The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

by George Chapman

  He put in practice. To his feet his feather’d shoes he tied,

  Immortal, and made all of gold, with which he us’d to ride

  The rough sea and th’ unmeasur’d earth, and equall’d in his pace

  The puffs of wind. Then took he up his rod, that hath the grace

  To shut what eyes he lists with sleep, and open them again

  In strongest trances. This he held, flew forth, and did attain

  To Troy and Hellespontus straight. Then like a fair young prince,

  First-down-chinn’d, and of such a grace as makes his looks convince

  Contending eyes to view him, forth he went to meet the king.

  He, having pass’d the mighty tomb of Ilus, watering

  His mules in Xanthus, the dark even fell on the earth; and then

  Idæus (guider of the mules) discern’d this grace of men,

  And spake afraid to Priamus: “Beware, Dardanides,

  Our states ask counsel; I discern the dangerous access

  Of some man near us; now I fear we perish. Is it best

  To fly, or kiss his knees and ask his ruth of men distress’d?”

  Confusion strook the king, cold fear extremely quench’d his veins,

  Upright upon his languishing head his hair stood, and the chains

  Of strong amaze bound all his pow’rs. To both which then came near

  The prince turn’d Deity, took his hand, and thus bespake the peer:

  “To what place, father, driv’st thou out through solitary night,

  When others sleep? Give not the Greeks sufficient cause of fright

  To these late travels, being so near, and such vow’d enemies?

  Of all which, if with all this load any should cast his eyes

  On thy adventures, what would then thy mind esteem thy state,

  Thyself old, and thy follow’r old? Resistance could not rate

  At any value; as for me, be sure I mind no harm

  To thy grave person, but against the hurt of others arm.

  Mine own lov’d father did not get a greater love in me

  To his good, than thou dost to thine.” He answer’d: “The degree

  Of danger in my course, fair son, is nothing less than that

  Thou urgest; but some God’s fair hand puts in for my safe state,

  That sends so sweet a guardian in this so stern a time

  Of night, and danger, as thyself, that all grace in his prime

  Of body and of beauty show’st, all answer’d with a mind

  So knowing, that it cannot be but of some blessed kind

  Thou art descended.” “Not untrue,” said Hermes, “thy conceit

  In all this holds; but further truth relate, if of such weight

  As I conceive thy carriage be, and that thy care conveys

  Thy goods of most price to more guard; or go ye all your ways

  Frighted from holy Ilion, so excellent a son

  As thou hadst (being your special strength) fallen to destructión,

  Whom no Greek better’d for his fight?” “O, what art thou,” said he,

  “Most worthy youth, of what race born, that thus recount’st to me

  My wretched son’s death with such truth?” “Now, father,” he replied,

  “You tempt me far, in wond’ring how the death was signified

  Of your divine son to a man so mere a stranger here

  As you hold me; but I am one that oft have seen him bear

  His person like a God in field; and when in heaps he slew

  The Greeks, all routed to their fleet, his so victorious view

  Made me admire, not feel his hand; because Æacides,

  Incens’d, admitted not our fight, myself being of access

  To his high person, serving him, and both to Ilion

  In one ship sail’d. Besides, by birth I breathe a Myrmidon,

  Polyctor, call’d the rich, my sire, declin’d with age like you.

  Six sons he hath, and me a seventh; and all those six live now

  In Phthia, since, all casting lots, my chance did only fall

  To follow hither. Now for walk I left my General.

  To-morrow all the sun-burn’d Greeks will circle Troy with arms,

  The princes rage to be withheld so idly, your alarms

  Not giv’n half hot enough they think, and can contain no more.”

  He answer’d: “If you serve the prince, let me be bold t’ implore

  This grace of thee, and tell me true: Lies Hector here at fleet,

  Or have the dogs his flesh?” He said: “Nor dogs nor fowl have yet

  Touch’d at his person; still he lies at fleet, and in the tent

  Of our great Captain, who indeed is much too negligent

  Of his fit usage. But, though now twelve days have spent their heat

  On his cold body, neither worms with any taint have eat,

  Nor putrefaction perish’d it; yet ever, when the Morn

  Lifts her divine light from the sea, unmercifully borne

  About Patroclus’ sepulchre, it bears his friend’s disdain,

  Bound to his chariot; but no fits of further outrage reign

  In his distemper. You would muse to see how deep a dew

  Ev’n steeps the body, all the blood wash’d off, no slend’rest shew

  Of gore or quitture, but his wounds all clos’d, though many were

  Open’d about him. Such a love the blest Immortals bear,

  Ev’n dead, to thy dear son, because his life show’d love to them.”

  He joyful answer’d: “O my son, it is a grace supreme

  In any man to serve the Gods. And I must needs say this;

  For no cause, having season fit, my Hector’s hands would miss

  Advancement to the Gods with gifts, and therefore do not they

  Miss his remembrance after death. Now let an old man pray

  Thy graces to receive this cup, and keep it for my love,

  Nor leave me till the Gods and thee have made my pray’rs approve

  Achilles’ pity, by thy guide brought to his princely tent.”

  Hermes replied: “You tempt me now, old king, to a consent

  Far from me, though youth aptly errs. I secretly receive

  Gifts that I cannot broadly vouch, take graces that will give

  My lord dishonour, or what he knows not, or will esteem

  Perhaps unfit? Such briberies perhaps at first may seem

  Sweet and secure; but futurely they still prove sour, and breed

  Both fear and danger. I could wish thy grave affairs did need

  My guide to Argos, either shipp’d, or lackeying by thy side,

  And would be studious in thy guard, so nothing could be tried

  But care in me to keep thee safe, for that I could excuse,

  And vouch to all men.” These words past, he put the deeds in use

  For which Jove sent him; up he leapt to Priam’s chariot,

  Took scourge and reins, and blew in strength to his free steeds, and got

  The naval tow’rs and deep dike straight. The guards were all at meat;

  Those he enslumber’d, op’d the ports, and in he safely let

  Old Priam with his wealthy prize. Forthwith they reach’d the tent

  Of great Achilles, large and high, and in his most ascent

  A shaggy roof of seedy reeds mown from the meads; a hall

  Of state they made their king in it, and strengthen’d it withall

  Thick with fir rafters; whose approach was let in by a door

  That had but one bar, but so big that three men evermore

  Rais’d it to shut, three fresh take down; which yet Æacides

  Would shut and ope himself. And this with far more ease

  Hermes set ope, ent’ring the king; then leapt from horse, and said:

  “Now know, old king, that Mercury, a God, hath giv’n this aid

  To thy endeavour, sent by Jove; and now away must I,

 
For men would envy thy estate to see a Deity

  Affect a man thus. Enter thou, embrace Achilles’ knee,

  And by his sire, son, mother, pray his ruth and grace to thee.”

  This said, he high Olympus reach’d. The king then left his coach

  To grave Idæus, and went on, made his resolv’d approach,

  And enter’d in a goodly room, where with his princes sate

  Jove-lov’d Achilles, at their feast; two only kept the state

  Of his attendance, Alcimus, and lord Automedon,

  At Priam’s entry. A great time Achilles gaz’d upon

  His wonder’d-at approach, nor ate; the rest did nothing see,

  While close he came up, with his hands fast holding the bent knee

  Of Hector’s conqueror, and kiss’d that large man-slaught’ring hand

  That much blood from his sons had drawn. And as in some strange land,

  And great man’s house, a man is driv’n (with that abhorr’d dismay

  That follows wilful bloodshed still, his fortune being to slay

  One whose blood cries aloud for his) to plead protectión,

  In such a miserable plight as frights the lookers on;

  In such a stupefied estate Achilles sat to see

  So unexpected, so in night, and so incredibly,

  Old Priam’s entry. All his friends one on another star’d

  To see his strange looks, seeing no cause. Thus Priam then prepar’d

  His son’s redemption: “See in me, O God-like Thetis’ son,

  Thy aged father; and perhaps ev’n now being out-run

  With some of my woes, neighbour foes (thou absent) taking time

  To do him mischief; no mean left to terrify the crime

  Of his oppression; yet he hears thy graces still survive,

  And joys to hear it, hoping still to see thee safe arrive

  From ruin’d Troy; but I, curs’d man, of all my race shall live

  To see none living. Fifty sons the Deities did give

  My hopes to live in; all alive when near our trembling shore

  The Greek ships harbour’d, and one womb nineteen of those sons bore.

  Now Mars a number of their knees hath strength less left; and he

  That was, of all, my only joy, and Troy’s sole guard, by thee,

  Late fighting for his country, slain; whose tender’d person now

  I come to ransom. Infinite is that I offer you,

  Myself conferring it, expos’d alone to all your odds,

  Only imploring right of arms. Achilles! Fear the Gods,

  Pity an old man like thy sire; diff’rent in only this,

  That I am wretcheder, and bear that weight of miseries

  That never man did, my curs’d lips enforc’d to kiss that hand

  That slew my children.” This mov’d tears; his father’s name did stand,

  Mention’d by Priam, in much help to his compassion,

  And mov’d Æacides so much, he could not look upon

  The weeping father. With his hand he gently put away

  His grave face. Calm remission now did mutually display

  Her pow’r in either’s heaviness. Old Priam, to record

  His son’s death and his deathsman see, his tears and bosom pour’d

  Before Achilles; at his feet he laid his rev’rend head.

  Achilles’ thoughts, now with his sire, now with his friend, were fed.

  Betwixt both sorrow fill’d the tent. But now Æacides

  (Satiate at all parts with the ruth of their calamities)

  Start up, and up he rais’d the king. His milk-white head and beard

  With pity he beheld, and said: “Poor man, thy mind is scar’d

  With much afflictión. How durst thy person thus alone

  Venture on his sight, that hath slain so many a worthy son,

  And so dear to thee? Thy old heart is made of iron. Sit,

  And settle we our woes, though huge, for nothing profits it.

  Cold mourning wastes but our lives’ heats. The Gods have destinate

  That wretched mortals must live sad; ’tis the Immortal State

  Of Deity that lives secure. Two tuns of gifts there lie

  In Jove’s gate, one of good, one ill, that our mortality

  Maintain, spoil, order; which when Jove doth mix to any man,

  One while he frolics, one while mourns. If of his mournful can

  A man drinks only, only wrongs he doth expose him to,

  Sad hunger in th’ abundant earth doth toss him to and fro,

  Respected nor of Gods nor men. The mix’d cup Peleus drank

  Ev’n from his birth; Heav’n blest his life; he liv’d not that could thank

  The Gods for such rare benefits as set forth his estate.

  He reign’d among his Myrmidons most rich, most fortunate,

  And, though a mortal, had his bed deck’d with a deathless dame.

  And yet, with all this good, one ill God mix’d, that takes all name

  From all that goodness; his name now, whose preservation here

  Men count the crown of their most good, not bless’d with pow’r to bear

  One blossom but myself, and I shaken as soon as blown;

  Nor shall I live to cheer his age, and give nutritión

  To him that nourish’d me. Far off my rest is set in Troy,

  To leave thee restless and thy seed; thyself that did enjoy,

  As we have heard, a happy life; what Lesbos doth contain,

  In times past being a bless’d man’s seat, what the unmeasur’d main

  Of Hellespontus, Phrygia, holds, are all said to adorn

  Thy empire, wealth and sons enow; but, when the Gods did turn

  Thy blest state to partake with bane, war and the bloods of men

  Circled thy city, never clear. Sit down and suffer then;

  Mourn not inevitable things; thy tears can spring no deeds

  To help thee, nor recall thy son; impatience ever breeds

  Ill upon ill, makes worst things worse, and therefore sit.” He said:

  “Give me no seat, great seed of Jove, when yet unransomed

  Hector lies riteless in thy tents, but deign with utmost speed

  His resignation, that these eyes may see his person freed,

  And thy grace satisfied with gifts. Accept what I have brought,

  And turn to Phthia; ’tis enough thy conqu’ring hand hath fought

  Till Hector falter’d under it, and Hector’s father stood

  With free humanity safe.” He frown’d and said: “Give not my blood

  Fresh cause of fury. I know well I must resign thy son,

  Jove by my mother utter’d it; and what besides is done

  I know as amply; and thyself, old Priam, I know too.

  Some God hath brought thee; for no man durst use a thought to go

  On such a service. I have guards, and I have gates to stay

  Easy accesses; do not then presume thy will can sway,

  Like Jove’s will, and incense again my quench’d blood, lest nor thou

  Nor Jove get the command of me.” This made the old king bow,

  And down he sat in fear. The prince leapt like a lion forth,

  Automedon and Alcimus attending: all the worth

  Brought for the body they took down and brought in, and with it

  Idæus, herald to the king; a coat embroider’d yet,

  And two rich cloaks, they left to hide the person. Thetis’ son

  Call’d out his women, to anoint and quickly overrun

  The corse with water, lifting it in private to the coach,

  Lest Priam saw, and his cold blood embrac’d a fi’ry touch

  Of anger at the turpitude profaning it, and blew

  Again his wrath’s fire to his death. This done, his women threw

  The coat and cloak on; but the corse Achilles’ own hand laid

  Upon a bed, and with his friends to chariot it convey’d.
r />   For which forc’d grace, abhorring so from his free mind, he wept,

  Cried out for anger, and thus pray’d: “O friend, do not except

  Against this favour to our foe, if in the deep thou hear,

  And that I give him to his sire; he gave fair ransom; dear

  In my observance is Jove’s will; and whatsoever part

  Of all these gifts by any mean I fitly may convert

  To thy renown here, and will there, it shall be pour’d upon

  Thy honour’d sepulchre. This said, he went, and what was done

  Told Priam, saying: “Father, now thy will’s fit rites are paid,

  Thy son is giv’n up; in the morn thine eyes shall see him laid

  Deck’d in thy chariot on his bed; in mean space let us eat.

  The rich-hair’d Niobe found thoughts that made her take her meat,

  Though twelve dear children she saw slain, six daughters, six young sons.

  The sons incens’d Apollo slew; the maids’ confusions

  Diana wrought; since Niobe her merits durst compare

  With great Latona’s, arguing that she did only bear

  Two children, and herself had twelve; for which those only two

  Slew all her twelve. Nine days they lay steep’d in their blood, her woe

  Found no friend to afford them fire, Saturnius had turn’d

  Humans to stones. The tenth day yet, the good Celestials burn’d

  The trunks themselves, and Niobe, when she was tir’d with tears,

  Fell to her food, and now with rocks and wild hills mix’d she bears

  In Sipylus the Gods’ wrath still, in that place where ’tis said

  The Goddess Fairies use to dance about the fun’ral bed

  Of Achelous, where, though turn’d with cold grief to a stone,

  Heav’n gives her heat enough to feel what plague comparison

  With his pow’rs made by earth deserves. Affect not then too far

  Without grief, like a God, being a man, but for a man’s life care,

  And take fit food; thou shalt have time beside to mourn thy son;

  He shall be tearful, thou being full; not here, but Ilion

  Shall find thee weeping-rooms enow.” He said, and so arose,

  And caus’d a silver-fleec’d sheep kill’d; his friends’ skills did dispose

  The flaying, cutting of it up, and cookly spitted it,

  Roasted, and drew it artfully. Automedon, as fit

  Was for the rev’rend sewer’s place; and all the brown joints serv’d

  On wicker vessel to the board; Achilles’ own hands kerv’d;

  And close they fell to. Hunger stanch’d; talk, and observing time,