thus
fair
Venus
helps
her
favour
’d
knight,
The
queen
of
pleasures
the
toils
of
fight,
Each
danger
wards, and
constant
in her
care,
Saves
in the
moment
of the last
despair.
Her
act
has
rescued
Paris
’
forfeit
life,
Though great
Atrides
gain
’d the
glorious
strife.
Then say, ye
powers
! what
signal
issue
waits
To
crown
this
deed, and
finish
all the
fates
!
Shall
Heaven
by
peace
the
bleeding
kingdoms
spare,
Or
rouse
the
furies, and
awake
the war?
Yet, would the
gods
for
human
good
provide,
Atrides
soon
might
gain
his
beauteous
bride,
Still
Priam
’s
walls
in
peaceful
honours
grow,
And through his
gates
the
crowding
nations
flow.”
Thus
while he
spoke, the
queen
of
heaven,
enraged,
And
queen
of war, in
close
consult
engaged:
Apart
they
sit, their
deep
designs
employ,
And
meditate
the
future
woes
of
Troy.
Though
secret
anger
swell
’d
Minerva
’s
breast,
The
prudent
goddess
yet her
wrath
suppress
’d;
But
Juno,
impotent
of
passion,
broke
Her
sullen
silence, and with
fury
spoke:
“
Shall
then, O
tyrant
of the
ethereal
reign
!
My
schemes, my
labours, and my
hopes
be
vain?
Have I, for this,
shook
Ilion
with
alarms,
Assembled
nations, set two worlds in
arms?
To
spread
the war, I
flew
from
shore
to
shore;
The
immortal
coursers
scarce
the
labour
bore.
At
length
ripe
vengeance
o’er their heads
impends,
But
Jove
himself the
faithless
race
defends.
Loth
as
thou
art
to
punish
lawless
lust,
Not all the
gods
are
partial
and
unjust.”
The
sire
whose
thunder
shakes
the
cloudy
skies,
Sighs
from his
inmost
soul, and
thus
replies:
“Oh lasting
rancour
! oh
insatiate
hate
To
Phrygia
’s
monarch, and the
Phrygian
state!
What high
offence
has
fired
the
wife
of
Jove?
Can
wretched
mortals
harm
the
powers
above,
That
Troy, and
Troy
’s
whole
race
thou
wouldst
confound,
And
yon
fair
structures
level
with the
ground
!
Haste,
leave
the
skies,
fulfil
thy
stern
desire,
Burst
all her
gates, and
wrap
her
walls
in
fire
!
Let
Priam
bleed
! if yet you
thirst
for more,
Bleed
all his
sons, and
Ilion
float
with
gore:
To
boundless
vengeance
the
wide
realm
be
given,
Till
vast
destruction
glut
the
queen
of
heaven
!
So
let
it be, and
Jove
his
peace
enjoy,
[126]
When
heaven
no
longer
hears
the
name
of
Troy.
But should this
arm
prepare
to
wreak
our
hate
On
thy
loved
realms,
whose
guilt
demands
their
fate;
Presume
not
thou
the
lifted
bolt
to
stay,
Remember
Troy, and
give
the
vengeance
way.
For know, of all the
numerous
towns
that
rise
Beneath
the
rolling
sun
and
starry
skies,
Which
gods
have
raised, or
earth
-
born
men
enjoy,
None
stands
so
dear
to
Jove
as
sacred
Troy.
No
mortals
merit
more
distinguish
’d
grace
Than
godlike
Priam, or than
Priam
’s
race.
Still to our
name
their
hecatombs
expire,
And
altars
blaze
with
unextinguish
’d
fire.”
At this the
goddess
rolled
her
radiant
eyes,
Then on the
Thunderer
fix
’d them, and
replies:
“Three
towns
are
Juno
’s on the
Grecian
plains,
More
dear
than all the
extended
earth
contains,
Mycenæ,
Argos, and the
Spartan
wall;
[127]
These
thou
mayst
raze,
nor
I
forbid
their
fall:
’
Tis
not in me the
vengeance
to
remove;
The
crime
’s
sufficient
that they
share
my
love.
Of
power
superior
why
should I
complain?
Resent
I may, but must
resent
in
vain.
Yet some
distinction
Juno
might
require,
Sprung
with
thyself
from one
celestial
sire,
A
goddess
born, to
share
the
realms
above,
And
styled
the
consort
of the
thundering
Jove;
Nor
thou
a
wife
and
sister
’s right
deny;
[128]
Let
both
consent, and both by
terms
comply;
So
shall
the
gods
our
joint
decrees
obey,
And
heaven
shall
act
as we
direct
the way.
See
ready
Pallas
waits
thy
high
commands
To
raise
in
arms
the
Greek
and
Phrygian
bands;
Their
sudden
friendship
by her
arts
may
cease,
And the
proud
Trojans
first
infringe
the
peace.”
The
sire
of men and
monarch
of the
sky
The
advice
approved, and
bade
Minerva
fly,
Dissolve
the
league, and all her
arts
employ
To make the
breach
the
faithless
act
of
Troy.
Fired
with the
charge, she
headlong
urged
her
flight,
And
shot
like
lightning
from
Olympus
’
height.
As the
red
comet, from
Saturnius
sent
To
fright
the
nations
with a
dire
portent,
(A
fatal
sign
to
armies
on the
plain,
Or
trembling
sailors
on the
wintry
main,)
With
sweeping
glories
glides
along
in
air,
And
shakes
the
sparkles
from its
blazing
hair:
[129]
Between both
armies
thus, in
open
sight
Shot
the
bright
goddess
in a
trail
of
light,
With
eyes
erect
the
gazing
hosts
admire
The
power
descending, and the
heavens
on
fire
!
“The
gods
(they
cried
), the
gods
this
signal
sent,
And
fate
now
labours
with some
vast
event:
Jove
seals
the
league, or
bloodier
scenes
prepares;
Jove, the great
arbiter
of
peace
and wars.”
They said, while
Pallas
through the
Trojan
throng,
(In
shape
a
mortal,)
pass
’d
disguised
along.
Like
bold
Laodocus, her course she
bent,
Who from
Antenor
traced
his high
descent.
Amidst
the
ranks
Lycaon
’s
son
she found,
The
warlike
Pandarus, for
strength
renown
’d;
Whose
squadrons,
led
from
black
Æsepus
’
flood,
[130]
With
flaming
shields
in
martial
circle
stood.
To him the
goddess: “
Phrygian
!
canst
thou
hear
A well-timed
counsel
with a
willing
ear?
What
praise
were
thine,
couldst
thou
direct
thy
dart,
Amidst
his
triumph, to the
Spartan
’s
heart?
What
gifts
from
Troy, from
Paris
wouldst
thou
gain,
Thy
country
’s
foe, the
Grecian
glory
slain?
Then
seize
the
occasion,
dare
the
mighty
deed,
Aim
at his
breast, and may that
aim
succeed
!
But first, to
speed
the
shaft,
address
thy
vow
To
Lycian
Phœbus
with the
silver
bow,
And
swear
the
firstlings
of
thy
flock
to
pay,
On
Zelia’s
altars, to the
god
of day.”
[131]
He
heard, and
madly
at the
motion
pleased,
His
polish
’d
bow
with
hasty
rashness
seized.
’
Twas
form
’d of
horn, and
smooth
’d with
artful
toil:
A
mountain
goat
resign
’d the
shining
spoil.
Who
pierced
long since
beneath
his
arrows
bled;
The
stately
quarry
on the
cliffs
lay
dead,
And
sixteen