by Homer
And left them at the foot of it: for they must taste their fill
Of travail with me, that must draw my coach through earth and seas;
Whose far-intended reach, respect and care not to displease
Thy graces, made me not attempt without thy gracious leave.’
The cloud-compelling god her guile in this sort did receive:
‘Juno, thou shalt have after leave, but ere so far thou stray,
Convert we our kind thoughts to love, that now doth every way
Circle with victory my pow’rs: nor yet with any dame
(Woman, or goddess) did his fires my bosom so inflame
As now with thee: not when it lov’d the parts so generous
Ixion’s wife had, that brought forth the wise Pyrithous;
Nor when the lovely Danaë, Acrisius’ daughter, stirr’d
My amorous pow’rs, that Perseus bore, to all men else preferr’d;
Nor when the dame that Phoenix got surpris’d me with her sight,
Who the divine-soul’d Rhadamanth and Minos brought to light;
Nor Semele, that bore to me the joy of mortal men,
The sprightly Bacchus; nor the dame that Thebes renowned then,
Alcmena, that bore Hercules; Latona, so renown’d;
Queen Ceres, with the golden hair, nor thy fair eyes did wound
My entrails to such depth as now, with thirst of amorous ease.’
The cunning dame seem’d much incens’d, and said, ‘What words are these,
Unsufferable Saturn’s son? What! Here! In Ida’s height!
Desir’st thou this? How fits it us? Or what if in the sight
Of any god thy will were pleas’d, that he the rest might bring
To witness thy incontinence? ’Twere a dishonour’d thing.
I would not show my face in heav’n, and rise from such a bed.
But if love be so dear to thee, thou hast a chamber stead,
Which Vulcan purposely contriv’d with all fit secrecy:
There sleep at pleasure.’ He replied: ‘I fear not if the eye
Of either god or man observe, so thick a cloud of gold
I’ll cast about us, that the sun (who furthest can behold)
Shall never find us.’ This resolv’d, into his kind embrace
He took his wife: beneath them both fair Tellus strew’d the place
With fresh-sprung herbs, so soft and thick, that up aloft it bore
Their heav’nly bodies: with his leaves did dewy lotus store
Th’ Elysian mountain; saffron flow’rs and hyacinths help’d make
The sacred bed, and there they slept: when suddenly there brake
A golden vapour out of air, whence shining dews did fall,
In which they wrapt them close, and slept till Jove was tam’d withal.
Mean space flew Somnus to the ships, found Neptune out, and said:
‘Now cheerfully assist the Greeks, and give them glorious head –
At least a little, while Jove sleeps; of whom through every limb
I pour’d dark sleep, Saturnia’s love hath so illuded him.’
This news made Neptune more secure in giving Grecians heart,
And through the first fights thus he stirr’d the men of most desert:
‘Yet, Grecians, shall we put our ships and conquest in the hands
Of Priam’s Hector, by our sloth? He thinks so, and commands,
With pride according; all because Achilles keeps away.
Alas, as we were nought but him! We little need to stay
On his assistance, if we would our own strengths call to field,
And mutually maintain repulse. Come on then, all men yield
To what I order; we that bear best arms in all our host,
Whose heads sustain the brightest helms, whose hands are bristled most
With longest lances, let us on. But stay, I’ll lead you all;
Nor think I, but great Hector’s spirits will suffer some appall,
Though they be never so inspir’d: the ablest of us then,
That on our shoulders worst shields bear, exchange with worser men
That fight with better.’ This propos’d, all heard it, and obey’d:
The kings (ev’n those that suffer’d wounds, Ulysses, Diomed
And Agamemnon) helpt’d t’instruct the complete army thus:
To good, gave good arms, worse to worse; yet none were mutinous.
Thus, arm’d with order, forth they flew; the great Earth-shaker led,
A long sword in his sinewy hand, which when he brandished,
It lighten’d still: there was no law for him and it; poor men
Must quake before them. These thus mann’d, illustrious Hector then
His host brought up. The blue-hair’d god and he stretch’d through the prease
A grievous fight, when to the ships and tents of Greece the seas
Brake loose, and rag’d. But when they join’d, the dreadful clamour rose
To such a height, as not the sea, when up the North-spirit blows
Her raging billows, bellows so against the beaten shore;
Nor such a rustling keeps a fire, driven with violent blore,
Through woods that grow against a hill; nor so the fervent strokes
Of almost-bursting winds resound against a grove of oaks,
As did the clamour of these hosts, when both the battles clos’d.
Of all which noble Hector first at Ajax’ breast dispos’d
His javelin, since so right on him the great-soul’d soldier bore;
Nor miss’d it, but the bawdricks both that his broad bosom wore,
To hang his shield and sword, it struck; both which his flesh preserv’d.
Hector (disdaining that his lance had thus as good as swerv’d)
Trode to his strength; but going off, great Ajax with a stone
(One of the many props for ships that there lay trampled on)
Struck his broad breast above his shield, just underneath his throat,
And shook him piecemeal. When the stone sprung back again, and smote
Earth, like a whirlwind gathering dust, with whirring fiercely round,
For fervour of his unspent strength, in settling on the ground;
And as when Jove’s bolt by the roots rends from the earth an oak,
His sulphur casting with the blow a strong unsavoury smoke,
And on the fall’n plant none dare look but with amazed eyes
(Jove’s thunder being no laughing gam,,) so bow’d strong Hector’s thighs,
And so with tost-up heels he fell: away his lance he flung,
His round shield follow’d, then his helm, and out his armour rung.
The Greeks then shouted, and ran in, and hop’d to hale him off,
And therefore pour’d on darts in storms, to keep his aid aloof;
But none could hurt the people’s guide, nor stir him from his ground:
Sarpedon, prince of Lycia, and Glaucus, so renown’d,
Divine Agenor, Venus’ son, and wise Polydamas,
Rush’d to his rescue, and the rest: no one neglective was
Of Hector’s safety; all their shields they couch’d about him close,
Rais’d him from earth, and (giving him, in their kind arms, repose)
From off the labour carried him, to his rich chariot,
And bore him mourning towards Troy: but when the flood they got
Of gulfy Xanthus, that was got by deathless Jupiter,
There took they him from chariot, and all besprinkled there
His temples with the stream; he b
reath’d, look’d up, assay’d to rise,
And on his knees stay’d, spitting blood: again then clos’d his eyes,
And back again his body fell; the main blow had not done
Yet with his spirit. When the Greeks saw worthy Hector gone,
Then thought they of their work, then charg’d with much more cheer the foe,
And then (far first) Oïleades began the overthrow:
He darted Satnius Enops’ son, whom famous Naïs bore
(As she was keeping Enops’ flocks) on Satnius river’s shore,
And struck him in his belly’s rim, who upwards fell, and rais’d
A mighty skirmish with his fall: and then Panthaedes seiz’d
Prothenor Areilicides with his reveng’ful spear,
On his right shoulder, struck it through, and laid him breathless there.
For which he insolently bragg’d, and cried out: ‘Not a dart
From great-soul’d Panthus’ son, I think, shall ever vainlier part,
But some Greek’s bosom it shall take, and make him give his ghost.’
This brag the Grecians stomach’d much, but Telamonius most,
Who stood most near Prothenor’s fall: and out he sent a lance,
Which Panthus’ son, declining, scap’d, yet took it to sad chance
Archilochus, Antenor’s son, whom heav’n did destinate
To that stern end; ’twixt neck and head the javelin wrought his fate,
And ran in at the upper joint of all the back long bone,
Cut both the nerves, and such a load of strength laid Ajax on,
As that small part he seiz’d outweigh’d all th’ under limbs, and strook
His heels up so, that head and face the earth’s possessions took,
When all the low parts sprung in air; and thus did Ajax quit
Panthaedes’ brave: ‘Now, Panthus’ son, let thy prophetic wit
Consider, and disclose a truth, if this man do not weigh
Even with Prothenor. I conceive, no one of you will say,
That either he was base himself, or sprung of any base.
Antenor’s brother, or his son, he should be by his face;
One of his race, past question, his likeness shows he is.’
This spake he, knowing it well enough. The Trojans storm’d at this,
And then slew Acamas (to save his brother yet engag’d)
Boeotius, dragging him to spoil and thus the Greeks enrag’d.
‘O Greeks, ev’n born to bear our darts, yet ever breathing threats,
Not always under tears and toils ye see our fortune sweats,
But sometimes you drop under death: see now your quick among
Our dead, intranc’d with my weak lance, to prove I have ere long
Reveng’d my brother: ’tis the wish of every honest man
His brother slain in Mars’s field may rest wreak’d in his fane.’
This stirr’d fresh envy in the Greeks, but urg’d Peneleus most,
Who hurl’d his lance at Acamas; he ’scap’t, nor yet it lost
The force he gave it, for it found the flock-rich Phorbas’ son,
Ilioneus, whose dear sire (past all in Ilion)
Was lov’d of Hermes, and enrich’d; and to him only bore
His mother this now slaughter’d man. The dart did undergore
His eye-lid, by his eye’s dear roots; and out the apple fell,
The eye pierc’d through: nor could the nerve that stays the neck repel
His strong-wing’d lance, but neck and all gave way, and down he dropp’d.
Peneleus then unsheath’d his sword, and from the shoulders chopp’d
His luckless head; which down he threw, the helm still sticking on,
And still the lance fix’d in his eye; which not to see alone
Contented him, but up again he snatch’d, and show’d it all,
With this stern brave: ‘Ilians, relate brave Ilioneus’ fall
To his kind parents, that their roofs their tears may overrun,
For so the house of Promachus, and Alegenor’s son,
Must with his wife’s eyes overflow, she never seeing more
Her dear lord, though we tell his death, when to our native shore
We bring from ruin’d Troy our fleet, and men so long forgone.’
This said, and seen, pale Fear possess’d all those of Ilion,
And ev’ry man cast round his eye, to see where death was not,
That he might flee him. Let not then his grac’d hand be forgot
(O Muses, you that dwell in heav’n) that first imbru’d the field
With Trojan spoil, when Neptune thus had made their irons yield.
First Ajax Telamonius the Mysian captain slew,
Great Hyrtius Gyrtiades; Antilochus o’erthrew
Phalces and Mermer, to their spoil; Meriones gave end
To Moris and Hippotion; Teucer to fate did send
Prothoön and Periphetes; Atrides’ javelin chas’d
Duke Hyperenor, wounding him in that part that is plac’d
Betwixt the short ribs and the bones that to the triple gut
Have pertinence; the javelin’s head did out his entrails cut,
His forc’d soul breaking through the wound: night’s black hand clos’d his eyes;
Then Ajax, great Oïleus’ son, had divers victories;
For when Saturnius suffer’d flight, of all the Grecian race
Not one with swiftness of his feet could so enrich a chace.
The end of the fourteenth book
Book 15
The Argument
Jove waking, and beloved Troy in flight,
Chides Juno, and sends Iris to the fight,
To charge the sea-god to forsake the field,
And Phoebus to invade it with his shield,
Recovering Hector’s bruis’d and eras’d pow’rs:
To field he goes, and makes new conquerors,
The Trojans giving now the Grecians chase
Ev’n to their fleet. Then Ajax turns his face,
And feeds, with many Trojan lives, his ire;
Who then brought brands to set the fleet on fire.
Another Argument
Jove sees in O his oversight,
Chides Juno, Neptune calls from fight.
Book 15
The Trojans (beat past pale and dike, and numbers prostrate laid)
All got to chariot, fear-driv’n all, and fear’d as men dismay’d.
Then Jove on Ida’s top awak’d, rose from Saturnia’s side,
Stood up, and look’d upon the war, and all inverted spied,
Since he had seen it – th’ Ilians now in rout, the Greeks in fight;
King Neptune, with his long sword, chief; great Hector put down quite,
Laid flat in field, and with a crown of princes compassed,
So stopp’d up that he scarce could breathe, his mind’s sound habit fled,
And he still spitting blood. Indeed, his hurt was not set on
By one that was the weakest Greek. But him Jove look’d upon
With eyes of pity; on his wife with horrible aspect,
To whom he said: ‘O thou in ill most cunning architect,
All arts and comments that exceed’st! Not only to enforce
Hector from fight, but with his men to show the Greeks a course.
I fear (as formerly, so now) these ills have with thy hands
Their first fruits sown, and therefore could load all thy limbs with bands.
Forgett’st thou when I hang’d thee up, how to thy feet I tied
Two anvils, golden manacles on thy false wrists implied,
And let thee mercilessly hang from our refined heav’n
Even to earth’s vapours; all the gods in great Olympus giv’n
To mutinies about thee, yet (though all stood staring on)
None durst dissolve thee; for these hands (had they but seiz’d upon
Thy friend) had headlong thrown him off, from our star-bearing round,
Till he had tumbled out his breath, and piece-meal dash’d the ground.
Nor was my angry spirit calm’d so soon for those foul seas,
On which (inducing northern flaws) thou shipwreck’dst Hercules,
And toss’d him to the Coan shore, that thou shouldst tempt again
My wrath’s importance, when thou seest (besides) how grossly vain
My pow’rs can make thy policies: for from their utmost force
I freed my son, and set him safe in Argos, nurse of horse.
These I remember to thy thoughts, that thou mayst shun these sleights,
And know how badly bed-sports thrive, procur’d by base deceits.’
This frighted the offending queen, who with this state excus’d
Her kind unkindness: ‘Witness earth and heaven, so far diffus’d,
Thou flood, whose silent-gliding waves the under ground doth bear
(Which is the great’st and gravest oath that any god can swear),
Thy sacred head, those secret joys, that our young bed gave forth
(By which I never rashly swore), that he who shakes the earth
Not by my counsel did this wrong to Hector and his host,
But pitying th’ oppressed Greeks, their fleet being nearly lost,
Reliev’d their hard condition, yet utterly impell’d
By his free mind: which since I see is so offensive held
To thy high pleasure, I will now advise him not to tread
But where thy tempest-raising feet, O Jupiter, shall lead.’
Jove laugh’d to hear her so submiss, and said: ‘My fair-ey’d love,
If still thus thou and I were one (in counsels held above),
Neptune would still, in word and fact, be ours, if not in heart;
If then thy tongue and heart agree, from hence to heav’n depart,
To call the excellent-in-bows, the Rain-bow, and the Sun,
That both may visit both the hosts – the Grecian army one,
And that is Iris; let her haste, and make the sea-god cease
