Spun, in his springing thread, that end; far from his parents’ reach,
This bloody fellow then ordain’d to be their mean, this wretch,
Whose stony liver would to heav’n I might devour, my teeth
My sons’ revengers made. Curst Greek, he gave him not his death
Doing an ill work; he alone fought for his country, he
Fled not, nor fear’d, but stood his worst, and cursed policy
Was his undoing.’ He replied: ‘Whatever was his end,
Is not our question; we must now use all means to defend
His end from scandal: from which act dissuade not my just will,
Nor let me nourish in my house a bird presaging ill
To my good actions: ’tis in vain. Had any earthly spirit
Given this suggestion – if our priests or soothsayers, challenging merit
Of prophets – I might hold it false, and be the rather mov’d
To keep my palace; but these ears and these self eyes approv’d
It was a goddess; I will go, for not a word she spake
I know was idle. If it were, and that my fate will make
Quick riddance of me at the fleet, kill me, Achilles; come,
When getting to thee, I shall find a happy dying room
On Hector’s bosom, when enough thirst of my tears finds there
Quench to his fervour.’ This resolv’d, the works most fair and dear
Of his rich screens he brought abroad: twelve veils wrought curiously,
Twelve plain gowns, and as many suits of wealthy tapestry,
As many mantles, horsemen’s coats, ten talents of fine gold,
Two tripods, cauldrons four, a bowl whose value he did hold
Beyond all price, presented by th’ ambassadors of Thrace.
The old king nothing held too dear to rescue from disgrace
His gracious Hector. Forth he came. At entry of his court
The Trojan citizens so press’d, that this opprobrious sort
Of check he us’d: ‘Hence, cast-aways; away, ye impious crew!
Are not your griefs enough at home? What come ye here to view?
Care ye for my griefs? Would ye see how miserable I am?
Is ’t not enough, imagine ye? Ye might know, ere ye came,
What such a son’s loss weigh’d with me. But know this for your pains,
Your houses have the weaker doors: the Greeks will find their gains
The easier for his loss, be sure: but O Troy, ere I see
Thy ruin, let the doors of hell receive and ruin me.’
Thus with his sceptre set he on the crowding citizens,
Who gave back, seeing him so urge. And now he entertains
His sons as roughly: Hellenus, Paris, Hippothous,
Pammon, divine Agathones, renown’d Deiphobus,
Agavus, and Antiphonus, and last, not least in arms,
The strong Polites; these nine sons the violence of his harms
Help’d him to vent in these sharp terms: ‘Haste, you infamous brood,
And get my chariot; would to heav’n that all the abject blood
In all your veins had Hector scus’d: O me, accursed man,
All my good sons are gone; my light the shades Cimmerian
Have swallow’d from me: I have lost Mestor, surnam’d the fair;
Troilus, that ready knight at arms, that made his field repair
Ever so prompt and joyfully; and Hector, amongst men
Esteem’d god – not from mortal’s seed, but of th’ eternal strain
He seem’d to all eyes. These are gone; you that survive are base,
Liars and common freebooters: all faulty, not a grace
But in your heels, in all your parts; dancing companions
Ye all are excellent: hence, ye brats; love ye to hear my moans?
Will ye not get my chariot? Command it quickly; fly,
That I may perfect this dear work.’ This all did terrify,
And straight his mule-drawn chariot came, to which they fast did bind
The trunk with gifts: and then came forth, with an afflicted mind,
Old Hecuba. In her right hand a bowl of gold she bore,
With sweet wine crown’d; stood near, and said: ‘Receive this, and implore
(With sacrificing it to Jove) thy safe return. I see
Thy mind likes still to go, though mine dislikes it utterly.
Pray to the black-cloud-gathering god (Idaean Jove) that views
All Troy, and all her miseries, that he will deign to use
His most lov’d bird to ratify thy hopes, that, her broad wing
Spread on thy right hand, thou mayst know thy zealous offering
Accepted, and thy safe return confirm’d; but if he fail,
Fail thy intent, though never so it labours to prevail.’
‘This I refuse not,’ he replied, ‘for no faith is so great
In Jove’s high favour, but it must with held-up hands intreat.’
This said, the chambermaid that held the ewer and basin by,
He bad pour water on his hands; when looking to the sky,
He took the bowl, did sacrifice, and thus implor’d: ‘O Jove,
From Ida using thy commands, in all deserts above
All other gods, vouchsafe me safe, and pity in the sight
Of great Achilles: and for trust to that wish’d grace, excite
Thy swift-wing’d messenger, most strong, most of air’s region lov’d,
To soar on my right hand; which sight may firmly see approv’d
Thy former summons, and my speed.’ He pray’d, and heav’n’s king heard,
And instantly cast from his fist air’s all-commanding bird,
The black-wing’d huntress, perfectest of all fowls, which gods call
Percnos, the eagle. And how broad the chamber nuptial
Of any mighty man hath doors, such breadth cast either wing,
Which now she us’d, and spread them wide on right hand of the king.
All saw it, and rejoic’d, and up to chariot he arose,
Drave forth, the portal and the porch resounding as he goes.
His friends all follow’d him, and mourn’d as if he went to die;
And bringing him past town to field, all left him, and the eye
Of Jupiter was then his guard, who pitied him, and us’d
These words to Hermes: ‘Mercury, thy help hath been profus’d
Ever with most grace, in consorts of travailers distress’d.
Now consort Priam to the fleet: but so, that not the least
Suspicion of him be attain’d, till at Achilles’ tent
Thy convoy hath arriv’d him safe.’ This charge incontinent
He put in practice. To his feet his feather’d shoes he tied,
Immortal, and made all of gold, with which he us’d to ride
The rough sea and th’ unmeasur’d earth, and equall’d in his pace
The puffs of wind. Then took he up his rod, that hath the grace
To shut what eyes he lists with sleep, and open them again,
In strongest trances. This he held, flew forth, and did attain
To Troy and Hellespontus strait: then like a fair young prince,
First-down-chinn’d, and of such a grace as makes his looks convince
Contending eyes to view him, forth he went to meet the king.
He, having pass’d the mighty tomb of Ilus, watering
His mules in Xanthus, the dark even fell on the earth; and then
Idaeus (guider of the mules) discern’d this grace of men,
And spake afraid to Priamus: ‘Beware, Dardanides,
Our states ask counsel: I discern the dangerous access
Of some man near us; now I fear we perish. Is it best
To fly, or kiss his knees, and ask his ruth of men distress’d?’
Confusion struck the king, cold fear extremely quench’d his veins;
Upright upon his languishing head his hair stood, and the chains
Of strong amaze bound all his pow’rs. To both which then came near
The prince turn’d deity, took his hand, and thus bespake the peer:
‘To what place, father, driv’st thou out through solitary night,
When others sleep? Give not the Greeks sufficient cause of fright
To these late travails, being so near, and such vow’d enemies?
Of all which, if with all this load any should cast his eyes
On thy adventures, what would then thy mind esteem thy state –
Thyself old, and thy follower old? Resistance could not rate
At any value; as for me, be sure I mind no harm
To thy grave person, but against the hurt of others arm.
Mine own lov’d father did not get a greater love in me
To his good than thou dost to thine.’ He answer’d: ‘The degree
Of danger in my course, fair son, is nothing less than that
Thou urgest; but some god’s fair hand puts in for my safe state,
That sends so sweet a guardian, in this so stern a time
Of night and danger, as thyself, that all grace in his prime
Of body and of beauty show’st, all answer’d with a mind
So knowing, that it cannot be but of some blessed kind
Thou art descended.’ ‘Not untrue,’ said Hermes, ‘thy conceit
In all this holds; but further truth relate, if of such weight
As I conceive thy carriage be, and that thy care conveys
Thy goods of most price to more guard? Or go ye all your ways,
Freighted from holy Ilion, so excellent a son
As thou hadst (being your special strength) fall’n to destruction,
Whom no Greek better’d for his fight?’ ‘O, what art thou,’ said he,
‘Most worthy youth, of what race born, that thus recount’st to me
My wretched son’s death with such truth?’ ‘Now, father,’ he replied,
‘You tempt me far, in wond’ring how the death was signified
Of your divine son, to a man so mere a stranger here
As you hold me; but I am one that oft have seen him bear
His person like a god in field; and when in heaps he slew
The Greeks, all routed to their fleet, his so victorious view
Made me admire, not feel his hand, because Aeacides,
Incens’d, admitted not our fight, myself being of access
To his high person, serving him, and both to Ilion
In one ship sail’d. Besides, by birth I breathe a Myrmidon,
Polyctor (call’d the rich) my sire, declin’d with age like you.
Six sons he hath, and me a seventh, and all those six live now
In Phthia, since all casting lots, my chance did only fall
To follow hither. Now for walk I left my general.
To-morrow all the sun-burn’d Greeks will circle Troy with arms,
The princes rage to be withheld so idly; your alarms
Not giv’n half hot enough, they think, and can contain no more.’
He answer’d: ‘If you serve the prince, let me be bold t’ implore
This grace of thee, and tell me true, lies Hector here at fleet,
Or have the dogs his flesh?’ He said, ‘Nor dogs nor fowl have yet
Touch’d at his person; still he lies at fleet, and in the tent
Of our great captain, who indeed is much too negligent
Of his fit usage: but though now twelve days have spent their heat
On his cold body, neither worms with any taint have eat,
Nor putrefaction perish’d it; yet ever when the morn
Lifts her divine light from the sea, unmercifully borne
About Patroclus’ sepulchre, it bears his friend’s disdain,
Bound to his chariot; but no fits of further outrage reign
In his distemper: you would muse to see how deep a dew
Ev’n steeps the body, all the blood wash’d off, no slend’rest show
Of gore or quitture, but his wounds all clos’d, though many were
Open’d about him. Such a love the blest immortals bear,
Ev’n dead, to thy dear son, because his life show’d love to them.’
He joyful answer’d: ‘O my son, it is a grace supreme
In any man to serve the gods. And I must needs say this:
For no cause (having season fit) my Hector’s hands would miss
Advancement to the gods with gifts, and therefore do not they
Miss his remembrance after death. Now let an old man pray
Thy graces to receive this cap, and keep it for my love;
Nor leave me till the gods and thee have made my prayers approve
Achilles’ pity, by thy guide brought to his princely tent.’
Hermes replied: ‘You tempt me now, old king, to a consent
Far from me, though youth aptly errs. I secretly receive
Gifts, that I cannot broadly vouch? Take graces that will give
My lord dishonour, or what he knows not, or will esteem
Perhaps unfit? Such briberies perhaps at first may seem
Sweet and secure, but futurely they still prove sour, and breed
Both fear and danger. I could wish thy grave affairs did need
My guide to Argos, either shipp’d or lackeying by thy side,
And would be studious in thy guard, so nothing could be tried
But care in me to keep thee safe, for that I could excuse
And vouch to all men.’ These words past, he put the deeds in use
For which Jove sent him; up he leapt to Priam’s chariot,
Took scourge and reins, and blew in strength to his free steeds, and got
The naval tow’rs and deep dike straight. The guards were all at meat;
Those he enslumber’d, op’d the ports, and in he safely let
Old Priam with his wealthy prize. Forthwith they reach’d the tent
Of great Achilles. Large and high, and in his most ascent
A shaggy roof of seedy reeds mown from the meads, a hall
Of state they made their king in it, and strengthen’d it withal
Thick with fir rafters; whose approach was let in by a door
That had but one bar, but so big that three men evermore
Rais’d it to shut, three fresh take down; which yet Aeacides
Would shut and ope himself. And this with far more ease
Hermes set ope, ent’ring the king; then leap’d from horse, and said:
‘Now know, old king, that Mercury (a god) hath giv’n this aid
To thy endeavour, sent by Jove; and now away must I:
For men must envy thy estate, to see a deity
Affect a man thus: enter thou, embrace Achilles’ knee,
And by his sire, son, mother, pray his ruth and grace to thee.’
This said, he high Olympus reach’d. The king then left his coach