by Homer
And fit dismission of it. Iris then
He sends to Priam, willing him to gain
His son for ransom. He, by Hermes led,
Gets through Achilles’ guards, sleeps deep and dead
Cast on them by his guide. When, with access
And humble suit made to Aeacides,
He gains the body, which to Troy he bears,
And buries it with feasts, buried in tears.
Another Argument
Omega sings the exequies,
And Hector’s redemptory prize.
Book 24
The games perform’d, the soldiers wholly dispers’d to fleet,
Supper and sleep their only care. Constant Achilles yet
Wept for his friend; nor sleep itself, that all things doth subdue,
Could touch at him. This way and that he turn’d, and did renew
His friend’s dear memory, his grace in managing his strength,
And his strength’s greatness – how life rack’d into their utmost length
Griefs, battles, and the wraths of seas, in their joint sufferance;
Each thought of which turn’d to a tear. Sometimes he would advance
(In tumbling on the shore) his side, sometimes his face, then turn
Flat on his bosom, start upright. Although he saw the morn
Show sea and shore his extasy, he left not till at last
Rage varied his distraction. Horse, chariot, in haste
He call’d for; and (those join’d) the corse was to his chariot tied,
And thrice about the sepulchre he made his fury ride,
Dragging the person. All this past, in his pavilion
Rest seiz’d him, but with Hector’s corse his rage had never done,
Still suffering it t’ oppress the dust. Apollo yet, even dead,
Pitied the prince, and would not see inhuman tyranny fed
With more pollution of his limbs, and therefore cover’d round
His person with his golden shield, that rude dogs might not wound
His manly lineaments (which threat Achilles cruelly
Had us’d in fury). But now heav’n let fall a general eye
Of pity on him; the blest gods persuaded Mercury
(Their good observer) to his stealth; and every deity
Stood pleas’d with it – Juno except, green Neptune, and the Maid
Grac’d with the blue eyes. All their hearts stood hatefully appaid
Long since, and held it as at first to Priam, Ilion,
And all his subjects, for the rape of his licentious son,
Proud Paris, that despis’d these dames in their divine access
Made to his cottage, and prais’d her that his sad wantonness
So costly nourish’d. The twelfth morn now shin’d on the delay
Of Hector’s rescue, and then spake the deity of the day
Thus to th’ immortals: ‘Shameless gods, authors of ill ye are,
To suffer ill. Hath Hector’s life at all times show’d his care
Of all your rights, in burning thighs of beeves and goats to you?
And are your cares no more of him? Vouchsafe ye not ev’n now
(Ev’n dead) to keep him, that his wife, his mother, and his son,
Father and subjects, may be mov’d to those deeds he hath done,
See’ng you preserve him that serv’d you, and sending to their hands
His person for the rites of fire? Achilles, that withstands
All help to others, you can help – one that hath neither heart
Nor soul within him that will move or yield to any part
That fits a man, but lion-like, uplandish, and mere wild,
Slave to his pride, and all his nerves being naturally compil’d
Of eminent strength, stalks out and preys upon a silly sheep:
And so fares this man – that fit ruth that now should draw so deep
In all the world being lost in him, and shame (a quality
Of so much weight that both it helps and hurts excessively
Men in their manners) is not known, nor hath the power to be,
In this man’s being. Other men a greater loss than he
Have undergone – a son, suppose, or brother of one womb –
Yet, after dues of woes and tears, they bury in his tomb
All their deplorings. Fates have given to all that are true men
True manly patience, but this man so soothes his bloody vein
That no blood serves it; he must have divine-soul’d Hector bound
To his proud chariot, and danc’d in a most barbarous round
About his lov’d friend’s sepulchre when he is slain: ’tis vile,
And draws no profit after it. But let him now awhile
Mark but our angers; his is spent; let all his strength take heed
It tempts not our wraths; he begets, in this outrageous deed,
The dull earth with his fury’s hate. White-wristed Juno said
(Being much incens’d): ‘This doom is one that thou wouldst have obey’d,
Thou bearer of the silver bow, that we in equal care
And honour should hold Hector’s worth with him that claims a share
In our deservings. Hector suck’d a mortal woman’s breast,
Aeacides a goddess’s; ourself had interest
Both in his infant nourishment and bringing up with state,
And to the human Peleus we gave his bridal mate,
Because he had th’ immortals love. To celebrate the feast
Of their high nuptials, every god was glad to be a guest,
And thou fedd’st of his father’s cates, touching thy harp in grace
Of that beginning of our friend, whom thy perfidious face
(In his perfection) blusheth not to match with Priam’s son,
O thou that to betray and shame art still companion.’
Jove thus receiv’d her: ‘Never give these broad terms to a god.
Those two men shall not be compar’d; and yet of all that trod
The well-pav’d Ilion, none so dear to all the deities
As Hector was, at least to me. For off’rings most of prize
His hands would never pretermit. Our altars ever stood
Furnish’d with banquets fitting us; odours and every good
Smok’d in our temples; and for this (foreseeing it) his fate
We mark’d with honour, which must stand; but to give stealth estate
In his deliv’rance, shun we that; nor must we favour one
To shame another. Privily, with wrong to Thetis’ son,
We must not work out Hector’s right. There is a ransom due,
And open course by laws of arms; in which must humbly sue
The friends of Hector. Which just mean if any god would stay
And use the other, ’twould not serve, for Thetis night and day
Is guardian to him. But would one call Iris hither, I
Would give directions that for gifts the Trojan king should buy
His Hector’s body, which the son of Thetis shall resign.’
This said, his will was done; the dame that doth in vapours shine,
Dewy and thin, footed with storms, jump’d to the sable seas
’Twixt Samos and sharp Imber’s cliffs; the lake groan’d with the press
Of her rough feet, and (plummet-like, put in an ox’s horn
That bears death to the raw-fed fish) she div’d, and found forlorn
Thetis, lamenting her son’s fate, who was in Troy to have
(Far from his country) his death
serv’d. Close to her Iris stood,
And said: ‘Rise, Thetis; prudent Jove (whose counsels thirst not blood)
Calls for thee.’ Thetis answer’d her with asking: ‘What’s the cause
The great god calls? My sad pow’rs fear’d to break th’ immortal laws,
In going, fill’d with griefs, to heav’n. But he sets snares for none
With colour’d counsels; not a word of him but shall be done.’
She said, and took a sable veil – a blacker never wore
A heav’nly shoulder – and gave way. Swift Iris swum before,
About both roll’d the brackish waves. They took their banks, and flew
Up to Olympus, where they found Saturnius (far-of-view)
Spher’d with heav’n’s ever-being states. Minerva rose, and gave
Her place to Thetis, near to Jove, and Juno did receive
Her entry with a cup of gold, in which she drank to her,
Grac’d her with comfort; and the cup to her hand did refer.
She drank, resigning it. And then the sire of men and gods
Thus entertain’d her: ‘Com’st thou up to these our blest abodes,
Fair goddess Thetis, yet art sad, and that in so high kind
As passeth suff’rance? This I know, and tried thee, and now find
Thy will by mine rul’d, which is rule to all worlds’ government,
Besides this trial yet, this cause sent down for thy ascent,
Nine days contention hath been held amongst th’ immortals here,
For Hector’s person and thy son; and some advices were
To have our good spy Mercury steal from thy son the corse:
But that reproach I kept far off, to keep in future force
Thy former love and reverence. Haste then, and tell thy son
The gods are angry; and myself take that wrong he hath done
To Hector in worst part of all: the rather, since he still
Detains his person. Charge him then, if he respect my will
For any reason, to resign slain Hector; I will send
Iris to Priam to redeem his son, and recommend
Fit ransom to Achilles’ grace; in which right he may joy,
And end his vain grief.’ To this charge bright Thetis did employ
Instant endeavour. From heav’n’s tops she reach’d Achilles’ tent,
Found him still sighing, and some friends with all their compliments
Soothing his humour, other some with all contention
Dressing his dinner, all their pains and skills consum’d upon
A huge wool-bearer, slaughter’d there. His rev’rend mother then
Came near, took kindly his fair hand, and ask’d him: ‘Dear son, when
Will sorrow leave thee? How long time wilt thou thus eat thy heart,
Fed with no other food, nor rest?’ Twere good thou wouldst divert
Thy friend’s love to some lady; cheer thy spirits with such kind parts
As she can quit thy grace withal; the joy of thy deserts
I shall not long have; death is near, and thy all-conquering fate,
Whose haste thou must not haste with grief, but understand the state
Of things belonging to thy life, which quickly order. I
Am sent from Jove t’ advertise thee that every deity
Is angry with thee, himself most, that rage thus reigns in thee
Still to keep Hector. Quit him then, and for fit ransom free
His injur’d person.’ He replied: ‘Let him come that shall give
The ransom, and the person take. Jove’s pleasure must deprive
Men of all pleasures.’ This good speech, and many more, the son
And mother us’d, in ear of all the naval station.
And now to holy Ilion Saturnius Iris sent:
‘Go, swift-foot Iris, bid Troy’s king bear fit gifts, and content
Achilles for his son’s release; but let him greet alone
The Grecian navy, not a man excepting such a one
As may his horse and chariot guide, a herald, or one old,
Attending him; and let him take his Hector. Be he bold,
Discourag’d nor with death nor fear; wise Mercury shall guide
His passage till the prince be near. And (he gone) let him ride
Resolv’d, ev’n in Achilles’ tent. He shall not touch the state
Of his high person, nor admit the deadliest desperate
Of all about him. For (though fierce) he is not yet unwise,
Nor inconsiderate, nor a man past awe of deities,
But passing free and curious to do a suppliant grace.’
This said, the Rainbow to her feet tied whirlwinds, and the place
Reach’d instantly: the heavy court Clamour and Mourning fill’d,
The sons all set about the sire; and there stood Grief, and still’d
Tears on their garments. In the midst the old king sate, his weed
All wrinkled; head and neck dust fil’d, the princesses his seed,
The princesses his sons’ fair wives, all mourning by; the thought
Of friends so many and so good being turn’d so soon to nought
By Grecian hands consum’d their youth, rain’d beauty from their eyes.
Iris came near the king; her sight shook all his faculties,
And therefore spake she soft, and said: ‘Be glad, Dardanides.
Of good occurrents, and none ill, am I ambassadress.
Jove greets thee, who in care (as much as he is distant) deigns
Eye to thy sorrows, pitying thee. My embassy contains
This charge to thee from him; he wills thou shouldst redeem thy son,
Bear gifts t’ Achilles, cheer him so. But visit him alone;
None but some herald let attend, thy mules and chariot
To manage for thee. Fear nor death let daunt thee; Jove hath got
Hermes to guide thee; who as near to Thetis’ son as needs
Shall guard thee: and being once with him, nor his nor others’ deeds
Stand touch’d with, he will all contain. Nor is he mad, nor vain,
Nor impious; but with all his nerves studious to entertain
One that submits with all fit grace.’ Thus vanish’d she like wind.
He mules and chariot calls, his sons bids see them join’d, and bind
A trunk behind it; he himself down to his wardrobe goes,
Built all of cedar, highly roof’d, and odoriferous,
That much stuff, worth the sight, contain’d. To him he call’d his queen,
Thus greeting her: ‘Come, hapless dame, an angel I have seen,
Sent down from Jove, that bade me free our dear son from the fleet
With ransom pleasing to our foe. What holds thy judgment meet?
My strength and spirit lays high charge on all my being, to bear
The Greeks’ worst, vent’ring through their host.’ The queen cried out to hear
His vent’rous purpose, and replied: ‘O whither now is fled
The late discretion that renown’d thy grave and knowing head
In foreign and thine own rul’d realms, that thus thou dar’st assay
Sight of that man, in whose brow sticks the horrible decay
Of sons so many and so strong? Thy heart is iron, I think.
If this stern man (whose thirst of blood makes cruelty his drink)
Take, or but see thee, thou art dead. He nothing pities woe,
Nor honours age. Without his sight, we have enough to do
To mourn with thought of him; keep we our palace, weep we here,
Our son is past our helps. Those throes, that my deliverers were
Of his unhappy lineaments, told me they should be torn
With black-foot dogs. Almighty fate, that black hour he was born,
Spun, in his springing thread, that end; far from his parents’ reach,
This bloody fellow then ordain’d to be their mean, this wretch,
Whose stony liver would to heav’n I might devour, my teeth
My sons’ revengers made. Curst Greek, he gave him not his death
Doing an ill work; he alone fought for his country, he
Fled not, nor fear’d, but stood his worst, and cursed policy
Was his undoing.’ He replied: ‘Whatever was his end,
Is not our question; we must now use all means to defend
His end from scandal: from which act dissuade not my just will,
Nor let me nourish in my house a bird presaging ill
To my good actions: ’tis in vain. Had any earthly spirit
Given this suggestion – if our priests or soothsayers, challenging merit
Of prophets – I might hold it false, and be the rather mov’d
To keep my palace; but these ears and these self eyes approv’d
It was a goddess; I will go, for not a word she spake
I know was idle. If it were, and that my fate will make
Quick riddance of me at the fleet, kill me, Achilles; come,
When getting to thee, I shall find a happy dying room
On Hector’s bosom, when enough thirst of my tears finds there
Quench to his fervour.’ This resolv’d, the works most fair and dear
Of his rich screens he brought abroad: twelve veils wrought curiously,
Twelve plain gowns, and as many suits of wealthy tapestry,
As many mantles, horsemen’s coats, ten talents of fine gold,
Two tripods, cauldrons four, a bowl whose value he did hold
Beyond all price, presented by th’ ambassadors of Thrace.
The old king nothing held too dear to rescue from disgrace
His gracious Hector. Forth he came. At entry of his court
The Trojan citizens so press’d, that this opprobrious sort
Of check he us’d: ‘Hence, cast-aways; away, ye impious crew!
Are not your griefs enough at home? What come ye here to view?
Care ye for my griefs? Would ye see how miserable I am?
Is ’t not enough, imagine ye? Ye might know, ere ye came,
