The Iliad Part 62

Achilles closes with his hated foe, His heart and eyes with flaming fury glow: But present to his aid, Apollo shrouds The favour'd hero in a veil of clouds.

Thrice struck Pelides with indignant heart, Thrice in impa.s.sive air he plunged the dart; The spear a fourth time buried in the cloud.

He foams with fury, and exclaims aloud:

"Wretch! thou hast 'scaped again; once more thy flight Has saved thee, and the partial G.o.d of light.

But long thou shalt not thy just fate withstand, If any power a.s.sist Achilles' hand.

Fly then inglorious! but thy flight this day Whole hecatombs of Trojan ghosts shall pay."

With that, he gluts his rage on numbers slain: Then Dryops tumbled to the ensanguined plain, Pierced through the neck: he left him panting there, And stopp'd Demuchus, great Philetor's heir.

Gigantic chief! deep gash'd the enormous blade, And for the soul an ample pa.s.sage made.

Laoga.n.u.s and Darda.n.u.s expire, The valiant sons of an unhappy sire; Both in one instant from the chariot hurl'd, Sunk in one instant to the nether world: This difference only their sad fates afford That one the spear destroy'd, and one the sword.

Nor less unpitied, young Alastor bleeds; In vain his youth, in vain his beauty pleads; In vain he begs thee, with a suppliant's moan, To spare a form, an age so like thy own!

Unhappy boy! no prayer, no moving art, E'er bent that fierce, inexorable heart!

While yet he trembled at his knees, and cried, The ruthless falchion oped his tender side; The panting liver pours a flood of gore That drowns his bosom till he pants no more.

Through Mulius' head then drove the impetuous spear: The warrior falls, transfix'd from ear to ear.

Thy life, Echeclus! next the sword bereaves, Deep though the front the ponderous falchion cleaves; Warm'd in the brain the smoking weapon lies, The purple death comes floating o'er his eyes.

Then brave Deucalion died: the dart was flung Where the knit nerves the pliant elbow strung; He dropp'd his arm, an una.s.sisting weight, And stood all impotent, expecting fate: Full on his neck the falling falchion sped, From his broad shoulders hew'd his crested head: Forth from the bone the spinal marrow flies, And, sunk in dust, the corpse extended lies.

Rhigmas, whose race from fruitful Thracia came, (The son of Pierus, an ill.u.s.trious name,) Succeeds to fate: the spear his belly rends; p.r.o.ne from his car the thundering chief descends.

The squire, who saw expiring on the ground His prostrate master, rein'd the steeds around; His back, scarce turn'd, the Pelian javelin gored, And stretch'd the servant o'er his dying lord.

As when a flame the winding valley fills, And runs on crackling shrubs between the hills; Then o'er the stubble up the mountain flies, Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies, This way and that, the spreading torrent roars: So sweeps the hero through the wasted sh.o.r.es; Around him wide, immense destruction pours And earth is deluged with the sanguine showers As with autumnal harvests cover'd o'er, And thick bestrewn, lies Ceres' sacred floor; When round and round, with never-wearied pain, The trampling steers beat out the unnumber'd grain: So the fierce coursers, as the chariot rolls, Tread down whole ranks, and crush out heroes' souls, Dash'd from their hoofs while o'er the dead they fly, Black, b.l.o.o.d.y drops the smoking chariot dye: The spiky wheels through heaps of carnage tore; And thick the groaning axles dropp'd with gore.

High o'er the scene of death Achilles stood, All grim with dust, all horrible in blood: Yet still insatiate, still with rage on flame; Such is the l.u.s.t of never-dying fame!

[Ill.u.s.tration: CENTAUR.]

CENTAUR.

BOOK XXI.

ARGUMENT.

THE BATTLE IN THE RIVER SCAMANDER.(269)

The Trojans fly before Achilles, some towards the town, others to the river Scamander: he falls upon the latter with great slaughter: takes twelve captives alive, to sacrifice to the shade of Patroclus; and kills Lycaon and Asteropeus. Scamander attacks him with all his waves: Neptune and Pallas a.s.sist the hero: Simois joins Scamander: at length Vulcan, by the instigation of Juno, almost dries up the river. This Combat ended, the other G.o.ds engage each other. Meanwhile Achilles continues the slaughter, drives the rest into Troy: Agenor only makes a stand, and is conveyed away in a cloud by Apollo; who (to delude Achilles) takes upon him Agenor's shape, and while he pursues him in that disguise, gives the Trojans an opportunity of retiring into their city.

The same day continues. The scene is on the banks and in the stream of Scamander.

And now to Xanthus' gliding stream they drove, Xanthus, immortal progeny of Jove.

The river here divides the flying train, Part to the town fly diverse o'er the plain, Where late their troops triumphant bore the fight, Now chased, and trembling in ign.o.ble flight: (These with a gathered mist Saturnia shrouds, And rolls behind the rout a heap of clouds:) Part plunge into the stream: old Xanthus roars, The flas.h.i.+ng billows beat the whiten'd sh.o.r.es: With cries promiscuous all the banks resound, And here, and there, in eddies whirling round, The flouncing steeds and shrieking warriors drown'd.

As the scorch'd locusts from their fields retire, While fast behind them runs the blaze of fire; Driven from the land before the smoky cloud, The cl.u.s.tering legions rush into the flood: So, plunged in Xanthus by Achilles' force, Roars the resounding surge with men and horse.

His b.l.o.o.d.y lance the hero casts aside, (Which spreading tamarisks on the margin hide,) Then, like a G.o.d, the rapid billows braves, Arm'd with his sword, high brandish'd o'er the waves: Now down he plunges, now he whirls it round, Deep groan'd the waters with the dying sound; Repeated wounds the reddening river dyed, And the warm purple circled on the tide.

Swift through the foamy flood the Trojans fly, And close in rocks or winding caverns lie: So the huge dolphin tempesting the main, In shoals before him fly the scaly train, Confusedly heap'd they seek their inmost caves, Or pant and heave beneath the floating waves.

Now, tired with slaughter, from the Trojan band Twelve chosen youths he drags alive to land; With their rich belts their captive arms restrains (Late their proud ornaments, but now their chains).

These his attendants to the s.h.i.+ps convey'd, Sad victims destined to Patroclus' shade;

Then, as once more he plunged amid the flood, The young Lycaon in his pa.s.sage stood; The son of Priam; whom the hero's hand But late made captive in his father's land (As from a sycamore, his sounding steel Lopp'd the green arms to spoke a chariot wheel) To Lemnos' isle he sold the royal slave, Where Jason's son the price demanded gave; But kind Eetion, touching on the sh.o.r.e, The ransom'd prince to fair Arisbe bore.

Ten days were past, since in his father's reign He felt the sweets of liberty again; The next, that G.o.d whom men in vain withstand Gives the same youth to the same conquering hand Now never to return! and doom'd to go A sadder journey to the shades below.

His well-known face when great Achilles eyed, (The helm and visor he had cast aside With wild affright, and dropp'd upon the field His useless lance and unavailing s.h.i.+eld,) As trembling, panting, from the stream he fled, And knock'd his faltering knees, the hero said.

"Ye mighty G.o.ds! what wonders strike my view!

Is it in vain our conquering arms subdue?

Sure I shall see yon heaps of Trojans kill'd Rise from the shades, and brave me on the field; As now the captive, whom so late I bound And sold to Lemnos, stalks on Trojan ground!

Not him the sea's unmeasured deeps detain, That bar such numbers from their native plain; Lo! he returns. Try, then, my flying spear!

Try, if the grave can hold the wanderer; If earth, at length this active prince can seize, Earth, whose strong grasp has held down Hercules."

Thus while he spoke, the Trojan pale with fears Approach'd, and sought his knees with suppliant tears Loth as he was to yield his youthful breath, And his soul s.h.i.+vering at the approach of death.

Achilles raised the spear, prepared to wound; He kiss'd his feet, extended on the ground: And while, above, the spear suspended stood, Longing to dip its thirsty point in blood, One hand embraced them close, one stopp'd the dart, While thus these melting words attempt his heart:

"Thy well-known captive, great Achilles! see, Once more Lycaon trembles at thy knee.

Some pity to a suppliant's name afford, Who shared the gifts of Ceres at thy board; Whom late thy conquering arm to Lemnos bore, Far from his father, friends, and native sh.o.r.e; A hundred oxen were his price that day, Now sums immense thy mercy shall repay.

Scarce respited from woes I yet appear, And scarce twelve morning suns have seen me here; Lo! Jove again submits me to thy hands, Again, her victim cruel Fate demands!

I sprang from Priam, and Laothoe fair, (Old Altes' daughter, and Lelegia's heir; Who held in Pedasus his famed abode, And ruled the fields where silver Satnio flow'd,) Two sons (alas! unhappy sons) she bore; For ah! one spear shall drink each brother's gore, And I succeed to slaughter'd Polydore.

How from that arm of terror shall I fly?

Some demon urges! 'tis my doom to die!

If ever yet soft pity touch'd thy mind, Ah! think not me too much of Hector's kind!

Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath, With his, who wrought thy loved Patroclus' death."

These words, attended with a shower of tears, The youth address'd to unrelenting ears: "Talk not of life, or ransom (he replies): Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies: In vain a single Trojan sues for grace; But least, the sons of Priam's hateful race.

Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore?

The great, the good Patroclus is no more!

He, far thy better, was foredoom'd to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality?

Seest thou not me, whom nature's gifts adorn, Sprung from a hero, from a G.o.ddess born?

The day shall come (which nothing can avert) When by the spear, the arrow, or the dart, By night, or day, by force, or by design, Impending death and certain fate are mine!

Die then,"--He said; and as the word he spoke, The fainting stripling sank before the stroke: His hand forgot its grasp, and left the spear, While all his trembling frame confess'd his fear: Sudden, Achilles his broad sword display'd, And buried in his neck the reeking blade.

p.r.o.ne fell the youth; and panting on the land, The gus.h.i.+ng purple dyed the thirsty sand.

The victor to the stream the carcase gave, And thus insults him, floating on the wave:

"Lie there, Lycaon! let the fish surround Thy bloated corpse, and suck thy gory wound: There no sad mother shall thy funerals weep, But swift Scamander roll thee to the deep, Whose every wave some watery monster brings, To feast unpunish'd on the fat of kings.

So perish Troy, and all the Trojan line!

Such ruin theirs, and such compa.s.sion mine.

What boots ye now Scamander's wors.h.i.+pp'd stream, His earthly honours, and immortal name?

In vain your immolated bulls are slain, Your living coursers glut his gulfs in vain!

Thus he rewards you, with this bitter fate; Thus, till the Grecian vengeance is complete: Thus is atoned Patroclus' honour'd shade, And the short absence of Achilles paid."

These boastful words provoked the raging G.o.d; With fury swells the violated flood.

What means divine may yet the power employ To check Achilles, and to rescue Troy?

Meanwhile the hero springs in arms, to dare The great Asteropeus to mortal war; The son of Pelagon, whose lofty line Flows from the source of Axius, stream divine!

(Fair Peribaea's love the G.o.d had crown'd, With all his refluent waters circled round:) On him Achilles rush'd; he fearless stood, And shook two spears, advancing from the flood; The flood impell'd him, on Pelides' head To avenge his waters choked with heaps of dead.

Near as they drew, Achilles thus began:

"What art thou, boldest of the race of man?

Who, or from whence? Unhappy is the sire Whose son encounters our resistless ire."

"O son of Peleus! what avails to trace (Replied the warrior) our ill.u.s.trious race?

From rich Paeonia's valleys I command, Arm'd with protended spears, my native band; Now s.h.i.+nes the tenth bright morning since I came In aid of Ilion to the fields of fame: Axius, who swells with all the neighbouring rills, And wide around the floated region fills, Begot my sire, whose spear much glory won: Now lift thy arm, and try that hero's son!"