by Homer
Where all the nervy flyers meet, and ligaments in one,
That make the motion of those parts; through which he did convey
The thong or bawdric of his shield, and so was drawing away
All thanks from Hector and his friends; but in their stead he drew
An ill that no man could avert: for Telamonius threw
A lance that struck quite through his helm; his brain came leaping out.
Down fell Letheides, and with him the body’s hoisted foot.
Far from Larissa’s soil he fell, a little time allow’d
To his industrious spirits, to quit the benefits bestow’d
By his kind parents. But his wreak Priamides assay’d,
And threw at Ajax; but his dart (discover’d) pass’d, and stay’d
At Schedius, son of Iphitus, a man of ablest hand
Of all the strong Phocensians, and liv’d with great command,
In Fanopaeus. The fell dart fell through his channel-bone,
Pierc’d through his shoulder’s upper part, and set his spirit gone.
When (after his) another flew, the same hand giving wing
To martial Phorcis’ startled soul, that was the after spring
Of Phaenops’ seed: the javelin struck his curets through, and tore
The bowels from the belly’s midst. His fall made those before
Give back a little, Hector’s self enforc’d to turn his face.
And then the Greeks bestow’d their shouts, took vantage of the chace,
Drew off, and spoil’d Hippothous and Phorcis of their arms.
And then ascended Ilion had shaken with alarms
(Discovering th’ impotence of Troy) ev’n past the will of Jove,
And by the proper force of Greece, had Phoebus fail’d to move
Aeneas, in similitude of Periphas (the son
Of grave Epytes) king at arms, and had good service done
To old Anchises, being wise, and ev’n with him in years.
But (like this man) the far-seen god to Venus’ son appears,
And ask’d him how he would maintain steep Ilion in her height,
In spite of gods (as he presum’d), when men approv’d so slight
All his presumptions, and all theirs, that puff’d him with that pride,
Believing in their proper strengths, and generally supplied
With such unfrighted multitudes? But he well knew that Jove
(Besides their self-conceits) sustain’d their forces with more love
Than theirs of Greece, and yet all that lack’d power to hearten them.
Aeneas knew the god, and said, it was a shame extreme
That those of Greece should beat them so, and by their cowardice,
Not want of man’s aid, nor the gods’, and this (before his eyes)
A deity stood, ev’n now, and vouch’d, affirming Jove their aid.
And so bade Hector and the rest (to whom all this he said)
Turn head, and not in that quick ease part with the corse to Greece.
This said, before them all he flew, and all (as of a piece)
Against the Greeks flew. Venus’ son Leocritus did end,
Son of Arisbas, and had place of Lycomedes’ friend,
Whose fall he friendly pitied: and in revenge, bestow’d
A lance that Apisaon struck so sore that straight he strow’d
The dusty centre, and did stick in that congealed blood
That forms the liver. Second man he was to all that stood
In name for arms amongst the troop that from Paeonia came,
Asteropaeus being the first: who was in ruth the same
That Lycomedes was; like whom, he put forth for the wreak
Of his slain friend, but wrought it not, because he could not break
That bulwark made of Grecian shields and bristled wood of spears
Combin’d about the body slain. Amongst whom Ajax bears
The greatest labour, every way exhorting to abide,
And no man fly the corse afoot, nor break their ranks in pride
Of any foremost daring spirit, but each foot hold his stand,
And use the closest fight they could. And this was the command
Of mighty Ajax: which observ’d, they steep’d the earth in blood.
The Trojans and their friends fell thick. Nor all the Grecians stood –
Though far the fewer suffer’d fate, for ever they had care
To shun confusion, and the toil that still oppresseth there.
So set they all the field on fire; with which you would have thought
The sun and moon had been put out, in such a smoke they fought
About the person of the prince. But all the field beside
Fought underneath a lightsome heaven: the sun was in his pride,
And such expansure of his beams he thrust out of his throne
That not a vapour durst appear in all that region –
No, not upon the highest hill: there fought they still and breath’d,
Shunn’d danger, cast their darts aloof, and not a sword unsheath’d.
The other plied it, and the war and night plied them as well,
The cruel steel afflicting all; the strongest did not dwell
Unhurt within their iron roofs. Two men of special name,
Antilochus and Thrasimed, were yet unserv’d by fame
With notice of Patroclus’ death: they thought him still alive,
In foremost tumult – and might well: for (seeing their fellows thrive
In no more comfortable sort than fight and death would yield)
They fought apart; for so their sire, old Nestor, strictly will’d,
Enjoining fight more from the fleet. War here increas’d his heat
The whole day long; continually the labour and the sweat
The knees, calves, feet, hands, faces, smear’d, of men that Mars applied
About the good Achilles’ friend. And as a huge ox-hide
A currier gives amongst his men, to supple and extend
With oil till it be drunk withall; they tug, stretch out, and spend
Their oil and liquor liberally, and chafe the leather so
That out they make a vapour breathe, and in their oil doth go;
A number of them set on work, and in an orb they pull,
That all ways all parts of the hide they may extend at full:
So here and there did both parts hale the corse in little place,
And wrought it always with their sweat; the Trojans hop’d for grace
To make it reach for Ilion, the Grecians to their fleet.
A cruel tumult they stirr’d up, and such as, should Mars see ’t
(That horrid hurrier of men), or she that betters him,
Minerva, never so incens’d, they could not disesteem.
So baneful a contention did Jove that day extend
Of men and horse about the slain. Of whom his god-like friend
Had no instruction. So far off, and underneath the wall
Of Troy, that conflict was maintain’d: which was not thought at all
By great Achilles, since he charg’d, that having set his foot
Upon the ports, he would retire; well knowing Troy no boot
For his assaults without himself, since not by him, as well
He knew, it was to be subdu’d. His mother oft would tell
The mind of mighty Jove therein, oft hearing it in heav’n.
But of that great ill to his friend was no instruction giv’n
By careful Thetis: by degrees must ill events be known.
The foes cleft one to other still about the overthrown.
His death with death infected both. Ev’n private Greeks would say
Either to other: ‘Twere a shame for us to go our way,
And let the Trojans bear to Troy the praise of such a prize:
Which let the black earth gasp and drink our blood for sacrifice
Before we suffer: ’tis an act much less infortunate.’
And then would those of Troy resolve: ‘Though certainly our fate
Will fell us all together here, of all not turn a face.’
Thus either side his fellow’s strength excited past his place,
And thus through all th’ unfruitful air an iron sound ascended
Up to the golden firmament, when strange effects contended
In these immortal heav’n-bred horse of great Aeacides;
Whom (once remov’d from forth the fight) a sudden sense did seize
Of good Patroclus’ death, whose hands they oft had undergone,
And bitterly they wept for him: nor could Automedon
With any manage make them stir; oft use the scourge to them,
Oft use his fairest speech, as oft threats never so extreme,
They neither to the Hellespont would bear him, nor the fight:
But still as any tombstone lays his never-stirred weight
On some good man or woman’s grave for rites of funeral,
So unremoved stood these steeds, their heads to earth let fall,
And warm tears gushing from their eyes, with passionate desire
Of their kind manager; their manes, that flourish’d with the fire
Of endless youth allotted them, fell through the yoky sphere,
Ruthfully ruffled and defil’d. Jove saw their heavy cheer,
And (pitying them) spake to his mind: ‘Poor wretched beasts,’ said he,
‘Why gave we you t’ a mortal king, when immortality
And incapacity of age so dignifies your states?
Was it to taste the miseries pour’d out on humans fates?
Of all the miserablest things that breathe and creep on earth,
No one more wretched is than man. And for your deathless birth
Hector must fail to make you prize: is ’t not enough he wears
And glories vainly in those arms? Your chariots and rich gears
(Besides you) are too much for him. Your knees and spirits again
My care of you shall fill with strength, that so ye may sustain
Automedon, and bear him off. To Troy I still will give
The grace of slaughter, till at fleet their bloody feet arrive,
Till Phoebus drink the western sea, and sacred darkness throws
Her sable mantle ’twixt their points.’ Thus in the steeds he blows
Excessive spirit, and through the Greeks and Ilians they rapt
The whirring chariot, shaking off the crumbled centre, wrapt
Amongst their tresses: and with them, Automedon let fly
Amongst the Trojans, making way through all as frightfully
As through a jangling flock of geese a lordly vulture beats,
Giv’n way with shrieks by every goose that comes but near his threats:
With such state fled he through the press, pursuing as he fled,
But made no slaughter – nor he could, alone being carried
Upon the sacred chariot. How could he both works do,
Direct his javelin and command his fiery horses too?
At length he came where he beheld his friend Alcimedon,
That was the good Laercius’ (the son of Aemon’s) son,
Who close came to his chariot side, and ask’d, ‘What god is he
That hath so robb’d thee of thy soul, to run thus franticly
Amongst these forefights, being alone, thy fighter being slain,
And Hector glorying in his arms?’ He gave these words again:
‘Alcimedon, what man is he, of all the Argive race,
So able as thy self to keep in use of press and pace
These deathless horse, himself being gone that like the gods had th’ art
Of their high manage? Therefore take to thy command his part,
And ease me of the double charge which thou hast blam’d with right.’
He took the scourge and reins in hand, Automedon the fight:
Which Hector seeing, instantly (Aeneas standing near)
He told him, he discern’d the horse that mere immortal were,
Address’d to fight with coward guides, and therefore hop’d to make
A rich prize of them, if his mind would help to undertake,
For these two could not stand their charge. He granted, and both cast
Dry solid hides upon their necks, exceeding soundly brast;
And forth thy went, associate with two more god-like men,
Aretus and bold Chronius, nor made they question then
To prize the goodly-crested horse, and safely send to hell
The souls of both their guardians: O fools, that could not tell
They could not work out their return from fierce Automedon
Without the liberal cost of blood; who first made orison
To father Jove, and then was fill’d with fortitude and strength,
When (counselling Alcimedon to keep at no great length
The horse from him, but let them breathe upon his back, because
He saw th’ advance that Hector made, whose fury had no laws
Propos’d to it, but both their lives, and those horse made his prize –
Or his life theirs – he call’d to friend these well-approv’d supplies,
Th’ Ajaces and the Spartan king, and said: ‘Come, princes, leave
A sure guard with the corse, and then to your kind care receive
Our threaten’d safeties; I discern the two chief props of Troy
Prepar’d against us: but herein, what best men can enjoy
Lies in the free knees of the gods; my dart shall lead ye all.
The sequel to the care of Jove I leave, whatever fall.’
All this spake good Automedon; then, brandishing his lance,
He threw, and struck Aretus’ shield, that gave it enterance
Through all the steel, and (by his belt) his belly’s inmost part
It pierc’d, and all his trembling limbs gave life up to his dart.
Then Hector at Automedon a blazing lance let fly,
Whose flight he saw, and falling flat, the compass was too high,
And made it stick beyond in earth, th’ extreme part burst, and there
Mars buried all his violence. The sword then for the spear
Had chang’d the conflict, had not haste sent both th’ Ajaces in
(Both serving close their fellow’s call) who, where they did begin,
There drew the end: Priamides, Aeneas, Chronius
(In doubt of what such aid might work) left broken-hearted thus
Aretus to Automedon, who spoil’d his arms, and said:
‘A little this revives my life, for him so lately dead
(Though by this nothing countervail’d)’; and with his little vent
Of inward grief, he took the spoil, with which he made ascent
Up to his chariot, hands and feet of bloody stains so full,
That lion-like he look’d, new turn’d from tearing up a bull.
And now another bitter fight about Patroclus grew,
Tear-thirsty, and of toil enough, which Pallas did renew,
Descending from the cope of stars, dismiss’d by sharp-ey’d Jove,
> To animate the Greeks; for now inconstant change did move
His mind from what he held of late: and as the purple bow
Jove bends at mortals, when of war he will the signal show,
Or make it a presage of cold, in such tempestuous sort,
That men are of their labours eas’d, but labouring cattle hurt:
So Pallas in a purple cloud involv’d herself, and went
Amongst the Grecians; stirr’d up all, but first encouragement
She breath’d in Atreus’ younger son, and (for disguise) made choice
Of aged Phoenix’ shape, and spake with his unwearied voice:
‘O Menelaus, much defame and equal heaviness
Will touch at thee, if this true friend of great Aeacides
Dogs tear beneath the Trojan walls; and therefore bear thee well,
Toil through the host, and every man with all thy spirit impel.’
He answer’d: ‘O thou long-since born! O Phoenix, that hast won
The honour’d foster-father’s name of Thetis’ god-like son!
I would Minerva would but give strength to me, and but keep
These busy darts off, I would then make in indeed, and steep
My income in their bloods, in aid of good Patroclus; much
His death afflicts me, much: but yet this Hector’s grace is such
With Jove, and such a fiery strength and spirit he has, that still
His steel is killing, killing still.’ The king’s so royal will
Minerva joy’d to hear, since she did all the gods outgo
In his remembrance. For which grace she kindly did bestow
Strength on his shoulders, and did fill his knees as liberally
With swiftness, breathing in his breast the courage of a fly,
Which loves to bite so, and doth bear man’s blood so much good will,
That still (though beaten from a man) she flies upon him still:
With such a courage Pallas fill’d the black parts near his heart;
And then he hasted to the slain, cast off a shining dart,
And took one Podes, that was heir to old Eëtion,
A rich man, and a strenuous, and by the people done
Much honour – and by Hector too, being consort, and his guest;
And him the yellow-headed king laid hold on at his waist,
In offering flight. His iron pile struck through him, down he fell,
And up Atrides drew his corse. Then Phoebus did impel
