Prince of the people.’ He replied: ‘Shall thy command assuage
(Gulf-fed Scamander) my free wrath? I’ll never leave pursu’d
Proud Ilion’s slaughters, till this hand in her fil’d walls conclude
Her flying forces, and hath tried in single fight the chance
Of war with Hector, whose event with stark death shall advance
One of our conquests.’ Thus again he like a fury flew
Upon the Trojans, when the flood his sad plaint did pursue
To bright Apollo, telling him he was too negligent
Of Jove’s high charge, importuning by all means vehement
His help of Troy, till latest ev’n should her black shadows pour
On earth’s broad breast. In all his worst, Achilles yet from shore
Leapt to his midst. Then swell’d his waves, then rag’d, then boil’d again
Against Achilles: up flew all, and all the bodies slain
In all his deeps (of which the heaps made bridges to his waves)
He belch’d out, roaring like a bull. The unslain yet he saves
In his black whirlpits vast and deep. A horrid billow stood
About Achilles. On his shield the violence of the flood
Beat so, it drove him back, and took his feet up, his fair palm
Enforc’d to catch into his stay a broad and lofty elm,
Whose roots he toss’d up with his hold, and tore up all the shore;
With this then he repell’d the waves, and those thick arms it bore
He made a bridge to bear him off (for all fell in), when he
Forth from the channel threw himself. The rage did terrify
Ev’n his great spirit, and made him add wings to his swiftest feet,
And tread the land. And yet not there the flood left his retreat,
But thrust his billows after him, and black’d them all at top
To make him fear, and fly his charge, and set the broad field ope
For Troy to ’scape in. He sprung out a dart’s cast, but came on
Again with a redoubled force; as when the swiftest flown
And strong’st of all fowls (Jove’s black hawk, the huntress) stoops upon
A much lov’d quarry: so charg’d he, his arms with horror rung
Against the black waves: yet again he was so urg’d, he flung
His body from the flood, and fled. And after him again
The waves flew roaring, as a man that finds a water-vein,
And from some black fount is to bring his streams through plants and groves,
Goes with his mattock, and all checks, set to his course, removes;
When that runs freely, under it the pebbles all give way,
And where it finds a fall, runs swift, nor can the leader stay
His current then; before himself full-pac’d it murmurs on:
So, of Achilles, evermore the strong flood vantage won.
Though most deliver, gods are still above the pow’rs of men.
As oft as th’ able god-like man endeavour’d to maintain
His charge on them that kept the flood (and charg’d, as he would try
If all the gods inhabiting the broad unreached sky
Could daunt his spirit), so oft still the rude waves charg’d him round,
Rampt on his shoulders, from whose depth his strength and spirit would bound
Up to the free air, vex’d in soul. And now the vehement flood
Made faint his knees, so overthwart his waves were, they withstood
All the denied dust, which he wish’d, and now was fain to cry,
Casting his eyes to that broad heav’n that late he long’d to try,
And said: ‘O Jove, how am I left? No god vouchsafes to free
Me, miserable man; help now, and after torture me
With any outrage. Would to heav’n, Hector (the mightiest
Bred in this region) had imbru’d his javelin in my breast
That strong might fall by strong, where now weak water’s luxury
Must make my death blush; one heav’n-born shall like a hog-herd die,
Drown’d in a dirty torrent’s rage. Yet none of you in heav’n
I blame for this, but she alone by whom this life was giv’n,
That now must die thus. She would still delude me with her tales,
Affirming Phoebus’ shafts should end within the Trojan walls
My curs’d beginning.’ In this strait, Neptune and Pallas flew
To fetch him off. In men’s shapes both close to his danger drew,
And, taking both both hands, thus spake the Shaker of the world:
‘Pelides, do not stir a foot, nor these waves, proudly curl’d
Against thy bold breast, fear a jot; thou hast us two thy friends
(Neptune and Pallas), Jove himself approving th’ aid we lend.
Tis nothing, as thou fear’st, with fate; she will not see thee drown’d:
This height shall soon down, thine own eyes shall see it set aground.
Be rul’d then, we’ll advise thee well; take not thy hand away
From putting all, indifferently, to all that it can lay
Upon the Trojans, till the walls of haughty Ilion
Conclude all in a desperate flight; and when thou hast set gone
The soul of Hector, turn to fleet: our hands shall plant a wreath
Of endless glory on thy brows. Thus to the free-from-death
Both made retreat. He (much impell’d by charge the godheads gave)
The field, that now was overcome with many a boundless wave,
He overcame: on their wild breasts they toss’d the carcasses
And arms of many a slaughter’d man. And now the winged knees
Of this great captain bore aloft: against the flood he flies
With full assault, nor could that god make shrink his rescu’d thighs:
Nor shrunk the flood, but as his foe grew powerful, he grew mad,
Thrust up a billow to the sky, and crystal Simois bade
To his assistance: ‘Simois! Ho, brother!’ out he cried.
‘Come, add thy current, and resist this man half deified,
Or Ilion he will pull down straight; the Trojans cannot stand
A minute longer. Come, assist, and instantly command
All fountains in thy rule to rise, all torrents to make in,
And stuff thy billows, with whose height engender such a din
(With trees torn up, and justling stones) as so immane a man
May shrink beneath us: whose pow’r thrives, do my pow’r all it can:
He dares things fitter for a god. But nor his form, nor force,
Nor glorious arms shall profit it: all which, and his dead corse,
I vow to roll up in my hands – nay, bury in my mud –
Nay, in the very sinks of Troy that, pour’d into my flood,
Shall make him drowning work enough: and being drown’d, I’ll set
A sort of such strong filth on him, that Greece shall never get
His bones from it. There, there shall stand Achilles’ sepulchre,
And save a burial for his friends.’ This fury did transfer
His high-ridg’d billows on the prince, roaring with blood and foam
And carcasses. The crimson stream did snatch into her womb
Surpris’d Achilles; and her height stood, held up by the hand
Of Jove himself. Then Juno cried, and call’d (to countermand
This wat’ry deity) the god that holds command in fire,
Afraid lest that gulf-stomach’d flood would satiate his desire
On great Achilles. ‘Mulciber! My best-lov’d son!’ she cried.
‘Rouse thee, for all the gods conceive this flood thus amplified
Is rais’d at thee, and shows as if his waves would drown the sky,
And put out all the sphere of fire; haste, help thy empery:
Light flames deep as his pits. Our self the west wind and the south
Will call out of the sea, and breathe in either’s full-charg’d mouth
A storm t’ enrage thy fires ’gainst Troy; which shall (in one exhal’d)
Blow flames of sweat about their brows, and make their armours scal’d.
Go thou then, and (’gainst these winds rise) make work on Xanthus’ shore,
With setting all his trees on fire: and in his own breast pour
A fervor that shall make it burn, nor let fair words or threats
Avert thy fury till I speak, and then subdue the heats
Of all thy blazes.’ Mulciber prepar’d a mighty fire,
First in the field us’d, burning up the bodies that the ire
Of great Achilles reft of souls: the quite-drown’d field it dried,
And shrunk the flood up. And as fields that have been long time cloy’d
With catching weather, when their corn lies on the gavill heap,
Are with a constant north wind dried, with which for comfort leap
Their hearts that sow’d them: so this field was dried, the bodies burn’d,
And ev’n the flood into a fire as bright as day was turn’d.
Elms, willows, tam’risks were enflam’d; the lote trees, sea-grass reeds,
And rushes, with the galingale roots (of which abundance breeds
About the sweet flood), all were fir’d; the gliding fishes flew
Upwards in flames; the grovelling eels crept upright, all which slew
Wise Vulcan’s unresisted spirit. The flood out of a flame
Cried to him: ‘Cease, O Mulciber, no deity can tame
Thy matchless virtue: nor would I (since thou art thus hot) strive:
Cease then thy strife; let Thetis’ son, with all thy wish’d haste, drive
Ev’n to their gates these Ilians: what toucheth me their aid,
Or this contention?’ Thus in flames the burning river pray’d:
And as a cauldron, underput with store of fire, and wrought
With boiling of a well-fed brawn, up leaps his wave aloft,
Bavins of sere wood urging it, and spending flames apace,
Till all the cauldron be engirt with a consuming blaze:
So round this flood burn’d, and so sod his sweet and tortur’d streams,
Nor could flow forth, bound in the fumes of Vulcan’s fiery beams.
Who (then not mov’d) his mother’s ruth by all his means he craves,
And ask’d, why Vulcan should invade and so torment his waves
Past other floods, when his offence rose not to such degree
As that of other gods for Troy, and that himself would free
Her wrath to it, if she were pleas’d; and pray’d her, that her son
Might be reflected, adding this, that he would ne’er be won
To help keep off the ruinous day in which all Troy should burn,
Fir’d by the Grecians. This vow heard, she charg’d her son to turn
His fiery spirits to their homes, and said it was not fit
A god should suffer so for men. Then Vulcan did remit
His so unmeasur’d violence, and back the pleasant flood
Ran to his channel. Thus these gods she made friends, th’ others stood
At weighty dif
f
’
rence; both sides ran together with a sound
That earth resounded, and great heav’n about did surrebound.
Jove heard it, sitting on his hill, and laugh’d to see the gods
Buckle to arms like angry men; and (he pleas’d with their odds)
They laid it freely. Of them all, thump-buckler Mars began,
And at Minerva with a lance of brass he headlong ran,
These vile words ushering his blows: ‘Thou dog-fly, what’s the cause
Thou mak’st gods fight thus? Thy huge heart breaks all our peaceful laws
With thy insatiate shamelessness. Rememb’rest thou the hour
When Diomed charg’d me – and by thee – and thou with all thy pow’r
Took’st lance thyself, and in all sights rush’d on me with a wound?
Now vengeance falls on thee for all.’ This said, the shield fring’d round
With fighting adders, borne by Jove, that not to thunder yields,
He clapt his lance on, and this god that with the blood of fields
Pollutes his godhead, that shield pierc’d, and hurt the armed Maid:
But back she leapt, and with her strong hand rapt a huge stone laid
Above the champaign, black and sharp, that did in old time break
Partitions to men’s lands; and that she dusted in the neck
Of that impetuous challenger. Down to the earth he sway’d,
And overlaid seven acres land: his hair was all beray’d
With dust and blood mix’d, and his arms rung out. Minerva laugh’d,
And thus insulted: ‘O thou fool, yet hast thou not been taught
To know mine eminence? Thy strength opposest thou to mine?
So pay thy mother’s furies then; who for these aids of thine
(Ever afforded perjur’d Troy, Greece ever left) takes spleen
And vows thee mischief.’ Thus she turn’d her blue eyes, when love’s queen
The hand of Mars took, and from earth rais’d him with thick-drawn breath,
His spirits not yet got up again. But from the press of death
Kind Aphrodite was his guide. Which Juno seeing, exclaim’d:
‘Pallas, see, Mars is help’d from field! “Dog-fly” his rude tongue nam’d
Thyself even now, but that his love, that dog-fly, will not leave
Her old consort. Upon her fly.’ Minerva did receive
This excitation joyfully, and at the Cyprian flew,
Struck with her hard hand her soft breast, a blow that overthrew
Both her and Mars, and there both lay together in broad field;
When thus she triumph’d. ‘So lie all that any succours yield
To these false Trojans ’gainst the Greeks so bold and patient,
As Venus (shunning charge of me); and no less impotent
Be all their aids than hers to Mars, so short work would be made
In our depopulating Troy (this hardiest to invade
Of all earth’s cities).’ At this wish white-wristed Juno smil’d.
Next Neptune and Apollo stood upon the point of field,
And thus spake Neptune: ‘Phoebus! Come, why at the lance’s end
Stand we two thus?’ Twill be a shame for us to re-ascend
Jove’s golden house, being thus in field and not to fight. Begin,
For ’tis no graceful work for me: thou hast the younger chin,
I older, and know more. O fool! What a forgetful heart
Thou bear’st about thee, to stand here, press’d to take th’ Ilian part,
And fight with me! Forget’st thou then what we two, we alone
(Of all the gods) have suffer’d here, when proud Laomedon