Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  Iliad Book XXI. The Battle in the River Scamander

  THE ARGUMENT

  The Trojans fly before Achilles, some towards the town, others to the river Scamander; he falls upon the latter with great slaughter, takes twelve captives alive, to sacrifice to the shade of Patroclus; and kills Lycaon and Asteropæus. Scamander attacks him with all his waves; Neptune and Pallas assist the hero; Simois joins Scamander; at length Vulcan, by the instigation of Juno, almost dries up the river. This combat ended, the other gods engage each other. Meanwhile Achilles continues the slaughter, and drives the rest into Troy: Agenor only makes a stand, and is conveyed away in a cloud by Apollo: who (to delude Achilles) takes upon him Agenor’s shape, and while he pursues him in that disguise, gives the Trojans an opportunity of retiring into their city.

  The same day continues. The scene is on the banks and in the stream of Scamander.

  AND now to Xanthus’ gliding stream they drove,

  Xanthus, immortal progeny of Jove.

  The river here divides the flying train:

  Part to the town fly diverse o’er the plain,

  Where late their troops triumphant bore the fight, 5

  Now chased and trembling in ignoble flight

  (These with a gather’d mist Saturnia shrouds,

  And rolls behind the rout a heap of clouds);

  Part plunge into the stream: old Xanthus roars;

  The flashing billows beat the whiten’d shores: 10

  With cries promiscuous all the banks resound,

  And here and there, in eddies whirling round,

  The flouncing steeds and shrieking warriors drown’d,

  As the scorch’d locusts from their fields retire,

  While fast behind them runs the blaze of fire; 15

  Driv’n from the land before the smoky cloud,

  The clust’ring legions rush into the flood:

  So plunged in Xanthus by Achilles’ force,

  Roars the resounding surge with men and horse.

  His bloody lance the hero casts aside 20

  (Which spreading tam’risks on the margin hide),

  Then, like a God, the rapid billows braves,

  Arm’d with his sword, high brandish’d o’er the waves;

  Now down he plunges, now he whirls it round,

  Deep groan the waters with the dying sound; 25

  Repeated wounds the redd’ning river dyed,

  And the warm purple circled on the tide.

  Swift thro’ the foamy flood the Trojans fly,

  And close in rocks or winding caverns lie:

  So the huge dolphin tempesting the main, 30

  In shoals before him fly the scaly train;

  Confusedly heap’d, they seek their inmost caves,

  Or pant and heave beneath the floating waves.

  Now, tired with slaughter, from the Trojan band

  Twelve chosen youths he drags alive to land; 35

  With their rich belts their captive arms constrains

  (Late their proud ornaments, but now their chains);

  These his attendants to the ships convey’d,

  Sad victims! destin’d to Patroclus’ shade.

  Then, as once more he plunged amid the flood, 40

  The young Lycaon in his passage stood;

  The son of Priam, whom the hero’s hand

  But late made captive in his father’s hand

  (As from a sycamore his sounding steel

  Lopp’d the green arms to spoke a chariot wheel), 45

  To Lemnos’ isle he sold the royal slave,

  Where Jason’s son the price demanded gave:

  But kind Eëtion, touching on the shore.

  The ransom’d Prince to fair Arisbe bore.

  Ten days were past, since in his father’s regin 50

  He felt the sweets of liberty again:

  The next, that God whom men in vain withstand,

  Gives the same youth to the same conquering hand:

  Now never to return! and doom’d to go

  A sadder journey to the shades below. 55

  His well-known face when great Achilles eyed

  (The helm and vizor he had cast aside

  With wild affright, and dropp’d upon the field

  His useless lance and unavailing shield),

  As trembling, panting, from the stream he fled, 60

  And Knock’d his falt’ring Knees, the hero said:

  ‘Ye mighty Gods! what wonders strike my view!

  Is it in vain our conquering arms subdue?

  Sure I shall see yon heaps of Trojans Kill’d,

  Rise from the shade, and brave me on the field: 65

  As now the captive, whom so late I bound

  And sold to Lemnos, stalks on Trojan ground!

  Not him the sea’s unmeasur’d deeps detain,

  That bar such numbers from their native plain:

  Lo! he returns. Try then my flying spear! 70

  Try, if the grave can hold the wanderer:

  If earth at length this active Prince can seize,

  Earth, whose strong grasp has held down Hercules.’

  Thus while he spake, the Trojan, pale with fears,

  Approach’d, and sought his knees with suppliant tears; 75

  Loath as he was to yield his youthful breath,

  And his soul shiv’ring at th’ approach of death.

  Achilles rais’d the spear, prepared to wound;

  He Kiss’d his feet, extended on the ground:

  And while above the spear suspended stood, 80

  Longing to dip its thirsty point in blood,

  One hand embraced them close, one stopp’d the dart;

  While thus these melting words attempt his heart:

  ‘Thy well-known captive, great Achilles!

  Once more Lycaon trembles at thy Knee; 85

  Some pity to a suppliant’s name afford,

  Who shared the gifts of Ceres at thy board;

  Whom late thy conquering arm to Lemnos bore,

  Far from his father, friends, and native shore;

  A hundred oxen were his price that day, 90

  Now sums immense thy mercy shall repay.

  Scarce respited from woes I yet appear,

  And scarce twelve morning suns have seen me here:

  Lo! Jove again submits me to thy hands,

  Again, her victim cruel Fate demands! 95

  I sprung from Priam, and Laothoë fair

  (Old Altes’ daughter, and Lelegia’s heir;

  Who held in Pedasus his famed abode,

  And ruled the fields where silver Satnio flow’d);

  Two sons (alas! unhappy sons) she bore; 100

  For ah! one spear shall drink each brother’s gore,

  And I succeed to slaughter’d Polydore.

  How from that arm of terror shall I fly?

  Some demon urges, ‘t is my doom to die!

  If ever yet soft pity touch’d thy mind, 105

  Ah! think not me too much of Hector’s kind!

  Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath,

  With his, who wrought thy lov’d Patroclus’ death.’

  These words, attended with a shower of tears,

  The youth address’d to unrelenting ears: 110

  ‘Talk not of life, or ransom’ (he replies),

  ‘Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies:

  In vain a single Trojan sues for grace;

  But least, the sons of Priam’s hateful race.

  Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore? 115

  The great, the good Patroclus is no more!

  He, far thy better, was foredoom’d to die,

  And thou, dost thou bewail mortality?

  Seest thou not me, whom Nature’s gifts adorn,

  Sprung from a Hero, from a Goddess born? 120

  The day shall come (which nothing can avert)

  When by the spear, the arrow, or the dart,

  By night, or day, by force or by design,

  Im
pending death and certain fate are mine.

  Die then:’ he said, and as the word he spoke, 125

  The fainting stripling sunk before the stroke;

  His hand forgot its grasp, and left the spear;

  While all his trembling frame confess’d his fear.

  Sudden Achilles his broad sword display’d,

  And buried in his neck the reeking blade. 130

  Prone fell the youth; and, panting on the land,

  The gushing purple dyed the thirsty sand:

  The victor to the stream the carcass gave,

  And thus insults him, floating on the wave:

  ‘Lie there, Lycaon! let the fish surround 135

  Thy bloated corse, and suck thy gory wound:

  There no sad mother shall thy funerals weep,

  But swift Scamander roll thee to the deep,

  Whose ev’ry wave some wat’ry monster brings,

  To feast unpunish’d on the fat of Kings. 140

  So perish Troy, and all the Trojan line!

  Such ruin theirs, and such compassion mine.

  What boots ye now Scamander’s worshipp’d stream,

  His earthly honours, and immortal name?

  In vain your immolated bulls are slain, 145

  Your living coursers glut his gulfs in vain:

  Thus he rewards you with this bitter fate;

  Thus, till the Grecian vengeance is complete;

  Thus is atoned Patroclus’ honour’d shade,

  And the short absence of Achilles paid.’ 150

  These boastful words provoke the raging God;

  With fury swells the violated flood.

  What means divine may yet the Power employ,

  To check Achilles, and to rescue Troy?

  Meanwhile the hero springs in arms, to dare 155

  The great Asteropæus to mortal war;

  The son of Pelagon, whose lofty line

  Flows from the source of Axius, stream divine!

  (Fair Peribœa’s love the God had crown’d,

  With all his refluent waters circled round.) 160

  On him Achilles rush’d: he fearless stood,

  And shook two spears, advancing from the flood:

  The flood impell’d him, on Pelides’ head

  T’ avenge his waters chocked with heaps of dead.

  Near as they drew, Achilles thus began: 165

  ‘What art thou, boldest of the race of man?

  Who, or from whence? Unhappy is the sire,

  Whose son encounters our resistless ire.’

  ‘O son of Peleus! what avails to trace’

  (Replied the warrior) ‘our illustrious race? 170

  From rich Pæonia’s valleys I command,

  Arm’d with protended spears, my native band;

  Now shines the tenth bright morning since I came

  In aid of Ilion to the Fields of Fame:

  Axius, who swells with all the neighb’ring rills, 175

  And wide around the floated region fills,

  Begot my sire, whose spear such glory won:

  Now lift thy arm, and try that hero’s son!’

  Threat’ning he said: the hostile Chiefs advance;

  At once Asteropæus discharged each lance; 180

  (For both his dext’rous hands the lance could wield);

  One struck, but pierc’d not the Vulcanian shield;

  One razed Achilles’ hand; the spouting blood

  Spun forth, in earth the fasten’d weapon stood.

  Like lightning next the Pelian jav’lin flies; 185

  Its erring fury hiss’d along the skies;

  Deep in the swelling bank was driv’n the spear,

  Ev’n to the middle earth; and quiver’d there.

  Then from his side the sword Pelides drew,

  And on his foe with double fury flew; 190

  The foe thrice tugg’d, and shook the rooted wood,

  Repulsive of his might the weapon stood:

  The fourth, he tries to break the spear, in vain;

  Bent as he stands he tumbles to the plain;

  His belly open’d with a ghastly wound, 195

  The reeking entrails pour upon the ground.

  Beneath the hero’s feet he panting lies,

  And his eye darkens, and his spirit flies:

  While the proud victor thus triumphing said,

  His radiant armour tearing from the dead: 200

  ‘So ends thy glory! such the fate they prove

  Who strive presumptuous with the sons of Jove.

  Sprung from a river didst thou boast thy line?

  But great Saturnius is the source of mine.

  How durst thou vaunt thy wat’ry progeny? 205

  Of Peleus, Æacus, and Jove, am I;

  The race of these superior far to those,

  As he that thunders to the stream that flows.

  What rivers can, Scamander might have shewn:

  But Jove he dreads, nor wars against his son. 210

  Ev’n Acheloüs might contend in vain,

  And all the roaring billows of the main.

  Th’ eternal ocean, from whose fountains flow

  The seas, the rivers, and the springs below,

  The thund’ring voice of Jove abhors to hear, 215

  And in his deep abysses shakes with fear.’

  He said: then from the bank his jav’lin tore,

  And left the breathless warrior in his gore.

  The floating tides the bloody carcass lave,

  And beat against it, wave succeeding wave: 220

  Till, roll’d between the banks, it lies the food

  Of curling eels, and fishes of the flood.

  All scatter’d round the stream (their mightiest slain)

  Th’ Pæonians scour along the plain:

  He vents his fury on the flying crew, 225

  Thrasius, Astypylus, and Mnesus, slew;

  Mydon, Thersilochus, with Ænius fell;

  And numbers more his lance had plunged to Hell,

  But from the bottom of his gulfs profound,

  Scamander spoke; the shores return’d the sound: 230

  ‘O first of mortals (for the Gods are thine)!

  In valour matchless, and in force divine!

  If Jove have giv’n thee ev’ry Trojan head,

  ‘T is not on me thy rage should heap the dead.

  See! my choked streams no more their course can keep, 235

  Nor roll their wonted tribute to the deep.

  Turn then, impetuous! from our injured flood;

  Content, thy slaughters could amaze a God.’

  In human form confess’d, before his eyes

  The River thus; and thus the Chief replies: 240

  ‘O sacred stream! thy word we shall obey;

  But not till Troy the destin’d vengeance pay;

  Nor till within her towers the perjur’d train

  Shall pant, and tremble at our arms again;

  Not till proud Hector, guardian of her wall, 245

  Or stain this lance, or see Achilles fall.’

  He said: and drove with fury on the foe.

  Then to the Godhead of the Silver Bow

  The yellow Flood began: ‘O Son of Jove!

  Was not the mandate of the Sire above 250

  Full and express? that Phœbus should employ

  His sacred arrows in defence of Troy,

  And make her conquer, till Hyperion’s fall

  In awful darkness hide the face of all?’

  He spoke in vain: the Chief without dismay 255

  Ploughs thro’ the boiling surge his desp’rate way.

  Then, rising in his rage above the shores,

  From all his deep the bell’wing river roars;

  Huge heaps of slain disgorges on the coast,

  And round the banks the ghastly dead are toss’d; 260

  While all before, the billows ranged on high

  (A wat’ry bulwark) screen the bands who fly.

  Now bursting on his
head with thund’ring sound,

  The falling deluge whelms the hero round:

  His loaded shield bends to the rushing tide; 265

  His feet, upborne, scarce the strong flood divide,

  Slidd’ring, and stagg’ring. On the border stood

  A spreading elm, that overhung the flood;

  He seiz’d a bending bough, his steps to stay;

  The plant uprooted to his weight gave way, 270

  Heaving the bank, and undermining all;

  Loud flash the waters to the rushing fall

  Of the thick foliage. The large trunk display’d

  Bridg’d the rough flood across: the hero stayed

  On this his weight, and, rais’d upon his hand, 275

  Leap’d from the channel, and regain’d the land.

  Then blacken’d the wild waves; the murmur rose;

  The God pursues, a huger billow throws,

  And burst the bank, ambitious to destroy

  The man whose fury is the Fate of Troy. 280

  He, like the warlike eagle, speeds his pace

  (Swiftest and strongest of the aërial race).

  Far as a spear can fly, Achilles springs

  At every bound; his clanging armour rings:

  Now here, now there, he turns on ev’ry side, 285

  And winds his course before the foll’wing tide;

  The waves flow after, wheresoe’er he wheels,

  And gather fast, and murmur at his heels.

  So when a peasant to his garden brings

  Soft rills of water from the bubbling springs, 290

  And calls the floods from high to bless his bowers,

  And feed with pregnant streams the plants and flowers;

  Soon as he clears whate’er their passage stay’d,

  And marks the future current with his spade,

  Swift o’er the rolling pebbles, down the hills 295

  Louder and louder purl the falling rills;

  Before him scatt’ring, they prevent his pains,

  And shine in mazy wand’rings o’er the plains.

  Still flies Achilles, but before his eyes

  Still swift Scamander rolls where’er he flies: 300

  Not all his speed escapes the rapid floods;

  The first of men, but not a match for Gods:

  Oft as he turn’d the torrent to oppose,

  And bravely try if all the Powers were foes;

  So oft the surge, in wat’ry mountains spread, 305

  Beats on his back, or bursts upon his head.

  Yet dauntless still the adverse flood he braves,

  And still indignant bounds above the waves.

  Tired by the tides, his knees relax with toil;

  Wash’d from beneath him slides the slimy soil; 310

  When thus (his eyes on Heav’n’s expansion thrown)

  Forth bursts the hero with an angry groan: