The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

by George Chapman

  To talk with friends here; nor shall I; a hateful fate depriv’d

  My being here, that at my birth was fix’d; and to such fate

  Ev’n thou, O god-like man, art mark’d; the deadly Ilion gate

  Must entertain thy death. O then, I charge thee now, take care

  That our bones part not; but as life combin’d in equal fare

  Our loving beings, so let death. When from Opunta’s tow’rs

  My father brought me to your roofs (since, ‘gainst my will, my pow’rs

  Incens’d, and indiscreet at dice, slew fair Amphidamas)

  Then Peleus entertain’d me well; then in thy charge I was

  By his injunction and thy love; and therein let me still

  Receive protection. Both our bones, provide in thy last will,

  That one urn may contain; and make that vessel all of gold,

  That Thetis gave thee, that rich urn.” This said, Sleep ceas’d to hold

  Achilles’ temples, and the Shade thus he receiv’d: “O friend,

  What needed these commands? My care, before, meant to commend

  My bones to thine, and in that urn. Be sure thy will is done.

  A little stay yet, let’s delight, with some full passión

  Of woe enough, either’s affects; embrace we.” Op’ning thus

  His greedy arms, he felt no friend; like matter vaporous

  The Spirit vanish’d under earth, and murmur’d in his stoop.

  Achilles started, both his hands he clapp’d, and lifted up,

  In this sort wond’ring: “O ye Gods, I see we have a soul

  In th’ under-dwellings, and a kind of man-resembling idol;

  The soul’s seat yet, all matter felt, stays with the carcass here.

  O friends, hapless Patroclus’ soul did all this night appear

  Weeping and making moan to me, commanding ev’rything

  That I intended towards him; so truly figuring

  Himself at all parts, as was strange.” This accident did turn

  To much more sorrow, and begat a greediness to mourn

  In all that heard. When mourning thus, the rosy Morn arose,

  And Agamemnon through the tents wak’d all, and did dispose

  Both men and mules for carriage of matter for the fire;

  Of all which work Meriones, the Cretan sov’reign’s squire,

  Was captain; and abroad they went. Wood-cutting tools they bore

  Of all hands, and well-twisted cords. The mules march’d all before.

  Uphill, and down hill, overthwarts, and break-neck cliffs they pass’d;

  But, when the fountful Ida’s tops they scal’d with utmost haste,

  All fell upon the high-hair’d oaks, and down their curléd brows,

  Fell bustling to the earth, and up went all the boles and boughs

  Bound to the mules; and back again they parted the harsh way

  Amongst them through the tangling shrubs, and long they thought the day

  Till in the plain field all arriv’d, for all the woodmen bore

  Logs on their necks; Meriones would have it so. The shore

  At last they reach’d yet, and then down their carriages they cast,

  And sat upon them, where the son of Peleüs had plac’d

  The ground for his great sepulchre, and for his friend’s, in one.

  They rais’d a huge pile, and to arms went ev’ry Myrmidon,

  Charg’d by Achilles; chariots and horse were harnesséd.

  Fighters and charioteers got up, and they the sad march led,

  A cloud of infinite foot behind. In midst of all was borne

  Patroclus’ person by his peers. On him were all heads shorn,

  Ev’n till they cover’d him with curls. Next to him march’d his friend

  Embracing his cold neck all sad, since now he was to send

  His dearest to his endless home. Arriv’d all where the wood

  Was heap’d for fun’ral, they set down. Apart Achilles stood,

  And when enough wood was heap’d on, he cut his golden hair,

  Long kept for Sperchius the flood, in hope of safe repair

  To Phthia by that river’s pow’r; but now left hopeless thus,

  Enrag’d, and looking on the sea, he cried out: “Sperchius,

  In vain my father’s piety vow’d, at my implor’d return

  To my lov’d country, that these curls should on thy shores be shorn,

  Besides a sacred hecatomb, and sacrifice beside

  Of fifty wethers, at those founts, where men have edified

  A lofty temple, and perfum’d an altar to thy name.

  There vow’d he all these offerings; but fate prevents thy fame,

  His hopes not suff’ring satisfied. And since I never more

  Shall see my lov’d soil, my friend’s hands shall to the Stygian shore

  Convey these tresses.” Thus he put in his friend’s hands the hair;

  And this bred fresh desire of moan; and in that sad affair

  The sun had set amongst them all, had Thetis’ son not spoke

  Thus to Atrides: “King of men, thy aid I still invoke,

  Since thy command all men still hear. Dismiss thy soldiers now,

  And let them victual; they have mourn’d sufficient; ’tis we owe

  The dead this honour; and with us let all the captains stay.”

  This heard, Atrides instantly the soldiers sent away;

  The fun’ral officers remain’d, and heap’d on matter still,

  Till of an hundred foot about they made the fun’ral pile,

  In whose hot height they cast the corse, and then they pour’d on tears.

  Numbers of fat sheep, and like store of crooked-going steers,

  They slew before the solemn fire; stripp’d off their hides and dress’d.

  Of which Achilles took the fat, and cover’d the deceas’d

  From head to foot; and round about he made the officers pile

  The beasts’ nak’d bodies, vessels full of honey and of oil

  Pour’d in them, laid upon a bier, and cast into the fire.

  Four goodly horse; and of nine hounds, two most in the desire

  Of that great prince, and trencher-fed; all fed that hungry flame.

  Twelve Trojan princes last stood forth, young, and of toward fame,

  All which (set on with wicked spirits) there strook he, there he slew,

  And to the iron strength of fire their noble limbs he threw.

  Then breath’d his last sighs, and these words: “Again rejoice, my friend,

  Ev’n in the joyless depth of hell. Now give I cómplete end

  To all my vows. Alone thy life sustain’d not violence,

  Twelve Trojan princes wait on thee, and labour to incense

  Thy glorious heap of funeral. Great Hector I’ll excuse,

  The dogs shall eat him.” These high threats perform’d not their abuse;

  Jove’s daughter, Venus, took the guard of noble Hector’s corse,

  And kept the dogs off, night and day applying sov’reign force

  Of rosy balms, that to the dogs were horrible in taste,

  And with which she the body fill’d. Renown’d Apollo cast

  A cloud from heav’n, lest with the sun the nerves and lineaments

  Might dry and putrefy. And now some Pow’rs denied consents

  To this solemnity; the Fire (for all the oily fuel

  It had injected) would not burn; and then the loving Cruel

  Studied for help, and, standing off, invok’d the two fair Winds,

  Zephyr and Boreas, to afford the rage of both their kinds

  To aid his outrage. Precious gifts his earnest zeal did vow

  Pour’d from’ a golden bowl much wine, and pray’d them both to blow,

  That quickly his friend’s corse might burn, and that heap’s sturdy breast

  Embrace consumption. Iris heard. The Winds were at a feast,

  All in the court of Zephyr
us, that boist’rous blowing Air,

  Gather’d together. She that wears the thousand-colour’d hair

  Flew thither, standing in the porch. They, seeing her, all arose,

  Call’d to her, ev’ry one desir’d she would awhile repose,

  And eat with them. She answer’d: “No, no place of seat is here;

  Retreat calls to the Ocean and Æthiopia, where

  A hecatomb is off’ring now to heav’n, and there must I

  Partake the feast of sacrifice. I come to signify

  That Thetis’ son implores your aids, princes of North and West,

  With vows of much fair sacrifice, if each will set his breast

  Against his heap of funeral, and make it quickly burn;

  Patroclus lies there, whose decease all the Achaians mourn.”

  She said, and parted; and out rush’d, with an unmeasur’d roar,

  Those two Winds, tumbling clouds in heaps, ushers to either’s blore,

  And instantly they reach’d the sea; up flew the waves; the gale

  Was strong; reach’d fruitful Troy; and full upon the fire they fall.

  The huge heap thunder’d. All night long from his chok’d breast they blew

  A lib’ral flame up; and all night swift-foot Achilles threw

  Wine from a golden bowl on earth, and steep’d the soil in wine,

  Still calling on Patroclus’ soul. No father could incline

  More to a son most dear, nor more mourn at his burnéd bones,

  Than did the great prince to his friend at his combustións,

  Still creeping near and near the heap, still sighing, weeping still.

  But when the Day-star look’d abroad, and promis’d from hi hill

  Light, which the saffron Morn made good, and sprinkled on the seas,

  Then languish’d the great pile, then sunk the flames, and then calm

  Peace

  Turn’d back the rough Winds to their homes; the Thracian billow rings.

  Their high retreat, ruffled with cuffs of their triumphant wings.

  Pelides then forsook the pile, and to his tired limb

  Choos’d place of rest; where laid, sweet sleep fell to his wish on him.

  When all the king’s guard (waiting then, perceiving will to rise

  In that great session) hurried in, and op’d again his eyes

  With tumult of their troop, and haste. A little then he rear’d

  His troubled person, sitting up, and this affair referr’d

  To wish’d commandment of the kings: “Atrides, and the rest

  Of our commanders general, vouchsafe me this request

  Before your parting: Give in charge the quenching with black wine

  Of this heap’s relics, ev’ry brand the yellow fire made shine;

  And then let search Patroclus’ bones, distinguishing them well;

  As well ye may, they kept the midst, the rest at random fell

  About th’ extreme part of the pile; men’s bones and horses’ mixed.

  Being found, I’ll find an urn of gold t’ enclose them, and betwixt

  The air and them two kels of fat lay on them, and to rest

  Commit them, till mine own bones seal our love, my soul deceas’d.

  The sepulchre I have not charg’d to make of too much state,

  But of a model something mean, that you of younger fate,

  When I am gone, may amplify with such a breadth and height

  As fits your judgments and our worths.” This charge receiv’d his weight

  In all observance. First they quench’d with sable wine the heap,

  As far as it had fed the flame. The ash fell wondrous deep,

  In which his consorts, that his life religiously lov’d,

  Search’d, weeping, for his bones; which found, they conscionably prov’d

  His will made to Æacides, and what his love did add.

  A golden vessel, double fat, contain’d them. All which, clad

  In veils of linen, pure and rich, were solemnly convey’d

  T’ Achilles’ tent. The platform then about the pile they laid

  Of his fit sepulchre, and rais’d a heap of earth, and then

  Offer’d departure. But the prince retain’d there still his men,

  Employing them to fetch from fleet rich tripods for his games,

  Caldrons, horse, mules, broad-headed beeves, bright steel, and brighter dames,

  The best at horse-race he ordain’d a lady for his prize,

  Gen’rally praiseful, fair and young, and skill’d in housewif’ries

  Of all kinds fitting; and withal a trivet, that inclos’d

  Twenty-two measures’ room, with ears. The next prize he propos’d

  Was (that which then had high respect) a mare of six years old,

  Unhandled, horséd with a mule, and ready to have foal’d.

  The third game was a caldron, new, fair, bright, and could for size

  Contain two measures. For the fourth, two talents’ quantities

  Of finest gold. The fifth game was a great new standing bowl,

  To set down both ways. These brought in, Achilles then stood up,

  And said: “Atrides and my lords, chief horsemen of our host,

  These games expect ye. If myself should interpose my most

  For our horse-race, I make no doubt that I should take again

  These gifts propos’d. Ye all know well, of how divine a strain

  My horse are, and how eminent. Of Neptune’s gift they are

  To Peleus, and of his to me. Myself then will not share

  In gifts giv’n others, nor my steeds breathe any spirit to shake

  Their airy pasterns; so they mourn for their kind guider’s sake,

  Late lost; that us’d with humorous oil to slick their lofty manes,

  Clear water having cleans’d them first; and, his bane being their banes,

  Those lofty manes now strew the earth, their heads held shaken down.

  You then that trust in chariots, and hope with horse to crown

  Your conqu’ring temples, gird yourselves; now, fame and prize stretch for,

  All that have spirits.” This fir’d all. The first competitor

  Was king Eumelus, whom the art of horsemanship did grace,

  Son to Admetus. Next to him rose Diomed to the race,

  That under reins rul’d Trojan horse, of late forc’d from the son

  Of lord Anchises, himself freed of near confusion

  By Phœbus. Next to him set forth the yellow-headed king

  Of Lacedæmon, Jove’s high seed; and, in his managing,

  Podargus and swift Æthe trod, steeds to the King of men;

  Æthe giv’n by Echepolus, the Anchisiaden,

  As bribe to free him from the war resolv’d for Ilion;

  So Delicacy feasted him, whom Jove bestow’d upon

  A mighty wealth; his dwelling was in broad Sicyone.

  Old Nestor’s son, Antilochus, was fourth for chivalry

  In this contention; his fair horse were of the Pylian breed,

  And his old father, coming near, inform’d him, for good speed,

  With good race notes, in which himself could good instruction give:

  “Antilochus, though young thou art, yet thy grave virtues live

  Belov’d of Neptune and of Jove. Their spirits have taught thee all

  The art of horsemanship, for which the less thy merits fall

  In need of doctrine. Well thy skill can wield a chariot

  In all fit turnings, yet thy horse their slow feet handle not

  As fits thy manage, which makes me cast doubts of thy success.

  I well know all these are not seen in art of this address

  More than thyself; their horses yet superior are to thine

  For their parts, thine want speed to make discharge of a design

  To please an artist. But go on, show but thy art and heart

  At all points, and set them against their horse
s’ heart and art;

  Good judges will not see thee lose. A carpenter’s desert

  Stands more in cunning than in pow’r. A pilot doth avert

  His vessel from the rock, and wrack, tost with the churlish winds,

  By skill, not strength. So sorts it here; one charioteer that finds

  Want of another’s pow’r in horse must in his own skill set

  An overplus of that to that; and so the proof will get

  Skill, that still rests within a man, more grace; than pow’r without.

  He that in horse and chariots trusts, is often hurl’d about

  This way and that, unhandsomely, all-heaven wide of his end.

  He, better skill’d, that rules worse horse, will all observance bend

  Right on the scope still of a race, bear near, know ever when to rein,

  When give rein, as his foe before, well noted in his vein

  Of manage and his steeds’ estate, presents occasion.

  I’ll give thee instance now, as plain as if thou saw’st it done:

  Here stands a dry stub of some tree, a cubit from the ground; 1

  (Suppose the stub of oak or larch, for either are so sound

  That neither rots with wet) two stones, white (mark you), white for view,

  Parted on either side the stub; and these lay where they drew

  The way into a strait; the race betwixt both lying clear.

  Imagine them some monument of one long since tomb’d there,

  Or that they had been lists of race for men of former years,

  As now the lists Achilles sets may serve for charioteers

  Many years hence. When near to these the race grows, then as right

  Drive on them as thy eye can judge; then lay thy bridle’s weight

  Most of thy left side; thy right horse then switching, all thy throat,

  Spent in encouragements, give him, and all the rein let float

  About his shoulders; thy near horse will yet be he that gave

  Thy skill the prize, and him rein so his head may touch the nave

  Of thy left wheel; but then take care thou runn’st not on the stone

  (With wrack of horse and chariot) which so thou bear’st upon.

  Shipwrack within the hav’n avoid, by all means; that will breed

  Others delight, and thee a shame. Be wise then, and take heed,

  My lov’d son, get but to be first at turning in the course,

  He lives not that can cote thee then, not if he back’d the horse

  The Gods bred, and Adrastus ow’d; divine Arion’s speed

  Could not outpace thee, or the horse Laomedon did breed,

  Whose race is famous, and fed here.” Thus sat Neleides,