To grave Idaeus, and went on, made his resolv’d approach,
And enter’d in a goodly room, where with his princes, sate
Jove-lov’d Achilles at their feast; two only kept the state
Of his attendance, Alcimus and lord Automedon.
At Priam’s entry, a great time Achilles gaz’d upon
His wonder’d-at approach, nor ate; the rest did nothing see,
While close he came up, with his hands fast holding the bent knee
Of Hector’s conqueror, and kiss’d that large man-slaught’ring hand,
That much blood from his sons had drawn. And as in some strange land,
And great man’s house, a man is driv’n (with that abhorr’d dismay
That follows wilful bloodshed still, his fortune being to slay
One whose blood cries aloud for his) to plead protection
In such a miserable plight as frights the lookers on:
In such a stupified estate Achilles sate to see,
So unexpected, so in night, and so incredibly,
Old Priam’s entry; all his friends one on another star’d
To see his strange looks, seeing no cause. Thus Priam then prepar’d
His son’s redemption: ‘See in me, O god-like Thetis’ son,
Thy aged father, and perhaps even now being outrun
With some of my woes: neighbour foes (thou absent) taking time
To do him mischief, no mean left to terrify the crime
Of his oppression; yet he hears thy graces still survive,
And joys to hear it, hoping still to see thee safe arrive
From ruin’d Troy. But I (curs’d man) of all my race shall live
To see none living. Fifty sons the deities did give
My hopes to live in, all alive when near our trembling shore
The Greek ships harbour’d, and one womb nineteen of those sons bore.
Now Mars a number of their knees hath strengthless left, and he
That was (of all) my only joy, and Troy’s sole guard, by thee
(Late fighting for his country) slain, whose tender’d person now
I come to ransom. Infinite is that I offer you,
Myself conferring it, expos’d alone to all your odds,
Only imploring right of arms. Achilles, fear the gods,
Pity an old man, like thy sire, different in only this,
That I am wretcheder, and bear that weight of miseries
That never man did, my curs’d lips enforc’d to kiss that hand
That slew my children.’ This mov’d tears; his father’s name did stand
(Mention’d by Priam) in much help, to his compassion,
And mov’d Aeacides so much he could not look upon
The weeping father. With his hand he gently put away
His grave face; calm remission now did mutually display
Her pow’r in either’s heaviness: old Priam to record
His son’s death, and his deathsman see, his tears and bosom pour’d
Before Achilles. At his feet he laid his rev’rend head;
Achilles’ thoughts now with his sire, now with his friend, were fed.
Betwixt both sorrow fill’d the tent. But now Aeacides
(Satiate at all parts with the ruth of their calamities)
Starts up, and up he rais’d the king. His milk-white head and beard
With pity he beheld, and said: ‘Poor man, thy mind is scar’d
With much affliction; how durst thy person thus alone
Venture on his sight, that hath slain so many a worthy son,
And so dear to thee? Thy old heart is made of iron. Sit,
And settle we our woes, though huge, for nothing profits it.
Cold mourning wastes but our lives’ heats. The gods have destinate
That wretched mortals must live sad. ’Tis the immortal state
Of deity that lives secure. Two tuns of gifts there lie
In Jove’s gate, one of good, one ill, that our mortality
Maintain, spoil, order; which when Jove doth mix to any man,
One while he frolics, one while mourns. If of his mournful can
A man drinks only, only wrongs he doth expose him to.
Sad hunger, in th’ abundant earth, doth toss him to and fro,
Respected nor of gods nor men. The mix’d cup Peleus drank.
Ev’n from his birth, heav’n blest his life; he liv’d not that could thank
The gods for such rare benefits as set forth his estate.
He reign’d among his Myrmidons most rich, most fortunate,
And (though a mortal) had his bed deck’d with a deathless dame.
And yet with all this good, one ill god mix’d, that takes all name
From all that goodness – his name now (whose preservation here
Men count the crown of their most good) not bless’d with pow’r to bear
One blossom but myself; and I, shaken as soon as blown.
Nor shall I live to cheer his age, and give nutrition
To him that nourish’d me. Far off my rest is set in Troy,
To leave thee restless and thy seed. Thyself that did enjoy
(As we have heard) a happy life – what Lesbos doth contain
(In times past being a bless’d man’s seat), what the unmeasur’d main
Of Hellespontus, Phrygia holds, are all said to adorn
Thy empire, wealth and sons enow; but when the gods did turn
Thy blest state to partake with bane, war and the bloods of men
Circled thy city, never clear – sit down and suffer then,
Mourn not inevitable things; thy tears can spring no deeds
To help thee, nor recall thy son; impatience ever breeds
Ill upon ill, makes worst things worse, and therefore sit.’ He said:
‘Give me no seat, great seed of Jove, when yet unransomed
Hector lies riteless in thy tents; but deign with utmost speed
His resignation, that these eyes may see his person freed,
And thy grace satisfied with gifts. Accept what I have brought,
And turn to Phthia; ’tis enough thy conquering hand hath fought
Till Hector falter’d under it, and Hector’s father stood
With free humanity safe.’ He frown’d and said: ‘Give not my blood
Fresh cause of fury; I know well I must resign thy son,
Jove by my mother utter’d it, and what besides is done,
I know as amply; and thyself, old Priam, I know too
Some god hath brought thee: for no man durst use a thought to go
On such a service. I have guards, and I have gates to stay
Easy accesses; do not then presume thy will can sway,
Like Jove’s will, and incense again my quench’d blood: lest nor thou
Nor Jove gets the command of me.’ This made the old king bow,
And down he sate in fear. The prince leap’d like a lion forth,
Automedon and Alcimus attending; all the worth
Brought for the body, they took down and brought in; and with it
Idaeus (herald to the king); a coat embroider’d yet,
And two rich cloaks, they left to hide the person. Thetis’ son
Call’d out his women to anoint and quickly overrun
The corse with water, lifting it in private to the coach,
Lest Priam saw, and his cold blood embrac’d a fiery touch
Of anger, at the turpitude profaning it, and blew
Again his wrath’s fire to his death. This done, his women threw
The coat and cloak on, but the corse Achilles’ own hand laid
Upon a bed, and with his friends to chariot it convey’d.
For which forc’d grace (abhorring so from his free mind) he wept,
Cried out for anger, and thus pray’d: ‘O friend, do not except
Against this favour to our foe (if in the deep thou hear),
And that I give him to his sire; he gave fair ransom. Dear
In my observance is Jove’s will; and whatsoever part
Of all these gifts by any mean I fitly may convert
To thy renown here, and will there, it shall be pour’d upon
Thy honour’d sepulchre.’ This said, he went, and what was done,
Told Priam, saying: ‘Father, now thy will’s fit rites are paid,
Thy son is giv’n up; in the morn thine eyes shall see him laid
Deck’d in thy chariot on his bed: in mean space let us eat.
The rich-hair’d Niobe found thoughts that made her take her meat,
Though twelve dear children she saw slain: six daughters, six young sons.
The sons incens’d Apollo slew, the maids’ confusions
Diana wrought, since Niobe her merits durst compare
With great Latona’s, arguing, that she did only bear
Two children, and herself had twelve; for which, those only two
Slew all her twelve. Nine days they lay steep’d in their blood: her woe
Found no friend to afford them fire; Saturnius had turn’d
Humans to stones. The tenth day yet the good celestials burn’d
The trunks themselves; and Niobe, when she was tir’d with tears,
Fell to her food, and now with rocks and wild hills mix’d she bears
(In Sypilus) the gods’ wraths still, in that place where ’tis said
The goddess fairies use to dance about the funeral bed
Of Achelous, where (though turn’d with cold grief to a stone)
Heav’n gives her heat enough to feel, what plague comparison
With his pow’rs (made by earth) deserves: affect not then too far
With grief like a god, being a man; but for a man’s life care,
And take fit food: thou shalt have time beside to mourn thy son.
He shall be tearful, thou being full; not here, but Ilion
Shall find thee weeping-rooms enow.’ He said, and so arose,
And caus’d a silver-fleec’d sheep kill’d; his friends’ skills did dispose
The flaying, cutting of it up, and cookly spitted it,
Roasted, and drew it artfully. Automedon, as fit,
Was for the reverend server’s place, and all the brown joints serv’d
On wicker vessels to the board; Achilles’ own hands carv’d,
And close they fell to. Hunger stanch’d, talk and observing time
Was us’d of all hands; Priam sate amaz’d to see the prime
Of Thetis’ son, accomplish’d so with stature, looks, and grace,
In which the fashion of a god he thought had chang’d his place.
Achilles fell to him as fast, admir’d as much his years
(Told in his grave and good aspect); his speech even charm’d his ears,
So order’d, so material. With this food feasted too,
Old Priam spake thus: ‘Now (Jove’s seed) command that I may go,
And add to this feast grace of rest: these lids ne’er clos’d mine eyes
Since under thy hands fled the soul of my dear son; sighs, cries
And woes all use from food and sleep have taken; the base courts
Of my sad palace made my beds, where all the abject sorts
Of sorrow I have varied, tumbled in dust, and hid –
No bit, no drop of sustenance touch’d.’ Then did Achilles bid
His men and women see his bed laid down, and covered
With purple blankets, and on them an arras coverlid,
Waistcoats of silk plush laying by. The women straight took lights,
And two beds made with utmost speed, and all the other rites
Their lord nam’d, us’d, who pleasantly the king in hand thus bore:
‘Good father, you must sleep without, lest any counsellor
Make his access in depth of night, as oft their industry
Brings them t’ impart our war-affairs, of whom should any eye
Discern your presence, his next steps to Agamemnon fly,
And then shall I lose all these gifts. But go to, signify
(And that with truth) how many days you mean to keep the state
Of Hector’s funerals, because so long would I rebate
Mine own edge, set to sack your town, and all our host contain
From interruption of your rites.’ He answer’d: ‘If you mean
To suffer such rites to my son, you shall perform a part
Of most grace to me. But you know with how dismay’d a heart
Our host took Troy, and how much fear will therefore apprehend
Their spirits to make out again, so far as we must send
For wood to raise our heap of death, unless I may assure
That this your high grace will stand good, and make their pass secure;
Which if you seriously confirm, nine days I mean to mourn,
The tenth, keep funeral and feast, th’ eleventh raise and adorn
My son’s fit sepulchre. The twelfth (if we must needs) we’ll fight.’
‘Be it,’ replied Aeacides. ‘Do Hector all this right;
I’ll hold war back those whole twelve days; of which, to free all fear,
Take this my right hand.’ This confirm’d, the old king rested there,
His herald lodg’d by him, and both in forepart of the tent –
Achilles in an inmost room of wondrous ornament,
Whose side bright-cheek’d Briseis warm’d. Soft sleep tam’d gods and men,
All but most useful Mercury; sleep could not lay one chain
On his quick temples, taking care for getting off again
Engaged Priam undiscern’d of those that did maintain
The sacred watch. Above his head he stood with this demand:
‘O father, sleep’st thou so secure still lying in the hand
Of so much ill, and being dismiss’d by great Aeacides?
’Tis true thou hast redeem’d the dead, but for thy life’s release
(Should Agamemnon hear thee here) three times the price now paid
Thy sons’ hands must repay for thee.’ This said, the king, afraid,
Starts from his sleep, Idaeus call’d; and (for both) Mercury
The horse and mules (before loos’d) join’d so soft and curiously,
That no ear heard, and thorough the host drave; but when they drew
To gulfy Xanthus’ bright-wav’d stream, up to Olympus flew
Industrious Mercury. And now the saffron morning rose,
Spreading her white robe over all the world, when (full of woes)
They scourg’d on with the corse to Troy, from whence no eye had seen
(Before Cassandra) their return. She (like love’s golden queen,
Ascending Pergamus) discern’d her father’s person nigh,
His herald, and her brother’s corse, and then she cast this cry
Round about Troy: ‘O Troÿans, if ever ye did greet
Hector return’d from fight alive, now look ye out, and meet