The Iliad

Next Erymas was doom’d his fate to feel, His open’d mouth received the Cretan steel: Beneath the brain the point a passage tore, Crash’d the thin bones, and drown’d the teeth in gore: His mouth, his eyes, his nostrils, pour a flood; He sobs his soul out in the gush of blood.

As when the flocks neglected by the swain, Or kids, or lambs, lie scatter’d o’er the plain, A troop of wolves the unguarded charge survey, And rend the trembling, unresisting prey: Thus on the foe the Greeks impetuous came; Troy fled, unmindful of her former fame.

But still at Hector godlike Ajax aim’d, Still, pointed at his breast, his javelin flamed. The Trojan chief, experienced in the field, O’er his broad shoulders spread the massy shield, Observed the storm of darts the Grecians pour, And on his buckler caught the ringing shower: He sees for Greece the scale of conquest rise, Yet stops, and turns, and saves his loved allies.

As when the hand of Jove a tempest forms, And rolls the cloud to blacken heaven with storms, Dark o’er the fields the ascending vapour flies, And shades the sun, and blots the golden skies: So from the ships, along the dusky plain, Dire Flight and Terror drove the Trojan train. Even Hector fled; through heads of disarray The fiery coursers forced their lord away: While far behind his Trojans fall confused; Wedged in the trench, in one vast carnage bruised: Chariots on chariots roll: the clashing spokes Shock; while the madding steeds break short their yokes. In vain they labour up the steepy mound; Their charioteers lie foaming on the ground. Fierce on the rear, with shouts Patroclus flies; Tumultuous clamour fills the fields and skies; Thick drifts of dust involve their rapid flight; Clouds rise on clouds, and heaven is snatch’d from sight. The affrighted steeds their dying lords cast down, Scour o’er the fields, and stretch to reach the town. Loud o’er the rout was heard the victor’s cry, Where the war bleeds, and where the thickest die, Where horse and arms, and chariots lie o’erthrown, And bleeding heroes under axles groan. No stop, no check, the steeds of Peleus knew: From bank to bank the immortal coursers flew. High-bounding o’er the fosse, the whirling car Smokes through the ranks, o’ertakes the flying war, And thunders after Hector; Hector flies, Patroclus shakes his lance; but fate denies.

Not with less noise, with less impetuous force, The tide of Trojans urge their desperate course, Than when in autumn Jove his fury pours, And earth is loaden with incessant showers; (When guilty mortals break the eternal laws, Or judges, bribed, betray the righteous cause;) From their deep beds he bids the rivers rise, And opens all the flood-gates of the skies: The impetuous torrents from their hills obey, Whole fields are drown’d, and mountains swept away; Loud roars the deluge till it meets the main; And trembling man sees all his labours vain!

And now the chief (the foremost troops repell’d) Back to the ships his destined progress held, Bore down half Troy in his resistless way, And forced the routed ranks to stand the day. Between the space where silver Simois flows, Where lay the fleets, and where the rampires rose, All grim in dust and blood Patroclus stands, And turns the slaughter on the conquering bands. First Pronous died beneath his fiery dart, Which pierced below the shield his valiant heart. Thestor was next, who saw the chief appear, And fell the victim of his coward fear; Shrunk up he sat, with wild and haggard eye, Nor stood to combat, nor had force to fly; Patroclus mark’d him as he shunn’d the war, And with unmanly tremblings shook the car, And dropp’d the flowing reins. Him ’twixt the jaws, The javelin sticks, and from the chariot draws. As on a rock that overhangs the main, An angler, studious of the line and cane, Some mighty fish draws panting to the shore: Not with less ease the barbed javelin bore The gaping dastard; as the spear was shook, He fell, and life his heartless breast forsook.

Next on Eryalus he flies; a stone, Large as a rock, was by his fury thrown: Full on his crown the ponderous fragment flew, And burst the helm, and cleft the head in two: Prone to the ground the breathless warrior fell, And death involved him with the shades of hell. Then low in dust Epaltes, Echius, lie; Ipheas, Evippus, Polymelus, die; Amphoterus and Erymas succeed; And last Tlepolemus and Pyres bleed. Where’er he moves, the growing slaughters spread In heaps on heaps a monument of dead.

When now Sarpedon his brave friends beheld Grovelling in dust, and gasping on the field, With this reproach his flying host he warms: “Oh stain to honour! oh disgrace to arms! Forsake, inglorious, the contended plain; This hand unaided shall the war sustain: The task be mine this hero’s strength to try, Who mows whole troops, and makes an army fly.”

He spake: and, speaking, leaps from off the car: Patroclus lights, and sternly waits the war. As when two vultures on the mountain’s height Stoop with resounding pinions to the fight; They cuff, they tear, they raise a screaming cry; The desert echoes, and the rocks reply: The warriors thus opposed in arms, engage With equal clamours, and with equal rage.

Jove view’d the combat: whose event foreseen, He thus bespoke his sister and his queen: “The hour draws on; the destinies ordain,[245] My godlike son shall press the Phrygian plain: Already on the verge of death he stands, His life is owed to fierce Patroclus’ hands, What passions in a parent’s breast debate! Say, shall I snatch him from impending fate, And send him safe to Lycia, distant far From all the dangers and the toils of war; Or to his doom my bravest offspring yield, And fatten, with celestial blood, the field?”

Then thus the goddess with the radiant eyes: “What words are these, O sovereign of the skies! Short is the date prescribed to mortal man; Shall Jove for one extend the narrow span, Whose bounds were fix’d before his race began? How many sons of gods, foredoom’d to death, Before proud Ilion must resign their breath! Were thine exempt, debate would rise above, And murmuring powers condemn their partial Jove. Give the bold chief a glorious fate in fight; And when the ascending soul has wing’d her flight, Let Sleep and Death convey, by thy command, The breathless body to his native land. His friends and people, to his future praise, A marble tomb and pyramid shall raise, And lasting honours to his ashes give; His fame (’tis all the dead can have) shall live.”

She said: the cloud-compeller, overcome, Assents to fate, and ratifies the doom. Then touch’d with grief, the weeping heavens distill’d A shower of blood o’er all the fatal field: The god, his eyes averting from the plain, Laments his son, predestined to be slain, Far from the Lycian shores, his happy native reign. Now met in arms, the combatants appear; Each heaved the shield, and poised the lifted spear; From strong Patroclus’ hand the javelin fled, And pass’d the groin of valiant Thrasymed; The nerves unbraced no more his bulk sustain, He falls, and falling bites the bloody plain. Two sounding darts the Lycian leader threw: The first aloof with erring fury flew, The next transpierced Achilles’ mortal steed, The generous Pedasus of Theban breed: Fix’d in the shoulder’s joint, he reel’d around, Roll’d in the bloody dust, and paw’d the slippery ground. His sudden fall the entangled harness broke; Each axle crackled, and the chariot shook: When bold Automedon, to disengage The starting coursers, and restrain their rage, Divides the traces with his sword, and freed The encumbered chariot from the dying steed: The rest move on, obedient to the rein: The car rolls slowly o’er the dusty plain.

The towering chiefs to fiercer fight advance: And first Sarpedon whirl’d his weighty lance, Which o’er the warrior’s shoulder took its course, And spent in empty air its dying force. Not so Patroclus’ never-erring dart; Aim’d at his breast it pierced a mortal part, Where the strong fibres bind the solid heart. Then as the mountain oak, or poplar tall, Or pine (fit mast for some great admiral) Nods to the axe, till with a groaning sound It sinks, and spreads its honours on the ground, Thus fell the king; and laid on earth supine, Before his chariot stretch’d his form divine: He grasp’d the dust distain’d with streaming gore, And, pale in death, lay groaning on the shore. So lies a bull beneath the lion’s paws, While the grim savage grinds with foamy jaws The trembling limbs, and sucks the smoking blood; Deep groans, and hollow roars, rebellow through the wood.

Then to the leader of the Lycian band The dying chief address’d his last command; “Glaucus, be bold; thy task be first to dare The glorious dangers of destructive war, To lead my troops, to combat at their head, Incite the living, and supply the dead. Tell them, I charged them with my latest breath Not unrevenged to bear Sarpedon’s death. What grief, what shame, must Glaucus undergo, If these spoil’d arms adorn a Grecian foe! Then as a friend, and as a warrior fight; Defend my body, conquer in my right: That, taught by great examples, all may try Like thee to vanquish, or like me to die.” He ceased; the Fates suppress’d his labouring breath, And his eyes darken’d with the shades of death. The insulting victor with disdain bestrode The prostrate prince, and on his bosom trod; Then drew the weapon from his panting heart, The reeking fibres clinging to the dart; From the wide wound gush’d out a stream of blood, And the soul issued in the purple flood. His flying steeds the Myrmidons detain, Unguided now, their mighty master slain. All-impotent of aid, transfix’d with grief, Unhappy Glaucus heard the dying chief: His painful arm, yet useless with the smart Inflicted late by Teucer’s deadly dart, Supported on his better hand he stay’d: To Phœbus then (’twas all he could) he pray’d:

“All-seeing monarch! whether Lycia’s coast, Or sacred Ilion, thy bright presence boast, Powerful alike to ease the wretch’s smart; O hear me! god of every healing art! Lo! stiff with clotted blood, and pierced with pain, That thrills my arm, and shoots through every vein, I stand unable to sustain the spear, And sigh, at distance from the glorious war. Low in the dust is great Sarpedon laid, Nor Jove vouchsafed his hapless offspring aid; But thou, O god of health! thy succour lend, To guard the relics of my slaughter’d friend: For thou, though distant, canst restore my might, To head my Lycians, and support the fight.”

Apollo heard; and, suppliant as he stood, His heavenly hand restrain’d the flux of blood; He drew the dolours from the wounded part, And breathed a spirit in his rising heart. Renew’d by art divine, the hero stands, And owns the assistance of immortal hands. First to the fight his native troops he warms, Then loudly calls on Troy’s vindictive arms; With ample strides he stalks from place to place; Now fires Agenor, now Polydamas: Æneas next, and Hector he accosts; Inflaming thus the rage of all their hosts.

“What thoughts, regardless chief! thy breast employ? Oh too forgetful of the friends of Troy! Those generous friends, who, from their country far, Breathe their brave souls out in another’s war. See! where in dust the great Sarpedon lies, In action valiant, and in council wise, Who guarded right, and kept his people free; To all his Lycians lost, and lost to thee! Stretch’d by Patroclus’ arm on yonder plains, O save from hostile rage his loved remains! Ah let not Greece his conquer’d trophies boast, Nor on his corse revenge her heroes lost!”

He spoke: each leader in his grief partook: Troy, at the loss, through all her legions shook. Transfix’d with deep regret, they view o’erthrown At once his country’s pillar, and their own; A chief, who led to Troy’s beleaguer’d wall A host of heroes, and outshined them all. Fired, they rush on; first Hector seeks the foes, And with superior vengeance greatly glows.

“Heroes, be men; be what you were before; Or weigh the great occasion, and be more. The chief who taught our lofty walls to yield, Lies pale in death, extended on the field. To guard his body Troy in numbers flies; ’Tis half the glory to maintain our prize. Haste, strip his arms, the slaughter round him spread, And send the living Lycians to the dead.”

The heroes kindle at his fierce command; The martial squadrons close on either hand: Here Troy and Lycia charge with loud alarms, Thessalia there, and Greece, oppose their arms. With horrid shouts they circle round the slain; The clash of armour rings o’er all the plain. Great Jove, to swell the horrors of the fight, O’er the fierce armies pours pernicious night, And round his son confounds the warring hosts, His fate ennobling with a crowd of ghosts.

Now Greece gives way, and great Epigeus falls; Agacleus’ son, from Budium’s lofty walls; Who chased for murder thence a suppliant came To Peleus, and the silver-footed dame; Now sent to Troy, Achilles’ arms to aid, He pays due vengeance to his kinsman’s shade. Soon as his luckless hand had touch’d the dead, A rock’s large fragment thunder’d on his head; Hurl’d by Hectorean force it cleft in twain His shatter’d helm, and stretch’d him o’er the slain.

Fierce to the van of fight Patroclus came, And, like an eagle darting at his game, Sprung on the Trojan and the Lycian band. What grief thy heart, what fury urged thy hand, O generous Greek! when with full vigour thrown, At Sthenelaus flew the weighty stone, Which sunk him to the dead: when Troy, too near That arm, drew back; and Hector learn’d to fear. Far as an able hand a lance can throw, Or at the lists, or at the fighting foe; So far the Trojans from their lines retired; Till Glaucus, turning, all the rest inspired. Then Bathyclaeus fell beneath his rage, The only hope of Chalcon’s trembling age; Wide o’er the land was stretch’d his large domain, With stately seats, and riches blest in vain: Him, bold with youth, and eager to pursue The flying Lycians, Glaucus met and slew; Pierced through the bosom with a sudden wound, He fell, and falling made the fields resound. The Achaians sorrow for their heroes slain; With conquering shouts the Trojans shake the plain, And crowd to spoil the dead: the Greeks oppose; An iron circle round the carcase grows.

Then brave Laogonus resign’d his breath, Despatch’d by Merion to the shades of death: On Ida’s holy hill he made abode, The priest of Jove, and honour’d like his god. Between the jaw and ear the javelin went; The soul, exhaling, issued at the vent. His spear Æneas at the victor threw, Who stooping forward from the death withdrew; The lance hiss’d harmless o’er his covering shield, And trembling struck, and rooted in the field; There yet scarce spent, it quivers on the plain, Sent by the great Æneas’ arm in vain. “Swift as thou art (the raging hero cries) And skill’d in dancing to dispute the prize, My spear, the destined passage had it found, Had fix’d thy active vigour to the ground.”

“O valiant leader of the Dardan host! (Insulted Merion thus retorts the boast) Strong as you are, ’tis mortal force you trust, An arm as strong may stretch thee in the dust. And if to this my lance thy fate be given, Vain are thy vaunts; success is still from heaven: This, instant, sends thee down to Pluto’s coast; Mine is the glory, his thy parting ghost.”

“O friend (Menoetius’ son this answer gave) With words to combat, ill befits the brave; Not empty boasts the sons of Troy repel, Your swords must plunge them to the shades of hell. To speak, beseems the council; but to dare In glorious action, is the task of war.”

This said, Patroclus to the battle flies; Great Merion follows, and new shouts arise: Shields, helmets rattle, as the warriors close; And thick and heavy sounds the storm of blows. As through the shrilling vale, or mountain ground, The labours of the woodman’s axe resound; Blows following blows are heard re-echoing wide, While crackling forests fall on every side: Thus echoed all the fields with loud alarms, So fell the warriors, and so rung their arms.

Now great Sarpedon on the sandy shore, His heavenly form defaced with dust and gore, And stuck with darts by warring heroes shed, Lies undistinguish’d from the vulgar dead. His long-disputed corse the chiefs enclose, On every side the busy combat grows; Thick as beneath some shepherd’s thatch’d abode (The pails high foaming with a milky flood) The buzzing flies, a persevering train, Incessant swarm, and chased return again.

Jove view’d the combat with a stern survey, And eyes that flash’d intolerable day. Fix’d on the field his sight, his breast debates The vengeance due, and meditates the fates: Whether to urge their prompt effect, and call The force of Hector to Patroclus’ fall, This instant see his short-lived trophies won, And stretch him breathless on his slaughter’d son; Or yet, with many a soul’s untimely flight, Augment the fame and horror of the fight. To crown Achilles’ valiant friend with praise At length he dooms; and, that his last of days Shall set in glory, bids him drive the foe; Nor unattended see the shades below. Then Hector’s mind he fills with dire dismay; He mounts his car, and calls his hosts away; Sunk with Troy’s heavy fates, he sees decline The scales of Jove, and pants with awe divine.

Then, nor before, the hardy Lycians fled, And left their monarch with the common dead: Around, in heaps on heaps, a dreadful wall Of carnage rises, as the heroes fall. (So Jove decreed!) At length the Greeks obtain The prize contested, and despoil the slain. The radiant arms are by Patroclus borne; Patroclus’ ships the glorious spoils adorn.

Then thus to Phœbus, in the realms above, Spoke from his throne the cloud-compelling Jove: “Descend, my Phœbus! on the Phrygian plain, And from the fight convey Sarpedon slain; Then bathe his body in the crystal flood, With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with blood; O’er all his limbs ambrosial odours shed, And with celestial robes adorn the dead. Those rites discharged, his sacred corse bequeath To the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death. They to his friends the immortal charge shall bear; His friends a tomb and pyramid shall rear: What honour mortals after death receive, Those unavailing honours we may give!”

Apollo bows, and from mount Ida’s height, Swift to the field precipitates his flight; Thence from the war the breathless hero bore, Veil’d in a cloud, to silver Simois’ shore; There bathed his honourable wounds, and dress’d His manly members in the immortal vest; And with perfumes of sweet ambrosial dews Restores his freshness, and his form renews. Then Sleep and Death, two twins of winged race, Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace, Received Sarpedon, at the god’s command, And in a moment reach’d the Lycian land; The corse amidst his weeping friends they laid, Where endless honours wait the sacred shade.

Meanwhile Patroclus pours along the plains, With foaming coursers, and with loosen’d reins. Fierce on the Trojan and the Lycian crew, Ah blind to fate! thy headlong fury flew: Against what fate and powerful Jove ordain, Vain was thy friend’s command, thy courage vain. For he, the god, whose counsels uncontroll’d Dismay the mighty, and confound the bold; The god who gives, resumes, and orders all, He urged thee on, and urged thee on to fall.

Who first, brave hero! by that arm was slain, Who last beneath thy vengeance press’d the plain; When heaven itself thy fatal fury led, And call’d to fill the number of the dead? Adrestus first; Autonous then succeeds; Echeclus follows; next young Megas bleeds, Epistor, Melanippus, bite the ground; The slaughter, Elasus and Mulius crown’d: Then sunk Pylartes to eternal night; The rest, dispersing, trust their fates to flight.

Now Troy had stoop’d beneath his matchless power, But flaming Phœbus kept the sacred tower. Thrice at the battlements Patroclus strook;[246] His blazing ægis thrice Apollo shook; He tried the fourth; when, bursting from the cloud, A more than mortal voice was heard aloud.

So spoke the god who darts celestial fires; The Greek obeys him, and with awe retires. While Hector, checking at the Scæan gates His panting coursers, in his breast debates, Or in the field his forces to employ, Or draw the troops within the walls of Troy. Thus while he thought, beside him Phœbus stood, In Asius’ shape, who reigned by Sangar’s flood; (Thy brother, Hecuba! from Dymas sprung, A valiant warrior, haughty, bold, and young;) Thus he accosts him. “What a shameful sight! God! is it Hector that forbears the fight? Were thine my vigour this successful spear Should soon convince thee of so false a fear. Turn thee, ah turn thee to the field of fame, And in Patroclus’ blood efface thy shame. Perhaps Apollo shall thy arms succeed, And heaven ordains him by thy lance to bleed.”

So spoke the inspiring god; then took his flight, And plunged amidst the tumult of the fight. He bids Cebrion drive the rapid car; The lash resounds, the coursers rush to war. The god the Grecians’ sinking souls depress’d, And pour’d swift spirits through each Trojan breast. Patroclus lights, impatient for the fight; A spear his left, a stone employs his right: With all his nerves he drives it at the foe. Pointed above, and rough and gross below: The falling ruin crush’d Cebrion’s head, The lawless offspring of king Priam’s bed; His front, brows, eyes, one undistinguish’d wound: The bursting balls drop sightless to the ground. The charioteer, while yet he held the rein, Struck from the car, falls headlong on the plain. To the dark shades the soul unwilling glides, While the proud victor thus his fall derides.