Stand heartily inclin’d to both: come, give us both, respects;
And cease contention: draw no sword; use words, and such as may
Be bitter to his pride, but just; for trust in what I say,
A time shall come, when thrice the worth of that he forceth now,
He shall propose for recompense of these wrongs: therefore throw
Reins on thy passions, and serve us.’ He answer’d: ‘Though my heart
Burn in just anger, yet my soul must conquer th’ angry part,
And yield you conquest: who subdues his earthy part for heaven,
Heaven to his prayers subdues his wish.’ This said, her charge was given
Fit honour: in his silver hilt he held his able hand,
And forc’d his broad sword up; and up to heaven did re-ascend
Minerva, who, in Jove’s high roof that bears the rough shield, took
Her place with other deities. She gone, again forsook
Patience his passion, and no more his silence could confine
His wrath, that this broad language gave: ‘Thou ever steep’d in wine!
Dog’s face, with heart but of a hart, that nor in th’ open eye
Of fight dar’st thrust into a press, nor with our noblest lie
In secret ambush. These works seem too full of death for thee:
Tis safer far in th’ open host to dare an injury
To any crosser of thy lust. Thou subject-eating king!
Base spirits thou govern’st, or this wrong had been the last foul thing
Thou ever author’dst: yet I vow, and by a great oath swear,
Even by this sceptre, that as this never again shall bear
Green leaves or branches, nor increase with any growth his size,
Nor did since first it left the hills, and had his faculties
And ornaments bereft with iron; which now to other end
Judges of Greece bear, and their laws, receiv’d from Jove, defend
(For which my oath to thee is great): so, whensoever need
Shall burn with thirst of me thy host, no prayers shall ever breed
Affection in me to their aid, though well-deserved woes
Afflict thee for them, when to death man-slaught’ring Hector throws
Whole troops of them, and thou torment’st thy vex’d mind with conceit
Of thy rude rage now, and his wrong that most deserv’d the right
Of all thy army.’ Thus: he threw his sceptre gainst the ground,
With golden studs stuck, and took seat. Atrides’ breast was drown’d
In rising choler. Up to both sweet-spoken Nestor stood,
The cunning Pylian orator; whose tongue pour’d forth a flood
Of more than honey-sweet discourse (two ages were increas’d
Of divers-languag’d men, all born in his time and deceas’d,
In sacred Pylos, where he reign’d amongst the third ag’d men):
He, well-seen in the world, advis’d, and thus express’d it then.
‘O gods! Our Greek earth will be drown’d in just tears; rapeful Troy,
Her king, and all his sons, will make as just a mock, and joy
Of these disjunctions, if of you, that all our host excel
In counsel and in skill of fight, they hear this: come, repel
These young men’s passions; y’are not both, put both your years in one,
So old as I: I liv’d long since, and was companion
With men superior to you both, who yet would ever hear
My counsels with respect. Mine eyes yet never witness were,
Nor ever will be, of such men as then delighted them –
Perithous, Exadius, and god-like Polyphem,
Ceneus, and Dryas prince of men, Aegean Theseus,
A man like heaven’s immortals form’d; all, all most vigorous,
Of all men that even those days bred; most vigorous men, and fought
With beasts most vigorous – mountain beasts! – (for men in strength were nought
Match’d with their forces) – fought with them, and bravely fought them down.
Yet even with these men I convers’d, being call’d to the renown
Of their societies, by their suites, from Pylos far, to fight
In th’ Asian kingdom; and I fought to a degree of might
That help’d even their mights, against such, as no man now would dare
To meet in conflict: yet even these my counsels still would hear,
And with obedience crown my words. Give you such palm to them;
’Tis better than to wreathe your wrath. Atrides, give not stream
To all thy power, nor force his prize; but yield her still his own,
As all men else do. Nor do thou, encounter with thy crown,
Great son of Peleus, since no king that ever Jove allow’d
Grace of a sceptre, equals him. Suppose thy nerves endow’d
With strength superior, and thy birth a very goddess gave,
Yet he of force is mightier, since what his own nerves have,
Is amplied with just command of many other. King of men,
Command thou then thyself; and I with my prayers will obtain
Grace of Achilles to subdue his fury: whose parts are
Worth our intreaty, being chief check to all our ill in war.’
‘All this, good father,’ said the king, ‘is comely and good right,
But this man breaks all such bounds; he affects past all men, height;
All would in his power hold; all make his subjects; give to all
His hot will for a temperate law: all which he never shall
Persuade at my hands. If the gods have given him the great style
Of ablest soldier, made they that his licence to revile
Men with vile language?’ Thetis’ son prevented him, and said:
‘Fearful and vile I might be thought, if the exactions laid
By all means on me I should bear. Others command to this,
Thou shalt not me; or if thou dost, far my free spirit is
From serving thy command. Beside this I affirm – afford
Impression of it in thy soul – I will not use my sword
On thee or any for a wench, unjustly though thou tak’st
The thing thou gav’st; but all things else that in my ship thou mak’st
Greedy survey of, do not touch without my leave; or do –
Add that act’s wrong to this, that these may see that outrage too –
And then comes my part; then be sure thy blood upon my lance
Shall flow in vengeance.’ These high terms these two at variance
Us’d to each other; left their seats, and after them arose
The whole court. To his tents and ships, with friends and soldiers, goes
Angry Achilles. Atreus’ son the swift ship launch’d, and put
Within it twenty chosen row’rs; within it likewise shut
The hecatomb, t’appease the god: then caus’d to come aboard
Fair-cheek’d Chryseis. For the chief, he in whom Pallas pour’d
Her store of counsels, Ithacus, aboard went last, and then
The moist ways of the sea they sail’d. And now the king of men
Bade all the host to sacrifice. They sacrific’d, and cast
The offal of all to the deeps; the angry god they grac’d
With perfect hecatombs: some bulls, some goats, along the shore
Of the unfruitful sea, inflam’d. To heaven the thick fumes bore
Enwrapped savours. Thus, though all the politic king made shew
Respects to heaven, yet he himself all that time did pursue
His own affections. The late jar, in which he thunder’d threats
Against Achilles, still he fed; and his affections’ heats
Thus vented to Talthibius and grave Eurybates,
Heralds, and ministers of trust, to all his messages:
‘Haste to Achilles tent; where take Briseis’ hand, and bring
Her beauties to us: if he fail to yield her, say your king
Will come himself, with multitudes that shall the horribler
Make both his presence, and your charge, that so he dares defer.’
This said, he sent them with a charge of hard condition.
They went unwillingly, and trod the fruitless sea’s shore; soon
They reach’d the navy and the tents, in which the quarter lay
Of all the myrmidons, and found the chief Chief in their sway,
Set at his black bark in his tent. Nor was Achilles glad
To see their presence; nor themselves in any glory had
Their message, but with reverence stood, and fear’d th’ offended king:
Ask’d not the dame, nor spake a word. He, yet well knowing the thing
That caus’d their coming, grac’d them thus: ‘Heralds, ye men that bear
The messages of men and gods, y’are welcome, come ye near:
I nothing blame you, but your king: ’tis he I know doth send
You for Briseis, she is his. Patroclus, honour’d friend,
Bring forth the damsel, and these men let lead her to their lord;
But, heralds, be you witnesses before the most ador’d,
Before us mortals, and before your most ungentle king,
Of what I suffer: that if war ever hereafter bring
My aid in question, to avert any severest bane
It brings on others, I am ’scus’d to keep mine aid in wane,
Since they mine honour. But your king, in tempting mischief, raves;
Nor sees at once by present things the future: how like waves
Ills follow ills; injustices being never so secure
In present times, but after-plagues even then are seen as sure –
Which yet he sees not; and so soothes his present lust, which check’d,
Would check plagues future; and he might, in succouring right, protect
Such as fight for his right at fleet; they still in safety fight
That fight still justly.’ This speech us’d, Patroclus did the rite
His friend commanded, and brought forth Briseis from her tent,
Gave her the heralds, and away to th’ Achive ships they went:
She sad and scarce for grief could go; her love all friends forsook,
And wept for anger. To the shore of th’ old sea, he, betook
Himself alone, and casting forth upon the purple sea
His wet eyes, and his hands to heaven advancing, this sad plea
Made to his mother: ‘Mother! Since you brought me forth to breathe
So short a life, Olympius had good right to bequeath
My short life, honour: yet that right he doth in no degree,
But lets Atrides do me shame, and force that prize from me
That all the Greeks gave.’ This with tears he utter’d, and she heard –
Set with her old sire in his deeps – and instantly appear’d
Up from the gray sea like a cloud; sate by his side, and said:
‘Why weeps my son? What grieves thee? Speak; conceal not what hath laid
Such hard hand on thee; let both know.’ He, sighing like a storm,
Replied: ‘Thou dost know; why should I things known again inform?
We march’d to Thebes, the sacred town of king Eëtion,
Sack’d it, and brought to fleet the spoil; which every valiant son
Of Greece indifferently shar’d. Atrides had for share
Fair-cheek’d Chryseis: after which, his priest, that shoots so far,
Chryses, the fair Chryseis’ sire, arriv’d at th’ Achive fleet
With infinite ransom, to redeem the dear imprison’d feet
Of his fair daughter. In his hands he held Apollo’s crown
And golden sceptre, making suit to every Grecian son,
But most the sons of Atreus (the other’s orderers).
Yet they least heard him; all the rest receiv’d with reverend ears
The motion: both the priest and gifts gracing, and holding worth
His wish’d acceptance. Atreus’ son, yet (vex’d) commanded forth
With rude terms Phoebus’ reverend priest: who angry, made retreat,
And pray’d to Phoebus; in whose grace he standing passing great,
Got his petition. The god an ill shaft sent abroad,
That tumbled down the Greeks in heaps. The host had no abode
That was not visited. We ask’d a prophet that well knew
The cause of all, and from his lips Apollo’s prophecies flew,
Telling his anger. First myself exhorted to appease
The anger’d god, which Atreus’ son did at the heart displease;
And up he stood – us’d threats – perform’d. The black-ey’d Greeks sent home
Chryseis to her sire, and gave his god a hecatomb:
Then, for Briseis, to my tents Atrides’ heralds came,
And took her that the Greeks gave all. If then thy powers can frame
Wreak for thy son, afford it; scale Olympus, and implore
Jove, if by either word or fact thou ever didst restore
Joy to his griev’d heart, now to help. I oft have heard thee vaunt
In court of Peleus, that alone thy hand was conversant
In rescue from a cruel spoil the black-cloud-gathering Jove,
Whom other godheads would have bound (the power whose pace doth move
The round earth, heaven’s great queen, and Pallas): to whose bands
Thou cam’st with rescue, bringing up him with the hundred hands
To great Olympus whom the gods call Briaraeus, men
Aegaeon; who his sire surpass’d, and was as strong again;
And in that grace sat glad by Jove: th’ immortals stood dismay’d
At his ascension, and gave free passage to his aid.
Of all this tell Jove; kneel to him, embrace his knee, and pray,
If Troy’s aid he will ever deign, that now their forces may
Beat home the Greeks to fleet and sea, embruing their retreat
In slaughter, their pains paying the wreak of their proud sovereign’s heat;
And that far-ruling king may know from his poor soldier’s harms
His own harm falls: his own and all in mine, his best in arms.’
Her answer she pour’d out in tears: ‘O me, my son,’ said she,
‘Why brought I up thy being at all, that brought thee forth to be
Sad subject of so hard a fate? O would to heaven, that since
Thy fate is little, and not long, thou might’st without offence
And tears perform it! But to live thrall to so stern a fate
As grants thee least life, and that least so most unfortunate,
Grieves me t’ have given thee any life. But what thou wishest now,
If Jove will grant, I’ll up and ask: Olympus crown’d with snow
I’ll climb: but sit thou fast at fleet; renounce all war, and feed