Bite The Bullet Crimson Moon

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Bite The Bullet Crimson Moon

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 Bite The Bullet Crimson
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.
Her entry with a cup of gold, in which she drank to her,
Grac’d her with comfort, and the cup to her hand did refer.
She drank, resigning it; and then the Sire of men and Gods
Thus entertain’d her: “Com’st thou up to these our blest abodes,
Fair Goddess Thetis, yet art sad; and that in so high kind
As passeth suff’rance? This I know, and tried thee, and now find
Thy will by mine rul’d, which is rule to all worlds’ government.
Besides this trial yet, this cause sent down for thy ascent,
Nine days’ contention hath been held amongst th’ Immortals here
For Hector’s person and thy son; and some advices were
To have our good spy Mercury steal from thy son the corse;
But that reproach I kept far off, to keep in future force
Thy former love and reverence. Haste then, and tell thy son
The Gods are angry, and myself take that wrong he hath done
To Hector in worst part of all, the rather since he still
Detains his person. Charge him then, if he respect my will
For any reason, to resign slain Hector. I will send
Iris to Priam to redeem his son, and recommend
Fit ransom to Achilles’ grace, in which right he may joy
And end his vain grief.” To this charge bright Thetis did employ
Instant endeavour. From heav’n’s tops she reach’d Achilles’ tent,
Found him still sighing, and some friends with all their complement
Soothing his humour; other some with all contentión
Dressing his dinner, all their pains and skills consum’d upon
A huge wool-bearer, slaughter’d there. His rev’rend mother then
Came near, took kindly his fair hand, and ask’d him: “Dear son,
when
Will sorrow leave thee? How long time wilt thou thus eat thy heart,
Fed with no other food, nor rest? ’Twere good thou wouldst divert
Thy friend’s love to some lady, cheer thy spirits with such kind parts
As she can quit thy grace withal. The joy of thy deserts
I shall not long have, death is near, and thy all-conqu’ring fate,
Whose haste thou must not haste with grief, but understand the
state
Of things belonging to thy life, which quickly order. I
Am sent from Jove t’ advértise thee, that ev’ry Deity
Is angry with thee, himself most, that rage thus reigns in thee
Still to keep Hector. Quit him then, and, for fit ransom, free
His injur’d person.” He replied: “Let him come that shall give
The ransom, and the person take. Jove’s pleasure must deprive
Men of all pleasures.” This good speech, and many more, the son
And mother us’d, in ear of all the naval statión.
And now to holy Ilion Saturnius Iris sent:
“Go, swift-foot Iris, bid Troy’s king bear fit gifts, and content
Achilles for his son’s release; but let him greet alone
The Grecian navy; not a man, excepting such a one
As may his horse and chariot guide, a herald, or one old,
Attending him; and let him take his Hector. Be he bold,
Discourag’d nor with death nor fear, wise Mercury shall guide
His passage till the prince be near; and, he gone, let him ride
Resolv’d ev’n in Achilles’ tent. He shall not touch the state
Of his high person, nor admit the deadliest desperate
Of all about him; for, though fierce, he is not yet unwise,
Nor inconsid’rate, nor a man past awe of Deities,
But passing free and curious to do a suppliant grace.”
This said, the Rainbow to her feet tied whirlwinds, and the place
Reach’d instantly. The heavy court Clamour and Mourning fill’d;
The sons all set about the sire; and there stood Grief, and still’d
Tears on their garments. In the midst the old king sate, his weed
All wrinkled, head and neck dust-fil’d; the princesses his seed,
The princesses his sons’ fair wives, all mourning by; the thought
Of friends so many, and so good, being turn’d so soon to nought
By Grecian hands, consum’d their youth, rain’d beauty from their
eyes.
Iris came near the king; her sight shook all his faculties,
And therefore spake she soft, and said: “Be glad, Dardanides;
Of good occurrents, and none ill, am I ambassadress.
Jove greets thee, who, in care, as much as he is distant, deigns
Eye to thy sorrows, pitying thee. My ambassy contains
This charge to thee from him: He wills thou shouldst redeem thy
son,
Bear gifts t’ Achilles, cheer him so; but visit him alone,
None but some herald let attend, thy mules and chariot
To manage for thee. Fear nor death let daunt thee, Jove hath got
Hermes to guide thee, who as near to Thetis’ son as needs
Shall guard thee; and being once with him, nor his, nor others’,
deeds
Stand touch’d with, he will all contain; nor is he mad, nor vain,
Nor impious, but with all his nerves studious to entertain
One that submits with all fit grace.” Thus vanish’d she like wind.
He mules and chariot calls, his sons bids see them join’d, and bind
A trunk behind it; he himself down to his wardrobe goes,
Built all of cedar, highly roof’d, and odoriferous,
That much stuff, worth the sight, contain’d. To him he call’d his
queen,
Thus greeting her: “Come, hapless dame, an angel I have seen,
Sent down from Jove, that bade me free our dear son from the fleet
With ransom pleasing to our foe. What holds thy judgment meet?
My strength and spirit lays high charge on all my being to bear
The Greeks’ worst, vent’ring through their host.” The queen cried out
to hear
His vent’rous purpose, and replied: “O whither now is fled
The late discretion that renown’d thy grave and knowing head
In foreign and thine own rul’d realms, that thus thou dar’st assay
Sight of that man, in whose brow sticks the horrible decay
Of sons so many, and so strong? Thy heart is iron I think.
If this stern man, whose thirst of blood makes cruelty his drink,
Take, or but see, thee, thou art dead. He nothing pities woe,
Nor honours age. Without his sight, we have enough to do
To mourn with thought of him. Keep we our palace, weep we here,
Our son is past our helps. Those throes, that my deliv’rers were
Of his unhappy lineaments, told me they should be torn
With black-foot dogs. Almighty Fate, that black hour he was born,
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 son’s revengers made! Curs’d 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 curséd 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
Giv’n this suggestion, if our priests, or soothsay’rs, 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; caldrons 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, Helenus, 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, accurséd 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 a God, not from a 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-gath’ring God, Idæan 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 bade 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 travellers distress’d,
Now cónsort Priam to the fleet; but so, that not the least
Suspicion of him be attain’d, till at Achilles’ tent
The 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 straight. 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
Idæus (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 strook 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 travels, 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 follow’r 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
Frighted from holy Ilion, so excellent a son
As thou hadst (being your special strength) fallen to destructión,
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 Æacides,
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 shew
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 cup, and keep it for my love,
Nor leave me till the Gods and thee have made my pray’rs 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 withall
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 Æacides
Would shut and ope himself. And this with far more ease
Hermes set ope, ent’ring the king; then leapt 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 would 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
To grave Idæus, 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 protectión,
In such a miserable plight as frights the lookers on;
In such a stupefied estate Achilles sat 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 ev’n now being out-run
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 strength less 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; diff’rent 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 Æacides 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 Æacides
(Satiate at all parts with the ruth of their calamities)
Start 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 afflictión. 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 nutritión
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 conqu’ring 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 get the command of me.” This made the old king bow,
And down he sat in fear. The prince leapt like a lion forth,
Automedon and Alcimus attending: all the worth
Brought for the body they took down and brought in, and with it
Idæus, 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 fi’ry 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 Sipylus the Gods’ wrath still, in that place where ’tis said
The Goddess Fairies use to dance about the fun’ral 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
Without 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 rev’rend sewer’s place; and all the brown joints serv’d
On wicker vessel to the board; Achilles’ own hands kerv’d;
And close they fell to. Hunger stanch’d; talk, and observing time,
Was us’d of all hands. Priam sat 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 ev’n 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 variéd, tumbled in dust, and hid;
No bit, no drop, of sust’nance touch’d.” Then did Achilles bid
His men and women see his bed laid down, and coveréd
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 Æacides, “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
Engagéd 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 Æacides?
’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,
Start from his sleep, Idæus call’d, and, for both, Mercury
The horse and mules, before loos’d, join’d so soft and curiously
That no ear heard, and through 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 Trojans, if ever ye did greet
Hector return’d from fight alive, now look ye out and meet
His ransom’d person. Then his worth was all your city’s joy,
Now do it honour.” Out all rush’d; woman nor man in Troy
Was left, a most unmeasur’d cry took up their voices. Close
To Scæa’s ports they met the corse; and to it headlong goes
The rev’rend mother, the dear wife; upon it strow their hair,
And lie entrancéd. Round about the people broke the air
In lamentations; and all day had stay’d the people there,
If Priam had not cried “Give way, give me but leave to bear
The body home, and mourn your fills.” Then cleft the press, and
gave
Way to the chariot. To the court herald Idæus drave
Where on a rich bed they bestow’d the honour’d person, round
Girt it with singers that the woe with skilful voices crown’d.
A woeful elegy they sung, wept singing, and the dames
Sigh’d as they sung. Andromache the downright prose exclaims
Began to all; she on the neck of slaughter’d Hector fell,
And cried out: “O my husband, thou in youth bad’st youth farewell,
Left’st me a widow, thy sole son an infant; ourselves curs’d
In our birth made him right our child: for all my care that nurs’d
His infancy will never give life to his youth, ere that
Troy from her top will be destroy’d; thou guardian of our state,
Thou ev’n of all her strength the strength, thou, that in care wert
past
Her careful mothers of their babes, being gone, how can she last?
Soon will the swoln fleet fill her womb with all their servitude,
Myself with them, and thou with me, dear son, in labours rude
Shalt be employ’d, sternly survey’d by cruel conquerors;
Or, rage not suff’ring life so long, some one, whose hate abhors
Thy presence (putting him in mind of his sire slain by thine,
His brother, son, or friend) shall work thy ruin before mine,
Toss’d from some tow’r, for many Greeks have ate earth from the
hand
Of thy strong father; in sad fight his spirit was too much mann’d,
And therefore mourn his people; we, thy parents, my dear lord,
For that thou mak’st endure a woe, black, and to be abhorr’d.
Of all yet thou hast left me worst, not dying in thy bed,
And reaching me thy last-rais’d hand, in nothing counselléd
Nothing commanded by that pow’r thou hadst of me to do
Some deed for thy sake. O for these never will end my woe,
Never my tears cease.” Thus wept she, and all the ladies clos’d
Her passion with a gen’ral shriek. Then Hecuba dispos’d
Her thoughts in like words; “O my son, of all mine much most dear,
Dear while thou liv’dst too ev’n to Gods, and after death they were
Careful to save thee. Being best, thou most wert envied;
My other sons Achilles sold; but thee he left not dead.
Imber and Samos, the false ports of Lemnos entertain’d
Their persons; thine, no port but death. Nor there in rest remain’d
Thy violated corse, the tomb of his great friend was spher’d
With thy dragg’d person; yet from death he was not therefore rear’d
But, all his rage us’d, so the Gods have tender’d thy dead state,
Thou liest as living, sweet and fresh, as he that felt the fate
Of Phœbus’ holy shafts.” These words the queen us’d for her moan,
And, next her, Helen held that state of speech and passión:
“O Hector, all my brothers more were not so lov’d of me
As thy most virtues. Not my lord I held so dear, as thee,
That brought me hither; before which I would I had been brought
To ruin; for what breeds that wish (which is the mischief wrought
By my access) yet never found one harsh taunt, one word’s ill,
From thy sweet carriage. Twenty years do now their circles fill
Since my arrival; all which time thou didst not only bear
Thyself without check, but all else, that my lord’s brothers were,
Their sisters’ lords, sisters themselves, the queen my mother-in-law,
(The king being never but most mild) when thy man’s spirit saw
Sour and reproachful, it would still reprove their bitterness
With sweet words, and thy gentle soul. And therefore thy decease
I truly mourn for; and myself curse as the wretched cause;
All broad Troy yielding me not one, that any human laws
Of pity or forgiveness mov’d t’entreat me humanly,
But only thee, all else abhorr’d me for my destiny.”
These words made ev’n the commons mourn; to whom the king
said: “Friends,
Now fetch wood for our fun’ral fire, nor fear the foe intends
Ambush, or any violence; Achilles gave his word,
At my dismission, that twelve days he would keep sheath’d his
sword,
And all men’s else.” Thus oxen, mules, in chariots straight they put,
Went forth and an unmeasur’d pile of sylvan matter cut;
Nine days employ’d in carriage, but when the tenth morn shin’d
On wretched mortals, then they brought the fit-to-be-divin’d
Forth to be burn’d. Troy swum in tears. Upon the pile’s most height
They laid the person, and gave fire. All day it burn’d, all night.
But when th’ elev’nth morn let on earth her rosy fingers shine,
The people flock’d about the pile, and first with blackish wine
Quench’d all the flames. His brothers then, and friends, the snowy
bones
Gather’d into an urn of gold, still pouring on their moans.
Then wrapt they in soft purple veils the rich urn, digg’d a pit,
Grav’d it, ramm’d up the grave with stones, and quickly built to it
A sepulchre. But, while that work and all the fun’ral rites
Were in performance, guards were held at all parts, days and nights,
For fear of false surprise before they had impos’d the crown
To these solemnities. The tomb advanc’d once, all the town
In Jove-nurs’d Priam’s Court partook a passing sumptuous feast.
And so horse-taming Hector’s rites gave up his soul to rest.

THE END OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH BOOK.

[1] Shame a quality that hurts and helps men exceedingly.
 EPILOGUE TO HOMER’S ILIADS

Thus far the Ilian ruins I have laid

Open to English eyes. In which, repaid
With thine own value, go, unvalued book,
Live, and be lov’d. If any envious look
Hurt thy clear fame, learn that no state more high
Attends on virtue than pin’d envy’s eye.
Would thou wert worth it that the best doth wound.
Which this age feeds, and which the last shall bound!
Thus, with labour enough, though with more comfort in the merits
of my divine author, I have brought my translation of his Iliads to an
end. If, either therein, or in the harsh utterance or matter of my
Comment before, I have, for haste, scattered with my burthen (less
than fifteen weeks being the whole time that the last Twelve Books’
translation stood me in) I desire my present will (and I doubt not
hability, if God give life, to reform and perfect all hereafter) may be
ingenuously accepted for the absolute work. The rather, considering
the most learned, with all their helps and time, have been so often,
and unanswerably, miserably taken halting. In the mean time, that
most assistful and unspeakable Spirit, by Whose thrice sacred
conduct and inspiration I have finished this labour, diffuse the fruitful
horn of His blessings through these goodness-thirsting watchings;
without which, utterly dry and bloodless is whatsoever mortality
soweth.
But where our most diligent Spondanus ends his work with a
prayer to be taken out of these Mæanders and Euripian rivers (as he
terms them) of Ethnic and Profane Writers (being quite contrary to
himself at the beginning) I thrice humbly beseech the Most Dear and
Divine Mercy (ever most incomparably preferring the great light of
His Truth in His direct and infallible Scriptures) I may ever be
enabled, by resting wondering in His right comfortable shadows in
these, to magnify the clearness of His Almighty apparance in the
other.
And with this salutation of Poesy given by our Spondanus in his
Preface to these Iliads (“All hail saint-sacred Poesy that, under so
much gall of fiction, such abundance of honey doctrine hast hidden,
not revealing them to the unworthy worldly! Wouldst thou but so
much make me, that amongst thy novices I might be numbered, no
time should ever come near my life that could make me forsake
thee.”) I will conclude with this my daily and nightly prayer, learned
of the most learned Simplicius;—
“Supplico tibi, Domine, Pater, et Dux rationis nostræ, ut nostræ
nobilitatis recordemur quâ Tu nos ornasti; et ut Tu nobis præstò sis
ut iis qui per sese moventur; ut et à corporis contagio brutorumque
affectuum repurgemur, eosque superemus et regamus, et, sicut
decet, pro instrumentis iis utamur. Deinde ut nobis adjumento sis, ad
accuratam rationis nostræ correctionem, et conjunctionem cum iis
qui verè sunt per lucem veritatis. Et tertium, Salvatori supplex oro,
ut ab oculis animorum nostrorum caliginem prorsus abstergas, ut
(quod apud Homerum est) norimus bene qui Deus, aut mortalis,
habendus. Amen.”

FINIS
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
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HOMER ***

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