Then flew Apollo to the fight from the Idalian hill,
At all parts putting into act his great commander’s will;
Drew all the darts, wash’d, balm’d the corse; which (deck’d with ornament
By Sleep and Death, those feather’d twins) he into Lycia sent.
Patroclus then Automedon commands to give his steeds
Large reins, and all way to the chace: so madly he exceeds
The strict commission of his friend, which had he kept, had kept
A black death from him. But Jove’s mind hath evermore outstept
The mind of man; who both affrights and takes the victory
From any hardiest hand with ease – which he can justify,
Though he himself commands him fight, as now he put this chace
In Menoetiades’ mind. How much then weighs the grace,
Patroclus, that Jove gives thee now, in scoles put with thy death,
Of all these great and famous men the honourable breath.
Of which, Adrestus first he slew, and next Autonous,
Epistora, and Perimus, Pylartes, Elasus,
Swift Melanippus, Molius; all these were overthrown
By him, and all else put in rout, and then proud Ilion
Had stoop’d beneath his glorious hand, he rag’d so with his lance,
If Phoebus had not kept the tow’r and help’d the Ilians,
Sustaining ill thoughts ’gainst the prince. Thrice to the prominence
Of Troy’s steep wall he bravely leap’d, thrice Phoebus thrust him thence,
Objecting his all-dazzling shield with his resistless hand.
But fourthly, when (like one of heav’n) he would have stirr’d his stand,
Apollo threaten’d him, and said: ‘Cease, it exceeds thy fate
(Forward Patroclus) to expugn, with thy bold lance, this state,
Nor under great Achilles’ pow’rs (to thine superior far)
Lies Troy’s grave ruin.’ When he spake, Patroclus left that war,
Leap’d far back, and his anger shunn’d. Hector detain’d his horse
Within the Scaean port, in doubt to put his personal force
Amongst the rout, and turn their heads, or shun in Troy the storm.
Apollo, seeing his suspense, assum’d the goodly form
Of Hector’s uncle, Asius, the Phrygian Dymas’ son,
Who near the deep Sangarius had habitation,
Being brother to the Trojan queen. His shape Apollo took,
And ask’d of Hector, why his spirit so clear the fight forsook –
Affirming ’twas unfit for him, and wish’d his forces were
As much above his as they mov’d in an inferior sphere:
He should (with shame to him) be gone; and so bad, drive away
Against Patroclus, to approve if he that gave them day
Would give the glory of his death to his preferred lance.
So left he him, and to the fight did his bright head advance,
Mix’d with the multitude, and stirr’d foul tumult for the foe.
Then Hector bad Cebriones put on, himself let go
All other Greeks within his reach, and only gave command
To front Patroclus. He at him jump’d down; his strong left hand
A javelin held, his right a stone, a marble sharp, and such
As his large hand had pow’r to gripe, and gave it strength so much
As he could lay to: nor stood long in fear of that huge man
That made against him, but full on, with his huge stone he ran,
Discharg’d, and drave it ’twixt the brows of bold Cebriones:
Nor could the thick bone there prepar’d extenuate so th’ access,
But out it drave his broken eyes, which in the dust fell down,
And he div’d after; which conceit of diving took the son
Of old Menoetius, who thus play’d upon the other’s bane:
‘O heav’ns! For truth, this Trojan was a passing active man;
With what exceeding ease he dives, as if at work he were
Within the fishy seas! This man alone would furnish cheer
For twenty men, though ’twere a storm, to leap out of a sail,
And gather oysters for them all; he does it here all well,
And there are many such in Troy.’ Thus jested he so near
His own grave death, and then made in to spoil the charioteer,
With such a lion’s force, and fate, as (often ruining
Stalls of fat oxen) gets at length a mortal wound to sting
His soul out of that ravenous breast that was so insolent;
And so his life’s bliss proves his bane: so deadly confident
Wert thou, Patroclus, in pursuit of good Cebriones,
To whose defence now Hector leap’d. The opposite address
These masters of the cry in war now made, was of the kind
Of two fierce kings of beasts, oppos’d in strife about a hind
Slain on the forehead of a hill, both sharp and hungry set,
And to the currie never came but like two deaths they met:
Nor these two entertain’d less mind of mutual prejudice
About the body, close to which, when each had press’d for prize,
Hector the head laid hand upon, which once grip’d, never could
Be forc’d from him; Patroclus then upon the feet got hold,
And he pinch’d with as sure a nail: so both stood tugging there,
While all the rest made eager fight, and grappled every where.
And as the east and south winds strive to make a lofty wood
Bow to their greatness, barky elms, wild ashes, beeches bow’d
Ev’n with the earth, in whose thick arms the mighty vapours lie,
And toss by turns, all either way; their leaves at random fly,
Boughs murmur, and their bodies crack, and with perpetual din
The sylvans falter, and the storms are never to begin:
So rag’d the fight, and all from flight pluck’d her forgotten wings;
While some still stuck, still new wing’d shafts flew dancing from their strings,
Huge stones sent after, that did shake the shields about the corse,
Who now (in dust’s soft forehead stretch’d) forgat his guiding horse.
As long as Phoebus turn’d his wheels about the midst of heav’n,
So long the touch of either’s darts the falls of both made ev’n:
But when his wain drew near the west, the Greeks past measure were
The abler soldiers, and so swept the Trojan tumult clear
From off the body; out of which they drew the hurl’d-in darts,
And from his shoulders stripp’d his arms, and then to more such parts
Patroclus turn’d his striving thoughts, to do the Trojans ill:
Thrice, like the god of war, he charg’d, his voice as horrible,
And thrice nine those three charges slew, but in the fourth assay,
O then, Patroclus, show’d thy last; the dreadful Sun made way
Against that onset, yet the prince discern’d no deity,
He kept the press so; and besides, obscur’d his glorious eye
With such felt darkness. At his back he made a sudden stand,
And ’twixt his neck and shoulders laid down-right with either hand
A blow so weighty that his eyes a giddy darkness took,
And from his head his three-plum’d helm the bounding violence shook,
That rung beneath his horses’ hoofs, and, like a water-spout,
Was crush’d together with the fall – the plumes that set it out
All spatter’d with black blood and dust, when ever heretofore
It was a capital offence to have or dust or gore
Defile a triple-feather’d helm, but on the head divine
And youthful temples of their prince, it us’d untouch’d to shine.
Yet now Jove gave it Hector’s hands, the other’s death was near.
Besides whose lost and filed helm, his huge long weighty spear,
Well bound with iron, in his hand was shiver’d, and his shield
Fell from his shoulders to his feet, the bawdrick strewing the field.
His curets left him, like the rest, and all this only done
By great Apollo. Then his mind took in confusion;
The vigorous knittings of his joints dissolv’d, and (thus dismay’d)
A Dardan (one of Panthus’ sons) and one that overlaid
All Trojans of his place with darts, swift footing, skill, and force,
In noble horsemanship, and one that tumbled from their horse,
One after other, twenty men – and when he did but learn
The art of war; nay, when he first did in the field discern
A horse and chariot of his guide: this man, with all these parts
(His name Euphorbus), comes behind, and ’twixt the shoulders darts
Forlorn Patroclus, who yet liv’d, and th’ other (getting forth
His javelin) took him to his strength; nor durst he stand the worth
Of thee, Patroclus, though disarm’d, who yet (discomfited
By Phoebus and Euphorbus’ wound) the red heap of the dead
He now too late shunn’d, and retir’d. When Hector saw him yield,
And knew he yielded with a wound, he scour’d the armed field,
Came close up to him, and both sides struck quite through with his lance.
He fell, and his most weighty fall gave fit tune to his chance,
For which all Greece extremely mourn’d. And as a mighty strife
About a little fount begins and riseth to the life
Of some fell boar, resolv’d to drink, when likewise to the spring
A lion comes, alike dispos’d; the boar thirsts, and his king,
Both proud, and both will first be serv’d; and then the lion takes
Advantage of his sovereign strength, and th’ other (fainting) makes
Resign his thirst up with his blood: Patroclus (so enforc’d
When he had forc’d so much brave life) was from his own divorc’d.
And thus his great divorcer brav’d: ‘Patroclus, thy conceit
Gave thee th’ eversion of our Troy, and to thy fleet a freight
Of Trojan ladies, their free lives put all in bands by thee:
But (too much prizer of thy sel
f
) all these are propp’d by me,
For these have my horse stretch’d their hoofs to this so long a war,
And I (far best of Troy in arms) keep off from Troy as far,
Even to the last beam of my life, their necessary day.
And here (in place of us and ours) on thee shall vultures prey,
Poor wretch; nor shall thy mighty friend afford thee any aid,
That gave thy parting much deep charge; and this perhaps he said:
“Martial Patroclus, turn not face, nor see my fleet before
The curets from great Hector’s breast, all gilded with his gore,
Thou hew’st in pieces.” If thus vain were his far-stretch’d commands,
As vain was thy heart to believe his words lay in thy hands.’
He, languishing, replied: ‘This proves thy glory worse than vain,
That when two gods have giv’n thy hands what their pow’rs did obtain
(They conquering, and they spoiling me both of my arms and mind,
It being a work of ease for them), thy soul should be so blind
To oversee their evident deeds, and take their pow’rs to thee,
When if the pow’rs of twenty such had dar’d t’ encounter me,
My lance had strew’d earth with them all. Thou only dost obtain
A third place in my death, whom first a harmful fate hath slain
Effected by Latona’s son; second, and first of men,
Euphorbus. And this one thing more concerns thee; note it then:
Thou shalt not long survive thyself; nay, now Death calls for thee,
And violent Fate; Achilles’ lance shall make this good for me.’
Thus death join’d to his words his end; his soul took instant wing,
And to the house that hath no lights descended sorrowing
For his sad fate, to leave him young, and in his ablest age.
He dead, yet Hector ask’d him why, in that prophetic rage,
He so forespake him, when none knew but great Achilles might
Prevent his death, and on his lance receive his latest light.
Thus setting on his side his foot, he drew out of his wound
His brazen lance, and upwards cast the body on the ground;
When quickly, while the dart was hot, he charg’d Automedon
(Divine guide of Achilles’ steeds) in great contention,
To seize him too: but his so swift and deathless horse, that fetch’d
Their gift to Peleus from the gods, soon rapt him from his reach.
The end of the sixteenth book
Book 17
The Argument
A dreadful fight about Patroclus’ corse,
Euphorbus slain by Menelaus’ force,
Hector in th’ armour of Aeacides,
Antilochus relating the decease
Of slain Patroclus to fair Thetis’ son,
The body from the striving Trojans won,
Th’ Ajaces making good the after field,
Make all the subject that this book doth yield.
Another Argument
In
Rho
, the virtuous hosts maintain
A slaughterous conflict for the same.
Book 17
Nor could
his slaughter rest conceal’d from Menelaus’ ear,
Who flew amongst the foremost fights, and with his targe and spear
Circled the body, as much griev’d, and with as tender heed
To keep it theirs, as any dam about her first-born seed,
Not proving what the pain of birth would make the love before.
Nor to pursue his first attaint Euphorbus’ spirit forbore.
But, seeing Menelaus chief in rescue of the dead,
Assay’d him thus: ‘Atrides, cease, and leave the slaughtered
With his embru’d spoil to the man that first of all our state
And famous succours, in fair fight, made passage to his fate;
And therefore suffer me to wear the good name I have won
Amongst the Trojans, lest thy life repay what his hath done.’
‘O Jupiter,’ said he, incens’d, ‘thou art no honest man
To boast so past thy pow’r to do. Not any lion can,
Nor spotted leopard, nor boar (whose mind is mightiest
In pouring fury from his strength), advance so proud a crest
As Panthus’ fighting progeny. But Hyperenor’s pride,
That joy’d so little time his youth, when he so vilified
My force in arms, and call’d me worst of all our chivalry,
And stood my worst, might teach ye all to shun this surcuidrie:
I think he came not safely home, to tell his wife his acts.
Nor less right of thy insolence my equal fate exacts,
And will obtain me, if thou stay’st; retire then, take advice:
A fool sees nought before ’tis done, and still too late is wise.’
This mov’d not him, but to the worse, since it renew’d the sting
That his slain brother shot in him, remember’d by the king:
To whom he answer’d: ‘Thou shalt pay for all the pains endur’d
By that slain brother; all the wounds sustain’d for him, recur’d
With one, made in thy heart by me. ’Tis true thou mad’st his wife
A heavy widow, when her joys of wedlock scarce had life,
And hurt’st our parents with his grief; all which thou gloriest in,
Forespeaking so thy death, that now their grie
f
’
s end shall begin.
To Panthus, and the snowy hand of Phrontes, I will bring
Those arms, and that proud head of thine; and this laborious thing
Shall ask no long time to perform: nor be my words alone,
But their performance; Strength, and Fight, and Terror thus sets on.’
This said, he struck his all-round shield; nor shrunk that, but his lance
That turn’d head in it: then the king assail’d the second chance,
First praying to the king of gods, and his dart entry got
(The force much driving back his foe) in low part of his throat,
And ran his neck through. Then fell pride and he, and all with gore
His locks, that like the Graces were, and which he ever wore
In gold and silver ribands wrapp’d, were piteously wet.
As when alone in some choice place a husbandman hath set
The young plant of an olive tree, whose root being ever fed
With plenty of delicious springs, his branches bravely spread,
And all his fresh and lovely head grown curl’d with snowy flow’rs,
That dance and flourish with the winds, that are of gentlest pow’rs;
But when a whirlwind (got aloft) stoops with a sudden gale,
Tears from his head his tender curls, and tosseth therewithal
His fix’d root from his hollow mines, it well presents the force
Of Sparta’s king, and so the plant, Euphorbus and his corse.
He slain, the king stripp’d off his arms, and with their worthy prize
(All fearing him) had clearly past, if heav’n’s fair eye of eyes
Had not, in envy of his acts, to his encounter stirr’d
The Mars-like Hector, to whose pow’rs the rescue he preferr’d
Of those fair arms, and took the shape of Mentas (colonel
Of all the Cicones that near the Thracian Hebrus dwell).
Like him, he thus puts forth his voice: ‘Hector, thou scour’st the field
In headstrong pursuit of those horse that hardly are compell’d
To take the draught of chariots by any mortal’s hand –
The great grandchild of Aeacus hath only their command,
Whom an immortal mother bore. While thou attend’st on these,
The young Atrides, in defence of Menoetiades,
Hath slain Euphorbus.’ Thus the god took troop with men again,
And Hector (heartily perplex’d) look’d round, and saw the slain,
Still shedding rivers from his wound: and then took envious view
Of brave Atrides with his spoil, in way to whom he flew
Like one of Vulcan’s quenchless flames. Atrides heard the cry
That ever usher’d him, and sigh’d, and said: ‘O me, if I
Should leave these goodly arms, and him that here lies dead for me,
I fear I should offend the Greeks. If I should stay, and be
Alone with Hector and his men, I may be compass’d in;
Some sleight or other they may use. Many may quickly win
Their wills of one, and all Troy comes ever where Hector leads.
But why (dear mind) dost thou thus talk? When men dare set their heads
Against the gods, as sure they do (that fight with men they love),
Straight one or other plague ensues: it cannot therefore move
The grudge of any Greek that sees I yield to Hector, he
Still fighting with a spirit from heav’n. And yet if I could see
Brave Ajax, he and I would stand, though ’gainst a god: and sure
’Tis best I seek him, and then see if we two can procure
This corse’s freedom through all these: a little then let rest
The body, and my mind be still; of two bads choose the best.’
In this discourse, the troops of Troy were in with him, and he
Made such a lion-like retreat, as when the herdsmen see
The royal savage, and come on, with men, dogs, cries and spears,
To clear their horned stall; and then, the kingly heart he bears
(With all his high disdain) falls off: so, from this odds of aid
The golden-hair’d Atrides fled, and in his strength display’d
Upon his left hand him he wish’d, extremely busied
About encouraging his men, to whom an extreme dread
Apollo had infus’d: the king reach’d Ajax instantly,
And said: ‘Come, friend, let us two haste, and from the tyranny
Of Hector free Patroclus’ corse.’ He straight and gladly went;
And then was Hector haling off the body, with intent
To spoil the shoulders of the dead, and give the dogs the rest
(His arms he having pris’d before). When Ajax brought his breast
To bar all further spoil, with that he had sure, Hector thought
’Twas best to satisfy his spleen; which temper Ajax wrought
With his mere sight, and Hector fled: the arms he sent to Troy,
To make his citizens admire, and pray Jove send him joy.
Then Ajax gather’d to the corse, and hid it with his targe:
There setting down as sure a foot as, in the tender charge
Of his lov’d whelps, a lion doth; two hundred hunters near,
To give him onset, their more force makes him the more austere,
Drowns all their clamours in his roars, darts, dogs doth all despise,
And lets his rough brows down so low, they cover all his eyes:
So Ajax look’d, and stood, and stay’d for great Priamides.
When Glaucus Hippolochides saw Ajax thus depress
The spirit of Hector, thus he chid: ‘O goodly man at arms,
In fight a Paris, why should fame make thee sort ’gainst our harms,
Being such a fugitive? Now mark how well thy boasts defend
Thy city only with her own. Be sure it shall descend
To that proof wholly. Not a man of any Lycian rank
Shall strike one stroke more for thy town, for no man gets a thank
Should he eternally fight here, nor any guard of thee.
How wilt thou (worthless that thou art) keep off an enemy
From our poor soldiers, when their prince, Sarpedon, guest and friend
To thee (and most deservedly) thou flew’st from in his end,
And left’st to all the lust of Greece? O gods, a man that was
In life so huge a good to Troy, and to thee such a grace,
In death not kept by thee from dogs? If my friends will do well,
We’ll take our shoulders from your walls, and let all sink to hell –
As all will, were our faces turn’d. Did such a spirit breathe
In all you Trojans, as becomes all men that fight beneath
Their country’s standard, you would see that such as prop your cause
With like exposure of their lives have all the honour’d laws
Of such a dear confederacy kept to them to a thread –
As now ye might reprise the arms Sarpedon forfeited,
By forfeit of your rights to him, would you but lend your hands,
And force Patroclus to your Troy. Ye know how dear he stands
In his love, that of all the Greeks is (for himsel
f
) far best,
And leads the best near-fighting men; and therefore would (at least)
Redeem Sarpedon’s arms – nay him, whom you have likewise lost.
This body drawn to Ilion would after draw and cost
A greater ransom if you pleas’d: but Ajax startles you;
’Tis his breast bars this right to us: his looks are darts enow
To mix great Hector with his men. And not to blame ye are,
You choose foes underneath your strengths; Ajax exceeds ye far.’
Hector look’d passing sour at this; and answer’d: ‘Why dar’st thou
(So under) talk above me so? O friend, I thought till now
Thy wisdom was superior to all th’ inhabitants
Of gleby Lycia; but now, impute apparent wants
To that discretion thy words show, to say I lost my ground
For Ajax’ greatness: nor fear I the field in combats drown’d,
Nor force of chariots, but I fear a pow’r much better seen,
In right of all war, than all we: that god that holds between
Our victory and us his shield, lets conquest come and go
At his free pleasure, and with fear converts her changes so
Upon the strongest; men must fight when his just spirit impels,
Not their vain glories. But come on, make thy steps parallels
To these of mine; and then be judge how deep the work will draw –
If then I spend the day in shifts, or thou canst give such law
To thy detractive speeches then, or if the Grecian host
Holds any that in pride of strength holds up his spirit most,
Whom (for the carriage of this prince, that thou enforcest so)
I make not stoop in his defence. You, friends! Ye hear and know
How much it fits ye to make good this Grecian I have slain,
For ransom of Jove’s son, our friend; play then the worthy men,
Till I indue Achilles’ arms.’ This said, he left the fight,
And call’d back those that bore the arms, not yet without his sight,
In convoy of them towards Troy. For them he chang’d his own,
Remov’d from where it rained tears, and sent them back to town.
Then put he on th’ eternal arms that the celestial states
Gave Peleus; Peleus being old, their use appropriates
To his Achilles, that (like him) forsook them not for age.
When he whose empire is in clouds saw Hector bent to wage
War in divine Achilles’ arms, he shook his head, and said:
‘Poor wretch, thy thoughts are far from Death, though he so near hath laid
His ambush for thee. Thou putt’st on those arms as braving him
Whom others fear, hast slain his friend, and from his youthful limb
Torn rudely off his heavenly arms, himself being gentle, kind,
And valiant. Equal measure then thy life in youth must find.
Yet since the justice is so strict, that not Andromache
(In thy denied return from fight) must ever take of thee
Those arms, in glory of thy acts, thou shalt have that frail blaze
Of excellence that neighbours death, a strength ev’n to amaze.’
To this his sable brows did bow; and he made fit his limb
To those great arms, to fill which up the War-god enter’d him,
Austere and terrible: his joints and every part extends
With strength and fortitude; and thus, to his admiring friends,
High Clamour brought him. He so shin’d, that all could think no less,
But he resembled every way great-soul’d Aeacides.
Then every way he scour’d the field, his captains calling on:
Asteropaeus, Eunomus (that foresaw all things done),
Glaucus and Medon, Desinor, and strong Thersilochus,
Phorcis and Mesthles, Chronius, and great Hippothous;
To all these, and their populous troops, these his excitements were:
‘Hear us, innumerable friends, near-bordering nations, hear.
We have not call’d you from your towns to fill our idle eye
With number of so many men (no such vain empery
Did ever joy us), but to fight, and of our Trojan wives,
With all their children, manfully to save the innocent lives;
In whose cares we draw all our towns of aiding soldiers dry,
With gifts, guards, victual, all things fit, and hearten their supply
With all like rights; and therefore now let all sides set down this:
Or live, or perish; this of war the special secret is.
In which most resolute design, who ever bears to town
Patroclus (laid dead to his hand) by winning the renown
Of Ajax’ slaughter, the half-spoil we wholly will impart
To his free use; and to ourself the other half convert:
And so the glory shall be shar’d; ourself will have no more
Than he shall shine in.’ This drew all to bring abroad their store
Before the body: every man had hope it would be his,
And forc’d from Ajax. Silly fools, Ajax prevented this
By raising rampiers to his friend with half their carcasses:
And yet his humour was to roar, and fear, and now no less