by Homer
To his adventure, and so near dares tempt my angry lance.’
Thus he excited. Hector then as much strives to advance
The hearts of his men, adding threats, affirming he would stand
In combat with Aeacides. ‘Give fear,’ said he, ‘no hand
Of your great hearts, brave Ilians, for Peleus’ talking son;
I’ll fight with any god with words; but when their spears put on,
The work runs high, their strength exceeds mortality so far.
And they may make works crown their words, which hold not in the war
Achilles makes; his hands have bounds; this word he shall make good,
And leave another to the field: his worst shall be withstood
With sole objection of myself, though in his hands he bear
A rage like fire, though fire itself his raging fingers were
And burning steel flew in his strength.’ Thus he incited his;
And they rais’d lances, and to work with mixed courages,
And up flew Clamour; but the heat in Hector Phoebus gave
This temper: ‘Do not meet,’ said he, ‘in any single brave
The man thou threaten’st, but in press; and in thy strength impeach
His violence; for far off or near his sword or dart will reach.’
The god’s voice made a difference in Hector’s own conceit
Betwixt his and Achilles ’words, and gave such overweight
As weigh’d him back into his strength, and curb’d his flying out.
At all threw fierce Aeacides, and gave a horrid shout.
The first of all he put to dart was fierce Iphition,
Surnam’d Otryntides, whom Nais the water-nymph made son
To town-destroyer Otrynteus. Beneath the snowy hill
Of Tmolus in the wealthy town of Ide, at his will
Were many able men at arms. He, rushing in, took full
Pelides’ lance in his head’s midst, that cleft in two his skull.
Achilles knew him, one much fam’d, and thus insulted then:
‘Th’ art dead, Otryntides, though call’d the terriblest of men;
Thy race runs at Gygaeus lake, there thy inheritance lay,
Near fishy Hillus, and the gulfs of Hermus: but this day
Removes it to the fields of Troy.’ Thus left he night to seize
His closed eyes, his body laid in course of all the press,
Which Grecian horse broke with the strakes, nail’d to their chariot wheels.
Next (through the temples) the burst eyes his deadly javelin seels
Of great-in-Troy Antenor’s son, renown’d Demoleon,
A mighty turner of a field. His overthrow set gone
Hippodamas, who leap’d from horse, and as he fled before
Aeacides, his turned back he made fell Pelias gore,
And forth he puff’d his flying soul: and as a tortur’d bull
(To Neptune brought for sacrifice) a troop of youngsters pull
Down to the earth, and drag him round about the hallow’d shore
To please the wat’ry deity, with forcing him to roar,
And forth he pours his utmost throat: so bellow’d this slain friend
Of flying Ilion with the breath that gave his being end.
Then rush’d he on, and in his eye had heavenly Polydore,
Old Priam’s son; whom last of all his fruitful princess bore;
And for his youth (being dear to him) the king forbade to fight.
Yet (hot of unexperienc’d blood, to show how exquisite
He was of foot, for which of all the fifty sons he held
The special name) he flew before the first heat of the field,
Ev’n till he flew out breath and soul: which, through the back, the lance
Of swift Achilles put in air, and did his head advance
Out at his navel: on his knees the poor prince crying fell,
And gather’d with his tender hands his entrails, that did swell
Quite through the wide wound, till a cloud as black as death conceal’d
Their sight, and all the world from him. When Hector had beheld
His brother tumbled so to earth (his entrails still in hand),
Dark sorrow overcast his eyes; not far off could he stand
A minute longer, but like fire he brake out of the throng,
Shook his long lance at Thetis’ son, and then came he along
To feed th’ encounter: ‘O,’ said he, ‘here comes the man that most
Of all the world destroys my mind, the man by whom I lost
My dear Patroclus; now not long the crooked paths of war
Can yield us any privy scapes: come, keep not off so far,’
He cried to Hector. ‘Make the pain of thy sure death as short
As one so desperate of his life hath reason.’ In no sort
This frighted Hector, who bore close, and said: ‘Aeacides,
Leave threats for children; I have pow’r to thunder calumnies
As well as other, and well know thy strength superior far
To that my nerves hold, but the gods (not nerves) determine war.
And yet (for nerves) there will be found a strength of power in mine,
To drive a lance home to thy life; my lance as well as thine
Hath point and sharpness, and ’tis this. Thus brandishing his spear,
He set it flying; which a breath of Pallas back did bear
From Thetis’ son to Hector’s self, and at his feet it fell.
Achilles us’d no dart, but close flew in, and thought to deal
With no strokes but of sure dispatch; but what with all his blood
He labour’d, Phoebus clear’d with ease, as being a god, and stood
For Hector’s guard, as Pallas did, Aeacides, for thine.
He rapt him from him, and a cloud of much night cast between
His person and the point oppos’d. Achilles then exclaim’d,
‘O see yet more gods are at work; Apollo’s hand hath fram’d
(Dog that thou art) thy rescue now: to whom go pay the vows
Thy safety owes him; I shall vent in time those fatal blows
That yet beat in my heart, on thine, if any god remain
My equal fautor. In mean time, my anger must maintain
His fire on other Ilians.’ Then laid he at his feet
Great Demochus, Philetor’s son, and Dryope did greet
With like encounter. Dardanus and strong Laogonus
(Wise Byas’ sons) he hurl’d from horse, of one victorious
With his close sword, the other’s life he conquer’d with his lance.
Then Tros, Alastor’s son, made in, and sought to ’scape their chance
With free submission. Down he fell, and pray’d about his knees
He would not kill him, but take ruth, as one that destinies
Made to that purpose, being a man born in the self same year
That he himself was: O poor fool, to sue to him to bear
A ruthful mind; he well might know he could not fashion him
In ruth’s soft mould, he had no spirit to brook that interim
In his hot fury. He was none of these remorseful men,
Gentle and affable, but fierce at all times, and mad then.
He gladly would have made a pray’r, and still so hugg’d his knee
He could not quit him, till at last his sword was fain to free
His fetter’d knees, that made a vent for his white liver’s blood,
That caus’d such pitiful affects, of which it pour’d a flood
<
br /> About his bosom, which it fill’d, even till it drown’d his eyes,
And all sense fail’d him. Forth then flew this prince of tragedies,
Who next stoop’d Mulius, ev’n to death, with his insatiate spear:
One ear it enter’d, and made good his pass to th’ other ear.
Echeclus then (Agenor’s son), he struck betwixt the brows,
Whose blood set fire upon his sword, that cool’d it till the throes
Of his then labouring brain let out his soul to fixed fate,
And gave cold entry to black death. Deucalion then had state
In these men’s beings: where the nerves about the elbow knit,
Down to his hand his spear’s steel pierc’d, and brought such pain to it
As led death jointly, whom he saw before his fainting eyes,
And in his neck felt, with a stroke laid on so, that off flies
His head: one of the twice twelve bones that all the backbone make
Let out his marrow, when the head he helm and all did take,
And hurl’d amongst the Ilians; the body stretch’d on earth.
Rhigmus of fruitful Thrace next fell; he was the famous birth
Of Pireus: his belly’s midst the lance took, whose stern force
Quite tumbled him from chariot. In turning back the horse,
Their guider Areithous receiv’d another lance
That threw him to his lord. No end was put to the mischance
Achilles enter’d: but as fire, fall’n in a flash from heav’n,
Inflames the high woods of dry hills, and with a storm is driv’n
Through all the sylvan deeps, and raves, till down goes everywhere
The smother’d hill: so every way Achilles and his spear
Consum’d the champain; the black earth flow’d with the veins he tore.
And look how oxen (yok’d and driv’n about the circular floor
Of some fair barn) tread suddenly the thick sheaves, thin of corn,
And all the corn consum’d with chaff: so mix’d and overborne,
Beneath Achilles’ one-hoof’d horse, shields, spears and men lay trod,
His axle-tree and chariot wheels all spatter’d with the blood
Hurl’d from the steeds’ hoofs and the strakes. Thus to be magnified,
His most inaccessible hands in human blood he dyed.
The end of the twentieth book
Book 21
The Argument
In two parts Troy’s host parted; Thetis’ son
One to Scamander, one to Ilion
Pursues. Twelve lords he takes alive, to end
In sacrifice, for vengeance to his friend.
Asteropaeus dies by his fierce hand,
And Priam’s son, Lycaon. Over land
The flood breaks: where, Achilles being engag’d,
Vulcan preserves him, and with spirit enrag’d,
Sets all the champain and the flood on fire;
Contention then doth all the gods inspire.
Apollo in Agenor’s shape doth stay
Achilles’ fury; and by giving way,
Makes him pursue, till the deceit gives leave,
That Troy in safety might her friends receive.
Another Argument
Phi, at the flood’s shore, doth express
The labours of Aeacides.
Book 21
And now they reach’d the goodly swelling channel of the flood,
Gulf-eating Xanthus, whom Jove mix’d with his immortal brood:
And there Achilles cleft the host of Ilion: one side fell
On Xanthus, th’ other on the town: and that did he impel
The same way that the last day’s rage put all the Greeks in rout,
When Hector’s fury reign’d; these now Achilles pour’d about
The scatter’d field. To stay the flight, Saturnia cast before
Their hasty feet a standing fog, and then flight’s violence bore
The other half full on the flood. The silver-gulfed deep
Receiv’d them with a mighty cry: the billows vast and steep
Roar’d at their armours, which the shores did round about resound:
This way and that they swum, and shriek’d, as in the gulfs they drown’d.
And as in fir’d fields locusts rise, as the unwearied blaze
Plies still their rising, till in swarms all rush as in amaze
(For ’scape) into some neighbour flood: so th’ Achillean stroke
Here drave the foe; the gulfy flood with men and horse did choke.
Then on the shore the worthy hid, and left his horrid lance
Amids the tamrisks; then sprite-like did with his sword advance
Up to the river; ill affairs took up his furious brain
For Troy’s engagements: every way he doubled slain on slain.
A most unmanly noise was made, with those he put to sword,
Of groans and outcries; the flood blush’d to be so much engor’d
With such base souls. And as small fish the swift-finn’d dolphin fly,
Filling the deep pits in the ports, on whose close strength they lie,
And there he swallows them in shoals: so here, to rocks and holes,
About the flood, the Trojans fled; and there most lost their souls,
Even till he tir’d his slaught’rous arm. Twelve fair young princes then
He chose of all to take alive, to have them freshly slain
On that most solemn day of wreak, resolv’d on for his friend.
These led he trembling forth the flood, as fearful of their end
As any hind calves: all their hands he pinioned behind
With their own girdles, worn upon their rich weeds, and resign’d
Their persons to his Myrmidons to bear to fleet; and he
Plung’d in the stream again to take more work of tragedy.
He met, then issuing the flood, with all intent of flight,
Lycaon (Dardan Priam’s son), whom lately in the night
He had surpris’d as in a wood of Priam’s he had cut
The green arms of a wild fig-tree, to make him spokes to put
In naves of his new chariot. An ill then, all unthought,
Stole on him in Achilles’ shape, who took him thence, and brought
To well-built Lemnos, selling him to famous Jason’s son,
From whom a guest then in his house (Imbrius Eëtion)
Redeem’d at high rate, and sent home t’ Arisba, whence he fled,
And saw again his father’s court; eleven days banqueted
Amongst his friends; the twelfth god thrust his hapless head again
In t’ hands of stern Aeacides, who now must send him slain
To Pluto’s court, and ’gainst his will. Him when Achilles knew,
Naked of helmet, shield, sword, lance, all which for ease he threw
To earth, being overcome with sweat, and labour wearying
His flying knees, he storm’d, and said: ‘O heav’n, a wondrous thing
Invades mine eyes: those Ilians that heretofore I slew
Rise from the dark dead quick again; this man Fate makes eschew
Her own steel fingers: he was sold in Lemnos, and the deep
Of all seas ’twixt this Troy and that (that many a man doth keep
From his lov’d country) bars not him; come then, he now shall taste
The head of Pelias, and try if steel will down as fast
As other fortunes, or kind earth can any surer seize
On his sly person, whose strong arms have held down Hercul
es.
His thoughts thus mov’d while he stood firm, to see if he he spied
Would offer flight (which first he thought), but when he had descried
He was descried, and flight was vain, fearful, he made more nigh,
With purpose to embrace his knees, and now long’d much to fly
His black fate, and abhorred death, by coming in. His foe
Observ’d all this, and up he rais’d his lance as he would throw;
And then Lycaon close ran in, fell on his breast, and took
Achilles’ knees, whose lance (on earth now staid) did overlook
His still turn’d back, with thirst to glut his sharp point with the blood
That lay so ready. But that thirst Lycaon’s thirst withstood
To save his blood; Achilles’ knee in his one hand he knit,
His other held the long lance hard, and would not part with it,
But thus besought: ‘I kiss thy knees, divine Aeacides!
Respect me, and my fortunes rue; I now present th’ access
Of a poor suppliant for thy ruth, and I am one that is
Worthy thy ruth, O Jove’s belov’d. First hour my miseries
Fell into any hand, ’twas thine: I tasted all my bread
By thy gift since, O since that hour that thy surprisal led
From forth the fair wood my sad feet, far from my lov’d allies,
To famous Lemnos, where I found a hundred oxen’s prize
To make my ransom, for which now I thrice the worth will raise.
This day makes twelve since I arriv’d in Ilion, many days
Being spent before in sufferance; and now a cruel fate
Thrusts me again into thy hands. I should haunt Jove with hate,
That with such set malignity gives thee my life again.
There were but two of us for whom Laothoë suffer’d pain –
Laothoë, old Alte’s seed – Alte, whose palace stood
In height of upper Pedasus, near Satnius’ silver flood,
And rul’d the war-like Lelegi. Whose seed (as many more),
King Priam married, and begot the god-like Polydor,
And me accurs’d: thou slaughter’dst him, and now thy hand on me
Will prove as mortal. I did think, when here I met with thee,
I could not ’scape thee; yet give ear, and add thy mind to it:
I told my birth to intimate, though one sire did beget,
