The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (50 page)

And set him safe in Lycia, or give the Fates their right.’

‘Austere Saturnius,’ she replied, ‘what unjust words are these?

A mortal long since mark’d by fate wouldst thou immortalise?

Do, but by no god be approv’d: free him, and numbers more

(Sons of immortals) will live free, that death must taste before

These gates of Ilion; every god will have his son a god,

Or storm extremely. Give him then an honest period,

In brave fight, by Patroclus’ sword, if he be dear to thee,

And grieves thee for his danger’d life: of which, when he is free,

Let Death and Somnus bear him hence, till Lycia’s natural womb

Receive him from his brother’s hands, and citizens a tomb

And column raise to him; this is the honour of the dead.’

She said, and her speech rul’d his pow’r: but in his safety’s stead,

For sad ostent of his near death, he steep’d his living name

In drops of blood heaven sweat for him, which earth drunk to his fame.

And now, as this high combat grew to this too humble end,

Sarpedon’s death had this state more: ’twas usher’d by his friend

And charioteer, brave Thrasimed, whom in his belly’s rim

Patroclus wounded with his lance, and endless ended him.

And then another act of name foreran his princely fate:

His first lance missing, he let fly a second that gave date

Of violent death to Pedasus; who (as he joy’d to die

By his so honourable hand) did (ev’n in dying) neigh.

His ruin startled th’ other steeds, the geres crack’d, and the reins

Strappled his fellows, whose misrule Automedon restrains

By cutting the intangling geres, and so dissundering quite

The brave slain beast; when both the rest obey’d, and went foreright:

And then the royal combatants fought for the final stroke,

When Lycia’s general miss’d again, his high-rais’d javelin took

Above his shoulder empty way. But no such speedless flight

Patroclus let his spear perform, that on the breast did light

Of his brave foe, where life’s strings close about the solid heart,

Impressing a recureless wound; his knees then left their part,

And let him fall, when like an oak, a poplar, or a pine,

New fell’d by arts-men on the hills, he stretcht’d his form divine

Before his horse and chariot. And as a lion leaps

Upon a goodly yellow bull, drives all the herd in heaps,

And under his unconquer’d jaws the brave beast sighing dies:

So sigh’d Sarpedon underneath this prince of enemies,

Call’d Glaucus to him (his dear friend), and said: ‘Now, friend, thy hands

Much duty owe to fight and arms; now for my love it stands

Thy heart in much hand to approve that war is harmful; now

How active all thy forces are, this one hour’s act must show.

First call our Lycian captains up, look round, and bring up all,

And all exhort to stand like friends about Sarpedon’s fall;

And spend thyself thy steel for me, for be assur’d no day

Of all thy life, to thy last hour, can clear thy black dismay

In woe and infamy for me, if I be taken hence

Spoil’d of mine arms, and thy renown despoil’d of my defence.

Stand firm then, and confirm thy men.’ This said, the bounds of death

Concluded all sight to his eyes, and to his nostrils breath.

Patroclus (though his guard was strong) forc’d way through every doubt,

Climb’d his high bosom with his foot, and pluck’d his javelin out,

And with it drew the film and strings of his yet-panting heart;

And last, together with the pile, his princely soul did part.

His horse (spoil’d both of guide and king, thick snorting and amaz’d,

And apt to flight) the Myrmidons made nimbly to, and seiz’d.

Glaucus, to hear his friend ask aid of him past all the rest

(Though well he knew his wound uncur’d), confusion fill’d his breast

Not to have good in any pow’r, and yet so much good will.

And laying his hand upon his wound (that pain’d him sharply still,

And was by Teucer’s hand set on from their assail’d steep wall,

In keeping hurt from other men), he did on Phoebus call

(The god of med’cines) for his cure. ‘Thou king of cures,’ said he,

‘That art perhaps in Lycia, with her rich progeny,

Or here in Troy, but any where, since thou hast pow’r to hear,

O give a hurt and woeful man (as I am now) thine ear:

This arm sustains a cruel wound, whose pains shoot every way,

Afflict this shoulder and this hand, and nothing long can stay

A flux of blood still issuing, nor therefore can I stand

With any enemy in fight, nor hardly make my hand

Support my lance; and here lies dead the worthiest of men,

Sarpedon, worthy son to Jove, whose pow’r could yet abstain

From all aid in this deadly need. Give thou then aid to me

(O king of all aid to men hurt), assuage th’ extremity

Of this arm’s anguish, give it strength, that by my president

I may excite my men to blows, and this dead corse prevent

Of further violence.’ He pray’d, and kind Apollo heard,

Allay’d his anguish, and his wound of all the black blood clear’d

That vex’d it so, infus’d fresh pow’rs into his weaken’d mind,

And all his spirits flow’d with joy, that Phoebus stood inclin’d

(In such quick bounty) to his prayers. Then, as Sarpedon will’d,

He cast about his greedy eye, and first of all instill’d

To all his captains all the stings that could inflame their fight

For good Sarpedon. And from them he stretch’d his speedy pace

T’ Agenor, Hector, Venus’ son, and wise Polydamas;

And (only naming Hector) said: ‘Hector, you now forget

Your poor auxiliary friends, that in your toils have sweat

Their friendless souls out far from home; Sarpedon, that sustain’d

With justice and his virtues all broad Lycia, hath not gain’d

The like guard for his person here, for yonder dead he lies

Beneath the great Patroclus’ lance: but come, let your supplies

(Good friends) stand near him: O disdain to see his corse defil’d

With Grecian fury, and his arms by their oppressions spoil’d.

The Myrmidons are come, enrag’d that such a mighty boot

Of Greeks Troy’s darts have made at fleet.’ This said, from head to foot

Grief struck their pow’rs past patience, and not to be restrain’d,

To hear news of Sarpedon’s death, who, though he appertain’d

To other cities, yet to theirs he was the very fort,

And led a mighty people there, of all whose better sort

Himself was best. This made them run in flames upon the foe –

The first man Hector, to whose heart Sarpedon’s death did go.

Patroclus stirr’d the Grecian spirits; and first th’ Ajaces thus:

‘Now, brothers, be it dear to you to fight and succour us,

As ever heretofore ye did, with men first excellent.

The man lies slain that first did scale and raze the battlement

That crown’d our wall, the Lycian prince. But if we now shall add

Force to his corse, and spoil his arms, a prize may more be had

Of many great ones, that for him will put on to the death.’

To this work, these were prompt enough, and each side ordereth

Those phalanxes that most had rate of resolutions,

The Trojans and the Lycian pow’rs, the Greeks and Myrmidons.

These ran together for the corse, and clos’d with horrid cries,

Their armours thund’ring with the claps laid on about the prize.

And Jove about th’ impetuous broil pernicious night pour’d out,

As long as for his loved son pernicious Labour fought.

The first of Troy the first Greeks foil’d, when not the last indeed

Amongst the Myrmidons was slain, the great Agacleus’ seed,

Divine Epigeus, that before had exercis’d command

In fair Budaeus; but because he laid a bloody hand

On his own sister’s valiant son, to Peleus and his queen

He came for pardon, and obtain’d – his slaughter being the mean

He came to Troy, and so to this. He ventur’d ev’n to touch

The princely carcass, when a stone did more to him, by much;

Sent out of able Hector’s hand, it cut his skull in twain,

And struck him dead. Patroclus (griev’d to see his friend so slain)

Before the foremost thrust himself, and as a falcon frays

A flock of stares or caddasses: such fear brought his assays

Amongst the Trojans and their friends; and (angry at the heart,

As well as griev’d) for him so slain, another stony dart

As good as Hector’s he let fly, that dusted in the neck

Of Sthenelaus, thrust his head to earth first, and did break

The nerves in sunder with his fall; off fell the Trojans too,

Ev’n Hector’s self, and all as far as any man can throw

(Provok’d for games, or in the wars to shed an enemy’s soul)

A light long dart. The first that turn’d was he that did control

The targetiers of Lycia, Prince Glaucus, who to hell

Sent Bathyclaeus, Chalcon’s son; he did in Hellas dwell,

And shin’d for wealth and happiness amongst the Myrmidons;

His bosom’s midst the javelin struck, his fall gat earth with groans.

The Greeks griev’d, and the Trojans joy’d, for so renown’d a man,

About whom stood the Grecians firm: and then the death began

On Troy’s side by Meriones: he slew one great in war,

Laogonus, Onetor’s son, the priest of Jupiter,

Created in th’ Idean hill. Betwixt his jaw and ear

The dart stuck fast, and loos’d his soul, sad mists of hate and fear

Invading him. Anchises’ son dispatch’d a brazen lance

At bold Meriones, and hop’d to make an equal chance

On him with bold Laogonus, though under his broad shield

He lay so close. But he discern’d, and made his body yield

So low, that over him it flew, and trembling took the ground;

With which Mars made it quench his thirst; and since the head could wound

No better body, and yet thrown from ne’er the worse a hand,

It turn’d from earth, and look’d awry. Aeneas let it stand,

Much angry at the vain event; and told Meriones,

He scap’d but hardly, nor had cause to hope for such success

Another time, though well he knew his dancing faculty,

By whose agility he scap’d; for had his dart gone by

With any least touch, instantly he had been ever slain.

He answer’d: ‘Though thy strength be good, it cannot render vain

The strength of others with thy jests; nor art thou so divine,

But when my lance shall touch at thee, with equal speed to thine,

Death will share with it thy life’s pow’rs; thy confidence can shun

No more than mine what his right claims.’ Menoetius’ noble son

Rebuk’d Meriones, and said: ‘What need’st thou use this speech?

Not thy strength is approv’d with words, good friend, nor can we reach

The body, nor make th’ enemy yield, with these our counterbraves:

We must enforce the binding earth to hold them in her graves.

If you will war, fight. Will you speak? Give counsel. Counsel, blows

Are th’ ends of wars and words; talk here the time in vain bestows.’

He said, and led; and nothing less for any thing he said

(His speech being season’d with such right), the worthy seconded.

And then, as in a sounding vale (near neighbour to a hill)

Wood-sellers make a far-heard noise with chopping, chopping still,

And laying on, on blocks and trees: so they on men laid lode,

And beat like noises into air, both as they struck and trod.

But (past their noise) so full of blood, of dust, of darts, lay smit

Divine Sarpedon, that a man must have an excellent wit

That could but know him, and might fail: so from his utmost head

Ev’n to the low plants of his feet, his form was altered,

All thrusting near it every way, as thick as flies in spring

That in a sheep-cote (when new milk assembles them) make wing,

And buzz about the top-full pails. Nor ever was the eye

Of Jove averted from the fight; he view’d, thought ceaselessly

And diversely upon the death of great Achilles’ friend:

If Hector there (to wreak his son) should with his javelin end

His life, and force away his arms, or still augment the field.

He then concluded that the flight of much more soul should yield

Achilles’ good friend more renown, and that ev’n to their gates

He should drive Hector and his host; and so disanimates

The mind of Hector, that he mounts his chariot, and takes flight

Up with him, tempting all to her, affirming his insight

Knew evidently that the beam of Jove’s all-ordering scoles

Was then in sinking on their side, surcharg’d with flocks of souls.

Then not the noble Lycians stay’d, but left their slaughter’d lord

Amongst the corses’ common heap; for many more were pour’d

About, and on him, while Jove’s hand held out the bitter broil.

And now they spoil’d Sarpedon’s arms, and to the ships the spoil

Was sent by Menoetiades. Then Jove thus charg’d the Sun:

‘Haste, honour’d Phoebus, let no more Greek violence be done

To my Sarpedon, but his corse of all the sable blood

And javelins purg’d, then carry him far hence to some clear flood,

With whose waves wash, and then embalm each thorough-cleansed limb

With our ambrosia; which perform’d, divine weeds put on him:

And then to those swift mates and twins, sweet Sleep and Death, commit

His princely person, and with speed they both may carry it

To wealthy Lycia, where his friends and brothers will embrace

And tomb it in some monument, as fits a prince’s place.’