To startle Sparta’s king; to whom he cried out: ‘O my friend!
O Menelaus! Ne’er more hope to get off; here’s the end
Of all our labours: not so much I fear to lose the corse
(For that’s sure gone, the fowls of Troy and dogs will quickly force
That piece-meal) as I fear my head, and thine, O Atreus’ son.
Hector a cloud brings, will hide all; instant destruction,
Grievous and heavy, comes; O call our peers to aid us; fly.’
He hasted, and us’d all his voice, sent far and near his cry:
‘O princes, chief lights of the Greeks, and you that publicly
Eat with our general and me, all men of charge, O know,
Jove gives both grace and dignity to any that will show
Good minds for only good itself, though presently the eye
Of him that rules discern him not. ’Tis hard for me t’ espy
(Through all this smoke of burning fight) each captain in his place,
And call assistance to our need. Be then each other’s grace,
And freely follow each his next; disdain to let the joy
Of great Aeacides be forc’d to feed the beasts of Troy.’
His voice was first heard and obey’d by swift Oïleades:
Idomeneus and his mate (renown’d Meriones)
Were seconds to Oïleus’ son: but of the rest, whose mind
Can lay upon his voice the names that after these combin’d
In setting up this fight on end? The Trojans first gave on,
And as into the sea’s vast mouth, when mighty rivers run,
Their billows and the sea resound, and all the utter shore
Rebellows (in her angry shocks) the sea’s repulsive roar:
With such sounds gave the Trojans charge; so was their charge repress’d.
One mind fill’d all Greeks, good brass shields close couch’d to every breast,
And on their helms Jove poured down a mighty deal of night
To hide Patroclus. Whom alive, and when he was the knight
Of that grandchild of Aeacus, Saturnius did not hate;
Nor dead, would see him dealt to dogs, and so did instigate
His fellows to his worthy guard. At first the Trojans drave
The black-ey’d Grecians from the corse; but not a blow they gave
That came at death. A while they hung about the body’s heels,
The Greeks quite gone. But all that while did Ajax whet the steels
Of all his forces, that cut back way to the corse again.
Brave Ajax (that for form and fact, past all that did maintain
The Grecian fame, next Thetis’ son) now flew before the first,
And as a sort of dogs and youths are by a boar disperst
About a mountain: so fled these from mighty Ajax, all
That stood in conflict for the corse, who thought no chance could fall
Betwixt them and the prize at Troy. For bold Hippothous
(Lethus Pelasgus’ famous son) was so adventurous,
That he would stand to bore the corse about the ankle-bone,
Where all the nervy flyers meet, and ligaments in one,
That make the motion of those parts; through which he did convey
The thong or bawdric of his shield, and so was drawing away
All thanks from Hector and his friends; but in their stead he drew
An ill that no man could avert: for Telamonius threw
A lance that struck quite through his helm; his brain came leaping out.
Down fell Letheides, and with him the body’s hoisted foot.
Far from Larissa’s soil he fell, a little time allow’d
To his industrious spirits, to quit the benefits bestow’d
By his kind parents. But his wreak Priamides assay’d,
And threw at Ajax; but his dart (discover’d) pass’d, and stay’d
At Schedius, son of Iphitus, a man of ablest hand
Of all the strong Phocensians, and liv’d with great command,
In Fanopaeus. The fell dart fell through his channel-bone,
Pierc’d through his shoulder’s upper part, and set his spirit gone.
When (after his) another flew, the same hand giving wing
To martial Phorcis’ startled soul, that was the after spring
Of Phaenops’ seed: the javelin struck his curets through, and tore
The bowels from the belly’s midst. His fall made those before
Give back a little, Hector’s self enforc’d to turn his face.
And then the Greeks bestow’d their shouts, took vantage of the chace,
Drew off, and spoil’d Hippothous and Phorcis of their arms.
And then ascended Ilion had shaken with alarms
(Discovering th’ impotence of Troy) ev’n past the will of Jove,
And by the proper force of Greece, had Phoebus fail’d to move
Aeneas, in similitude of Periphas (the son
Of grave Epytes) king at arms, and had good service done
To old Anchises, being wise, and ev’n with him in years.
But (like this man) the far-seen god to Venus’ son appears,
And ask’d him how he would maintain steep Ilion in her height,
In spite of gods (as he presum’d), when men approv’d so slight
All his presumptions, and all theirs, that puf
f
’
d him with that pride,
Believing in their proper strengths, and generally supplied
With such unfrighted multitudes? But he well knew that Jove
(Besides their self-conceits) sustain’d their forces with more love
Than theirs of Greece, and yet all that lack’d power to hearten them.
Aeneas knew the god, and said, it was a shame extreme
That those of Greece should beat them so, and by their cowardice,
Not want of man’s aid, nor the gods’, and this (before his eyes)
A deity stood, ev’n now, and vouch’d, affirming Jove their aid.
And so bade Hector and the rest (to whom all this he said)
Turn head, and not in that quick ease part with the corse to Greece.
This said, before them all he flew, and all (as of a piece)
Against the Greeks flew. Venus’ son Leocritus did end,
Son of Arisbas, and had place of Lycomedes’ friend,
Whose fall he friendly pitied: and in revenge, bestow’d
A lance that Apisaon struck so sore that straight he strow’d
The dusty centre, and did stick in that congealed blood
That forms the liver. Second man he was to all that stood
In name for arms amongst the troop that from Paeonia came,
Asteropaeus being the first: who was in ruth the same
That Lycomedes was; like whom, he put forth for the wreak
Of his slain friend, but wrought it not, because he could not break
That bulwark made of Grecian shields and bristled wood of spears
Combin’d about the body slain. Amongst whom Ajax bears
The greatest labour, every way exhorting to abide,
And no man fly the corse afoot, nor break their ranks in pride
Of any foremost daring spirit, but each foot hold his stand,
And use the closest fight they could. And this was the command
Of mighty Ajax: which observ’d, they steep’d the earth in blood.
The Trojans and their friends fell thick. Nor all the Grecians stood –
Though far the fewer suffer’d fate, for ever they had care
To shun confusion, and the toil that still oppresseth there.
So set they all the field on fire; with which you would have thought
The sun and moon had been put out, in such a smoke they fought
About the person of the prince. But all the field beside
Fought underneath a lightsome heaven: the sun was in his pride,
And such expansure of his beams he thrust out of his throne
That not a vapour durst appear in all that region –
No, not upon the highest hill: there fought they still and breath’d,
Shunn’d danger, cast their darts aloof, and not a sword unsheath’d.
The other plied it, and the war and night plied them as well,
The cruel steel afflicting all; the strongest did not dwell
Unhurt within their iron roofs. Two men of special name,
Antilochus and Thrasimed, were yet unserv’d by fame
With notice of Patroclus’ death: they thought him still alive,
In foremost tumult – and might well: for (seeing their fellows thrive
In no more comfortable sort than fight and death would yield)
They fought apart; for so their sire, old Nestor, strictly will’d,
Enjoining fight more from the fleet. War here increas’d his heat
The whole day long; continually the labour and the sweat
The knees, calves, feet, hands, faces, smear’d, of men that Mars applied
About the good Achilles’ friend. And as a huge ox-hide
A currier gives amongst his men, to supple and extend
With oil till it be drunk withall; they tug, stretch out, and spend
Their oil and liquor liberally, and chafe the leather so
That out they make a vapour breathe, and in their oil doth go;
A number of them set on work, and in an orb they pull,
That all ways all parts of the hide they may extend at full:
So here and there did both parts hale the corse in little place,
And wrought it always with their sweat; the Trojans hop’d for grace
To make it reach for Ilion, the Grecians to their fleet.
A cruel tumult they stirr’d up, and such as, should Mars see ’t
(That horrid hurrier of men), or she that betters him,
Minerva, never so incens’d, they could not disesteem.
So baneful a contention did Jove that day extend
Of men and horse about the slain. Of whom his god-like friend
Had no instruction. So far off, and underneath the wall
Of Troy, that conflict was maintain’d: which was not thought at all
By great Achilles, since he charg’d, that having set his foot
Upon the ports, he would retire; well knowing Troy no boot
For his assaults without himself, since not by him, as well
He knew, it was to be subdu’d. His mother oft would tell
The mind of mighty Jove therein, oft hearing it in heav’n.
But of that great ill to his friend was no instruction giv’n
By careful Thetis: by degrees must ill events be known.
The foes cleft one to other still about the overthrown.
His death with death infected both. Ev’n private Greeks would say
Either to other: ‘Twere a shame for us to go our way,
And let the Trojans bear to Troy the praise of such a prize:
Which let the black earth gasp and drink our blood for sacrifice
Before we suffer: ’tis an act much less infortunate.’
And then would those of Troy resolve: ‘Though certainly our fate
Will fell us all together here, of all not turn a face.’
Thus either side his fellow’s strength excited past his place,
And thus through all th’ unfruitful air an iron sound ascended
Up to the golden firmament, when strange effects contended
In these immortal heav’n-bred horse of great Aeacides;
Whom (once remov’d from forth the fight) a sudden sense did seize
Of good Patroclus’ death, whose hands they oft had undergone,
And bitterly they wept for him: nor could Automedon
With any manage make them stir; oft use the scourge to them,
Oft use his fairest speech, as oft threats never so extreme,
They neither to the Hellespont would bear him, nor the fight:
But still as any tombstone lays his never-stirred weight
On some good man or woman’s grave for rites of funeral,
So unremoved stood these steeds, their heads to earth let fall,
And warm tears gushing from their eyes, with passionate desire
Of their kind manager; their manes, that flourish’d with the fire
Of endless youth allotted them, fell through the yoky sphere,
Ruthfully ruffled and defil’d. Jove saw their heavy cheer,
And (pitying them) spake to his mind: ‘Poor wretched beasts,’ said he,
‘Why gave we you t’ a mortal king, when immortality
And incapacity of age so dignifies your states?
Was it to taste the miseries pour’d out on humans fates?
Of all the miserablest things that breathe and creep on earth,
No one more wretched is than man. And for your deathless birth
Hector must fail to make you prize: is ’t not enough he wears
And glories vainly in those arms? Your chariots and rich gears
(Besides you) are too much for him. Your knees and spirits again
My care of you shall fill with strength, that so ye may sustain
Automedon, and bear him off. To Troy I still will give
The grace of slaughter, till at fleet their bloody feet arrive,
Till Phoebus drink the western sea, and sacred darkness throws
Her sable mantle ’twixt their points.’ Thus in the steeds he blows
Excessive spirit, and through the Greeks and Ilians they rapt
The whirring chariot, shaking off the crumbled centre, wrapt
Amongst their tresses: and with them, Automedon let fly
Amongst the Trojans, making way through all as frightfully
As through a jangling flock of geese a lordly vulture beats,
Giv’n way with shrieks by every goose that comes but near his threats:
With such state fled he through the press, pursuing as he fled,
But made no slaughter – nor he could, alone being carried
Upon the sacred chariot. How could he both works do,
Direct his javelin and command his fiery horses too?
At length he came where he beheld his friend Alcimedon,
That was the good Laercius’ (the son of Aemon’s) son,
Who close came to his chariot side, and ask’d, ‘What god is he
That hath so robb’d thee of thy soul, to run thus franticly
Amongst these forefights, being alone, thy fighter being slain,
And Hector glorying in his arms?’ He gave these words again:
‘Alcimedon, what man is he, of all the Argive race,
So able as thy self to keep in use of press and pace
These deathless horse, himself being gone that like the gods had th’ art
Of their high manage? Therefore take to thy command his part,