Enjoy’d our service a whole year for our agreed reward?
Jove in his sway would have it so, and in that year I rear’d
This broad brave wall about his town, that (being a work of mine)
It might be inexpugnable. This service then was thine,
In Ida (that so many hills and curl’d-head forests crown)
To feed his oxen, crooked-shank’d, and headed like the moon.
But when the much-joy–bringing hours brought term for our reward,
The terrible Laomedon dismiss’d us both, and scar’d
Our high deservings – not alone to hold our promis’d fee,
But give us threats too. Hand and feet he swore to fetter thee
And sell thee as a slave, dismiss’d far hence to foreign isles;
Nay more, he would have both our ears. His vow’s breach, and reviles,
Made us part angry with him then, and dost thou gratulate now
Such a king’s subjects, or with us not their destruction vow,
Ev’n to their chaste wives and their babes?’ He answer’d, he might hold
His wisdom little, if with him (a god) for men he would
Maintain contention – wretched men that flourish for a time
Like leaves, eat some of that earth yields, and give earth in their prime
Their whole selves for it. ‘Quickly then let us fly fight for them,
Nor show it offer’d: let themselves bear out their own extreme.’
Thus he retir’d, and fear’d to change blows with his uncle’s hands.
His sister therefore chid him much (the goddess that commands
In games of hunting), and thus spake: ‘Fliest thou, and leav’st the field
To Neptune’s glory? And no blows? O fool! Why dost thou wield
Thy idle bow? No more my ears shall hear thee vaunt in skies –
Dares to meet Neptune – but I’ll tell thy coward’s tongue it lies.’
He answer’d nothing; yet Jove’s wife could put on no such reins,
But spake thus loosely: ‘How dar’st thou, dog, whom no fear contains,
Encounter me? ’Twill prove a match of hard condition:
Though the great Lady of the bow and Jove hath set thee down
For lion of thy sex, with gift to slaughter any dame
Thy proud will envies, yet some dames will prove th’ hadst better tame
Wild lions upon hills than them. But if this question rests
Yet under judgment in thy thoughts, and that thy mind contests,
I’ll make thee know it. Suddenly with her left hand she catch’d
Both Cynthia’s palms, lock’d fingers fast, and with her right she snatch’d
From her fair shoulders her gilt bow, and (laughing) laid it on
About her ears, and ev’ry way her turnings seiz’d upon,
Till all her arrows scatter’d out, her quiver emptied quite.
And as a dove, that (flying a hawk) takes to some rock her flight,
And in his hollow breasts sits safe, her fate not yet to die:
So fled she mourning, and her bow left there. Then Mercury
His opposite thus undertook: ‘Latona, at no hand
Will I bide combat; ’tis a work right dangerous to stand
At difference with the wives of Jove. Go, therefore, freely vaunt
Amongst the deities th’ hast subdued, and made thy combatant
Yield with plain pow’r.’ She answer’d not, but gather’d up the bow
And shafts fall’n from her daughter’s side, retiring. Up did go
Diana to Jove’s starry hall, her incorrupted veil
Trembling about her, so she shook. Phoebus (lest Troy should fail
Before her fate) flew to her walls, the other deities flew
Up to Olympus, some enrag’d, some glad. Achilles slew
Both men and horse of Ilion. And as a city fir’d
Casts up a heat that purples heaven, clamours and shrieks expir’d
In every corner; toil to all, to many misery;
Which fire th’ incensed gods let fall: Achilles so let fly
Rage on the Trojans, toils and shrieks as much by him impos’d.
Old Priam in his sacred tow’r stood, and the flight disclos’d
Of his forc’d people, all in rout, and not a stroke return’d,
But fled resistance. His eyes saw in what a fury burn’d
The son of Peleus, and down went weeping from the tow’r
To all the port-guards, and their chiefs, told of his flying pow’r,
Commanding th’ opening of the ports, but not to let their hands
Stir from them, for Aeacides would pour in with his bands.
‘Destruction comes. O shut them strait when we are in,’ he pray’d;
‘For not our walls, I fear, will check this violent man.’ This said,
Off lifted they the bars; the ports hal’d open, and they gave
Safety her entry, with the host; which yet they could not save
Had not Apollo sallied out, and struck destruction
(Brought by Achilles in their necks) back; when they right upon
The ports bore all, dry, dusty, spent, and on their shoulders rode
Rabid Achilles with his lance, still glory being the goad
That prick’d his fury. Then the Greeks high-ported Ilion
Had seiz’d, had not Apollo stirr’d Antenor’s famous son,
Divine Agenor, and cast in an undertaking spirit
To his bold bosom, and himself stood by to strengthen it,
And keep the heavy hand of death from breaking in. The god
Stood by him, leaning on a beech, and cover’d his abode
With night-like darkness; yet for all the spirit he inspir’d,
When that great city-raser’s force his thoughts struck, he retir’d,
Stood, and went on – a world of doubts still falling in his way –
When (angry with himsel
f
) he said: ‘Why suffer I this stay
In this so strong need to go on? If, like the rest, I fly,
’Tis his best weapon to give chase, being swift, and I should die
Like to a coward. If I stand, I fall too. These two ways
Please not my purpose; I would live. What if I suffer these
Still to be routed, and (my feet affording further length)
Pass all these fields of Ilion, till Ida’s sylvan strength
And steep heights shroud me, and at ev’n refresh me in the flood,
And turn to Ilion? O my soul! Why drown’st thou in the blood
Of these discourses? If this course that talks of further flight
I give my feet, his feet more swift have more odds. Get he sight
Of that pass, I pass least; for pace, and length of pace, his thighs
Will stand out all men. Meet him then, my steel hath faculties
Of pow’r to pierce him; his great breast but one soul holds, and that
Death claims his right in (all men say), but he holds special state
In Jove’s high bounty, that’s past man, that every way will hold;
And that serves all men, every way.’ This last heart made him bold
To stand Achilles, and stirr’d up a mighty mind to blows.
And as a panther (having heard the hounds’ trails) doth disclose
Her freckled forehead, and stares forth from out some deep-grown wood
To try what strength dares her abroad, and when her fiery blood
The hounds have kindled, no quench serves, of love to live or fear,
Though struck, though wounded, though quite through she feels the mortal spear,
But till the man’s close strength she tries, or strews earth with his dart,
She puts her strength out: so it far’d with brave Agenor’s heart,
And till Achilles he had prov’d, no thoughts, no deeds once stirr’d
His fixed foot. To his broad breast his round shield he preferr’d,
And up his arm went with his aim, his voice out with this cry:
‘Thy hope is too great, Peleus’ son, this day to show thine eye
Troy’s Ilion at thy foot; O fool! The Greeks with much more woes,
More than are suffer’d yet, must buy great Ilion’s overthrows.
We are within her many strong, that for our parents’ sakes,
Our wives and children, will save Troy, and thou (though he that makes
Thy name so terrible) shalt make a sacrifice to her
With thine own ruins.’ Thus he threw, nor did his javelin err,
But struck his foe’s leg near his knee; the fervent steel did ring
Against his tin greaves, and leap’d back. The fire’s strong-handed king
Gave virtue of repulse, and then Aeacides assail’d
Divine Agenor, but in vain; Apollo’s pow’r prevail’d,
And rapt Agenor from his reach, whom quietly he plac’d
Without the skirmish, casting mists to save from being chas’d
His tender’d person, and (he gone) to give his soldiers ’scape,
The deity turn’d Achilles still, by putting on the shape
Of him he thirsted; evermore he fed his eye, and fled,
And he with all his knees pursu’d. So cunningly he led,
That still he would be near his reach, to draw his rage with hope,
Far from the conflict, to the flood maintaining still the scope
Of his attraction. In mean time, the other frighted pow’rs
Came to the city, comforted, when Troy and all her tow’rs
Strooted with fillers; none would stand to see who staid without,
Who ’scap’d, and who came short: the ports cleft to receive the rout
That pour’d itself in. Every man was for himself, most fleet
Most fortunate; whoever scap’d, his head might thank his feet.
The end of the twenty-first book
Book 22
The Argument
All Trojans hous’d but Hector, only he
Keeps field, and undergoes th’ extremity.
Aeacides assaulting, Hector flies.
Minerva stays him: he resists, and dies;
Achilles to his chariot doth enforce,
And to the naval station drags his corse.
Another Argument
Hector in
Chi
to death is done
By pow’r of Peleus’ angry son.
Book 22
Thus
(chas’d like hinds) the Ilians took time to drink and eat,
And to refresh them, getting off the mingled dust and sweat,
And good strong rampires on instead. The Greeks then cast their shields
Aloft their shoulders; and now Fate their near invasion yields
Of those tough walls, her deadly hand compelling Hector’s stay
Before Troy at the Scaean ports. Achilles still made way
At Phoebus, who his bright head turn’d, and ask’d: ‘Why, Peleus’ son,
Pursu’st thou (being a man) a god? Thy rage hath never done.
Acknowledge not thine eyes my state? Esteems thy mind no more
Thy honour in the chase of Troy, but puts my chase before
Their utter conquest? They are all now hous’d in Ilion,
While thou hunt’st me. What wishest thou? My blood will never run
On thy proud javelin.’ ‘It is thou,’ replied Aeacides,
‘That putt’st dishonour thus on me, thou worst of deities;
Thou turnd’st me from the walls, whose ports had never entertain’d
Numbers now enter’d, over whom thy saving hand hath reign’d,
And robb’d my honour. And all is, since all thy actions stand
Past fear of reckoning: but held I the measure in my hand,
It should afford thee dear-bought scapes.’ Thus with elated spirits
(Steed-like, that at Olympus’ games wears garlands for his merits,
And rattles home his chariot, extending all his pride)
Achilles so parts with the god. When aged Priam spied
The great Greek come, spher’d round with beams, and show’ng as if the star
Surnam’d Orion’s hound, that springs in autumn, and sends far
His radiance through a world of stars, of all whose beams his own
Cast greatest splendour, the midnight that renders them most shown
Then being their foil, and on their points cure-passing fevers then
Come shaking down into the joints of miserable men –
As this were fall’n to earth, and shot along the field his rays
Now towards Priam (which he saw in great Aeacides),
Out flew his tender voice in shrieks, and with rais’d hands he smit
His rev’rend head, then up to heav’n he cast them, showing it
What plagues it sent him; down again then threw them to his son,
To make him shun them. He now stood without steep Ilion,
Thirsting the combat; and to him thus miserably cried
The kind old king: ‘O Hector! Fly this man, this homicide,
That straight will ’stroy thee. He’s too strong, and would to heav’n he were
As strong in heav’n’s love as in mine. Vultures and dogs should tear
His prostrate carcass, all my woes quench’d with his bloody spirits.
He has robb’d me of many sons, and worthy, and their merits
Sold to far islands: two of them (aye me!) I miss but now,
They are not enter’d, nor stay here. Laothoë, O ’twas thou,
O queen of women, from whose womb they breath’d. O did the tents
Detain them only, brass and gold would purchase safe events
To their sad durance: ’tis within. Old Altes (young in fame)
Gave plenty for his daughters dow’r, but if they fed the flame
Of this man’s fury, woe is me; woe to my wretched queen.
But in our state’s woe, their two deaths will nought at all be seen,
So thy life quit them. Take the town; retire, dear son, and save
Troy’s husbands and her wives, nor give thine own life to the grave
For this man’s glory: pity me – me, wretch, so long alive,
Whom in the door of age Jove keeps, that so he may deprive
My being in fortune’s utmost curse, to see the blackest thread
Of this life’s miseries: my sons slain, my daughters ravished,
Their resting chambers sack’d, their babes torn from them, on their knees
Pleading for mercy, themselves dragg’d to Grecian slaveries,
(And all this drawn through my red eyes.) Then last of all kneel I
Alone, all helpless at my gates, before my enemy,
That ruthless gives me to my dogs: all the deformity
Of age discover’d and all this thy death (sought wilfully)
Will pour on me. A fair young man at all parts it beseems
(Being bravely slain) to lie all gash’d, and wear the worst extremes
Of war’s most cruelty; no wound of whatsoever ruth
But is his ornament: but I, a man so far from youth,
White head, white-bearded, wrinkled, pin’d, all shames must show the eye:
Live, prevent this then, this most shame of all men’s misery.’
Thus wept the old king, and tore off his white hair, yet all these
Retir’d not Hector. Hecuba then fell upon her knees,
Stript nak’d her bosom, show’d her breasts, and bad him rev’rence them,
And pity her, if ever she had quieted his exclaim,
He would cease hers, and take the town, not tempting the rude field
When all had left it: ‘Think,’ said she, ‘I gave thee life to yield
My life recomfort; thy rich wife shall have no rites of thee,
Nor do thee rites; our tears shall pay thy corse no obsequy,
Being ravish’d from us, Grecian dogs nourish’d with what I nurs’d.’
Thus wept both these, and to his ruth propos’d the utmost worst
Of what could chance them, yet he stay’d. And now drew deadly near
Mighty Achilles, yet he still kept deadly station there.
Look how a dragon, when she sees a traveller bent upon
Her breeding den, her bosom fed with fell contagion,
Gathers her forces, sits him firm, and at his nearest pace
Wraps all her cavern in her folds, and thrusts a horrid face
Out at his entry: Hector so, with unextinguish’d spirit
Stood great Achilles, stirr’d no foot, but at the prominent turret
Bent to his bright shield, and resolv’d to bear fall’n heav’n on it.
Yet all this resolute abode did not so truly fit
His free election, but he felt a much more galling spur
To the performance, with conceit of what he should incur
Ent’ring, like others, for this cause; to which he thus gave way:
‘O me, if I shall take the town, Polydamas will lay
This flight and all this death on me, who counsell’d me to lead
My pow’rs to Troy this last black night, when so I saw make head
Incens’d Achilles. I yet stay’d, though (past all doubt) that course
Had much more profited than mine, which being by so much worse
As comes to all our flight and death, my folly now I fear
Hath bred this scandal, all our town now burns my ominous ear
With whispering: “Hector’s self-conceit hath cast away his host.”
And (this true) this extremity that I rely on most
Is best for me; stay, and retire with this man’s life, or die
Here for our city with renown, since all else fled but I.
And yet one way cuts both these ways; what if I hang my shield,
My helm and lance here on these walls, and meet in humble field
Renown’d Achilles, offering him Helen and all the wealth,
Whatever in his hollow keels bore Alexander’s stealth
For both th’ Atrides? For the rest, whatever is possess’d
In all this city, known or hid, by oath shall be confess’d
Of all our citizens; of which one half the Greeks shall have,
One half themselves. But why (lov’d soul) would these suggestions save
Thy state still in me? I’ll not sue, nor would he grant, but I
(Mine arms cast of
f
) should be assur’d a woman’s death to die.
To men of oak and rock, no words; virgins and youths talk thus –
Virgins and youths that love and woo – there’s other war with us;
What blows and conflicts urge, we cry: hates and defiances,
And with the garlands these trees bear, try which hand Jove will bless.’
These thoughts employ’d his stay, and now Achilles comes, now near
His Mars-like presence terribly came brandishing his spear.
His right arm shook it, his bright arms, like day, came glittering on
Like fire-light, or the light of heav’n shot from the rising sun.
This sight outwrought discourse, cold fear shook Hector from his stand:
No more stay now, all ports were left, he fled in fear the hand
Of that fear-master, who, hawk-like, air’s swiftest passenger,
That holds a timorous dove in chase, and with command doth bear
His fiery onset; the dove hastes, the hawk comes whizzing on,
This way and that he turns and winds, and cuffs the pigeon;
And till he truss it, his great spirit lays hot charge on his wing:
So urg’d Achilles Hector’s flight, so still fear’s point did sting
His troubled spirit; his knees wrought hard; along the wall he flew
In that fair chariot way that runs beneath the tow’r of view
And Troy’s wild fig-tree, till they reach’d where those two mother springs
Of deep Scamander pour’d abroad their silver murmurings:
One warm and casts out fumes as fire; the other cold as snow
Or hail dissolv’d. And when the sun made ardent summer glow,
There water’s concrete crystal shin’d, near which were cisterns made,
All pav’d and clear, where Trojan wives and their fair daughters had
Laundry for their fine linen weeds in times of cleanly peace,
Before the Grecians brought their siege. These captains noted these,
One flying, th’ other in pursuit. A strong man flew before,
A stronger follow’d him by far, and close up to him bore.
Both did their best, for neither now ran for a sacrifice,
Or for the sacrificer’s hide (our runners’ usual prize).
These ran for tame-horse Hector’s soul. And as two running steeds,
Back’d in some set race for a game that tries their swiftest speeds
(A tripod, or a woman giv’n for some man’s funerals):
Such speed made these men, and on foot ran thrice about the walls.
The gods beheld them, all much mov’d; and Jove said: ‘O ill sight!
A man I love much I see forc’d in most unworthy flight
About great Ilion; my heart grieves, he paid so many vows,
With thighs of sacrificed beeves, both on the lofty brows
Of Ida, and in Ilion’s height. Consult we, shall we free
His life from death, or give it now t’ Achilles victory?’
Minerva answered: ‘Alter Fate? One long since mark’d for death,
Now take from death? Do thou, but know he still shall run beneath
Our other censures.’ ‘Be it then,’ replied the Thunderer,
‘My lov’d Tritonia, at thy will; in this I will prefer
Thy free intention, work it all.’ Then stoop’d she from the sky
To this great combat. Peleus’ son pursued incessantly
Still flying Hector; as a hound that having rous’d a hart,
Although he tappish ne’er so oft, and every shrubby part
Attempts for strength, and trembles in, the hound doth still pursue
So close that not a foot he fails, but hunts it still at view:
So plied Achilles Hector’s steps; as oft as he assail’d
The Dardan ports and tow’rs for strength (to fetch from thence some aid
With winged shafts), so oft forc’d he amends of pace, and stept
’Twixt him and all his hopes; and still upon the field he kept
His utmost turnings to the town. And yet, as in a dream
One thinks he gives another chase, when such a fain’d extreme
Possesseth both that he in chase the chaser cannot fly,
Nor can the chaser get to hand his flying enemy:
So nor Achilles’ chase could reach the flight of Hector’s pace,
Nor Hector’s flight enlarge itself of swift Achilles’ chase.
But how chanc’d this? How, all this time, could Hector bear the knees
Of fierce Achilles with his own, and keep off destinies,
If Phoebus (for his last and best) through all that course hath fail’d
To add his succours to his nerves, and (as his foe assail’d)
Near and within him fed his ’scape? Achilles yet well knew
His knees would fetch him, and gave signs to some friends (making show
Of shooting at him) to forbear, lest they detracted so
From his full glory in first wounds, and in the overthrow
Make his hand last. But when they reach’d, the fourth time, the two founts,
Then Jove his golden scales weigh’d up, and took the last accounts
Of fate for Hector, putting in for him and Peleus’ son
Two fates of bitter death, of which high heav’n receiv’d the one,
The other hell: so low declin’d the light of Hector’s life.
Then Phoebus left him, when war’s queen came to resolve the strife
In th’ other’s knowledge: ‘Now,’ said she, ‘Jove-lov’d Aeacides,
‘I hope at last to make renown perform a brave access
To all the Grecians; we shall now lay low this champion’s height,
Though never so insatiate was his great heart of fight.
Nor must he ’scape our pursuit still, though all the feet of Jove
Apollo bows into a sphere, soliciting more love
To his most favour’d. Breathe thee then, stand firm, myself will haste
And hearten Hector to change blows.’ She went, and he stood fast,
Lean’d on his lance, and much was joy’d that single strokes should try
This fadging conflict. Then came close the changed deity
To Hector, like Deiphobus in shape and voice, and said:
‘O brother, thou art too much urg’d to be thus combated
About our own walls; let us stand, and force to a retreat
Th’ insulting chaser.’ Hector joy’d at this so kind deceit,
And said: ‘O good Deiphobus, thy love was most before
(Of all my brothers) dear to me, but now exceeding more
It costs me honour, that thus urg’d thou com’st to part the charge
Of my last fortunes; other friends keep town, and leave at large
My rack’d endeavours.’ She replied: ‘Good brother, ’tis most true,