The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (64 page)

On her white shoulders, that high day when warlike Hector won

Her hand in nuptials in the court of king Eëtion,

And that great dow’r then given with her. About her, on their knees,

Her husband’s sisters, brothers’ wives, fell round, and by degrees

Recover’d her. Then, when again her respirations found

Free pass (her mind and spirit met), these thoughts her words did sound:

‘O Hector! O me, cursed dame! Both born beneath one fate,

Thou here, I in Cilician Thebes, where Placus doth elate

His shady forehead in the court where king Eëtion

(Hapless) begot unhappy me; which would he had not done,

To live past thee: thou now art div’d to Pluto’s gloomy throne,

Sunk through the coverts of the earth: I, in a hell of moan,

Left here thy widow. One poor babe, born to unhappy both,

Whom thou leav’st helpless as he thee; he born to all the wroth

Of woe and labour. Lands left him will others seize upon;

The orphan day of all friends’ helps robs every mother’s son.

An orphan all men suffer sad; his eyes stand still with tears.

Need tries his father’s friends, and fails. Of all his favourers,

If one the cup gives, ’tis not long; the wine he finds in it

Scarce moists his palate: if he chance to gain the grace to sit,

Surviving father’s sons repine, use contumelies, strike,

Bid ‘Leave us; where’s thy father’s place?’ He (weeping with dislike)

Retires to me. To me, alas! Astyanax is he

Born to these miseries. He that late fed on his father’s knee,

To whom all knees bow’d, daintiest fare appos’d him, and when sleep

Lay on his temples, his cries still’d (his heart ev’n laid in steep

Of all things precious), a soft bed, a careful nurse’s arms

Took him to guardiance: but now as huge a world of harms

Lies on his suf
f
’
rance; now thou want’st thy father’s hand to friend,

O my Astyanax! O my lord! Thy hand that did defend

These gates of Ilion, these long walls by thy arm measur’d still

Amply and only, yet at fleet thy naked corse must fill

Vile worms when dogs are satiate, far from thy parents’ care;

Far from those funeral ornaments that thy mind would prepare

(So sudden being the chance of arms), ever expecting death:

Which task (though my heart would not serve t’ employ my hands beneath)

I made my women yet perform. Many, and much in price,

Were those integuments they wrought t’ adorn thy exequies;

Which, since they fly thy use, thy corse not laid in their attire,

Thy sacrifice they shall be made; these hands in mischievous fire

Shall vent their vanities. And yet (being consecrate to thee)

They shall be kept for citizens, and their fair wives, to see.’

Thus spake she weeping; all the dames endeavouring to cheer

Her desert state (fearing their own), wept with her tear for tear.

The end of the twenty-second book

Book 23

The Argument

Achilles orders jousts of exequies

For his Patroclus, and doth sacrifice

Twelve Trojan princes, most lov’d hounds and horse,

And other offerings, to the honour’d corse.

He institutes, besides, a funeral game,

Where Diomed, for horse-race, wins the fame;

For foot, Ulysses; others otherwise

Strive, and obtain; and end the exequies.

Another Argument

Psi
sings the rites of the decease

Ordain’d by great Aeacides.

Book 23

Thus mourn’d all Troy: but when at fleet, and Hellespontus’ shore,

The Greeks arriv’d, each to his ship, only the conqueror

Kept undispers’d his Myrmidons; and said, ‘Lov’d countrymen,

Disjoin not we chariots and horse, but (bearing hard our rein)

With state of both, march soft and close, and mourn about the corse:

’Tis proper honour to the dead. Then take we out our horse,

When with our friends’ kind woe our hearts have felt delight to do

A virtuous soul right, and then sup.’ This said, all full of woe

Circled the corse. Achilles led, and thrice about him, close

All bore their goodly-coated horse. Amongst all Thetis rose,

And stirr’d up a delight in grief, till all their arms with tears,

And all the sands, were wet: so much they lov’d that lord of fears.

Then to the centre fell the prince; and putting in the breast

Of his slain friend his slaught’ring hands, began to all the rest

Words to their tears: ‘Rejoice,’ said he, ‘O my Patroclus, thou

Courted by Dis now: now I pay to thy late overthrow

All my revenges vow’d before; Hector lies slaughter’d here

Dragg’d at my chariot, and our dogs shall all in pieces tear

His hated limbs. Twelve Trojan youths, born of their noblest strains,

I took alive, and (yet enrag’d) will empty all their veins

Of vital spirits, sacrific’d before thy heap of fire.’

This said, (a work unworthy him), he put upon his ire,

And trampled Hector under foot, at his friend’s feet. The rest

Disarm’d, took horse from chariot, and all to sleep address’d

At his black vessel. Infinite were those that rested there.

Himself yet sleeps not, now his spirits were wrought about the cheer

Fit for so high a funeral. About the steel us’d then,

Oxen in heaps lay bellowing, preparing food for men:

Bleating of sheep and goats fill’d air; numbers of white-tooth’d swine

(Swimming in fat) lay singeing there: the person of the slain

Was girt with slaughter. All this done, all the Greek kings convey’d

Achilles to the king of men, his rage not yet allay’d

For his Patroclus. Being arriv’d at Agamemnon’s tent,

Himself bad heralds put to fire a cauldron, and present

The service of it to the prince, to try if they could win

His pleasure to admit their pains to cleanse the blood soak’d in

About his conquering hands and brows. ‘Not by the king of heav’n!’

He swore. ‘The laws of friendship damn this false-heart licence giv’n

To men that lose friends: not a drop shall touch me till I put

Patroclus in the funeral pile, before these curls be cut,

His tomb erected. ’Tis the last of all care I shall take,

While I consort the careful: yet, for your entreaties’ sake,

(And though I loathe food) I will eat: but early in the morn,

Atrides, use your strict command, that loads of wood be borne

To our design’d place, all that fits to light home such a one

As is to pass the shades of death, that fire enough set gone

His person quickly from our eyes, and our diverted men

May ply their business.’ This all ears did freely entertain,

And found observance: then they supp’d, with all things fit, and all

Repair’d to tents and rest. The friend the shores maritimal

Sought for his bed, and found a place, fair, and upon which play’d

The murmuring billows. There his limbs to rest, not sleep, he laid,

Heavily sighing. Round about (silent, and not too near)

Stood all his Myrmidons, when straight so over-labour’d were

His goodly lineaments with chase of Hector, that beyond

His resolution not to sleep Sleep cast his sudden bond

Over his sense, and loos’d his care. Then of his wretched friend

The soul appear’d; at every part the form did comprehend

His likeness: his fair eyes, his voice, his stature, every weed

His person wore, it fantasied, and stood above his head,

This sad speech utt’ring. ‘Dost thou sleep? Aeacides, am I

Forgotten of thee? Being alive, I found thy memory

Ever respectful; but now dead, thy dying love abates.

Inter me quickly, enter me in Pluto’s iron gates,

For now the souls (the shades) of men, fled from this being, beat

My spirit from rest, and stay my much-desir’d receipt

Amongst souls plac’d beyond the flood. Now every way I err

About this broad-door’d house of Dis. O help then to prefer

My soul yet further. Here I mourn, but had the funeral fire

Consum’d my body, never more my spirit should retire

From hell’s low region: from thence souls never are retriev’d

To talk with friends here, nor shall I; a hateful fate depriv’d

My being here, that at my birth was fix’d, and to such fate

Ev’n thou, O god-like man, art mark’d; the deadly Ilian gate

Must entertain thy death. O then, I charge thee now, take care

That our bones part not, but as life combin’d in equal fare

Our loving beings, so let death. When from Opunta’s tow’rs

My father brought me to your roofs (since ’gainst my will, my pow’rs

Incens’d, and indiscreet at dice, slew fair Amphidamas)

Then Peleus entertain’d me well; then in thy charge I was

By his injunction and thy love; and therein let me still

Receive protection. Both our bones provide in thy last will

That one urn may contain, and make the vessel all of gold

That Thetis gave thee, that rich urn.’ This said, Sleep ceas’d to hold

Achilles’ temples, and the shade thus he receiv’d: ‘O friend,

What needed these commands? My care before meant to commend

My bones to thine, and in that urn. Be sure thy will is done.

A little stay yet; let’s delight, with some full passion

Of woe enough, either’s affects; embrace we.’ Opening thus

His greedy arms, he felt no friend: like matter vaporous

The spirit vanish’d under earth, and murmur’d in his stoop.

Achilles started; both his hands he clapp’d and lifted up,

In this sort wond’ring: ‘O ye gods, I see we have a soul

In th’ under-dwellings, and a kind of man-resembling idol:

The soul’s seat yet, all matter left, stays with the carcase here.

O friends, hapless Patroclus’ soul did all this night appear

Weeping and making moan to me, commanding everything

That I intended towards him, so truly figuring

Himself at all parts, as was strange.’ This accident did turn

To much more sorrow, and begat a greediness to mourn

In all that heard. When mourning thus, the rosy morn arose:

And Agamemnon through the tents wak’d all, and did dispose

Both men and mules for carriage of matter for the fire.

Of all which work Meriones (the Cretan sov’reign’s squire)

Was captain, and abroad they went. Wood-cutting tools they bore

Of all kinds, and well-twisted cords. The mules march all before.

Up hill and down hill, over thwarts and break-neck cliffs they pass’d,

But when the fountful Ida’s tops they scal’d with utmost haste,

All fell upon the high-hair’d oaks, and down their curled brows

Fell bustling to the earth; and up went all the boles and boughs,

Bound to the mules, and back again they parted the harsh way

Amongst them through the tangling shrubs, and long they thought the day

Till in the plain field all arriv’d, for all the woodmen bore

Logs on their necks; Meriones would have it so: the shore

At last they reach’d yet, and then down their carriages they cast,

And sat upon them, where the son of Peleus had plac’d

The ground for his great sepulchre, and for his friend’s, in one.

They rais’d a huge pile, and to arms went every Myrmidon,

Charg’d by Achilles; chariots and horse were harnessed,

Fighters and charioteers got up, and they the sad march led,

A cloud of infinite foot behind. In midst of all was borne

Patroclus’ person by his peers: on him were all heads shorn,

Ev’n till they cover’d him with curls. Next to him march’d his friend,

Embracing his cold neck all sad, since now he was to send

His dearest to his endless home. Arriv’d all where the wood

Was heap’d for funeral, they sat down. Apart Achilles stood,

And when enough wood was heap’d on, he cut his golden hair,

Long kept for Sperchius the flood, in hope of safe repair

To Phthia by that river’s pow’r; but now left hopeless thus

(Enrag’d, and looking on the sea) he cried out: ‘Sperchius,

In vain my father’s piety vow’d (at my implor’d return

To my lov’d country) that these curls should on thy shores be shorn,

Besides a sacred hecatomb, and sacrifice beside

Of fifty wethers, at whose founts, where men have edified

A lofty temple, and perfum’d an altar to thy name.

There vow’d he all these offerings, but fate prevents thy fame,

His hopes not suffering satisfied; and since I never more

Shall see my lov’d soil, my friend’s hands shall to the Stygian shore

Convey these tresses.’ Thus he put in his friend’s hands the hair.

And this bred fresh desire of moan, and in that sad affair

The sun had set amongst them all, had Thetis’ son not spoke

Thus to Atrides: ‘King of men, thy aid I still invoke,

Since thy command all men still hear; dismiss thy soldiers now,

And let them victual; they have mourn’d sufficient, ’tis we owe

The dead this honour; and with us let all the captains stay.’

This heard, Atrides instantly the soldiers sent away.

The funeral officers remain’d, and heap’d on matter still,

Till of an hundred foot about they made the funeral pile,

In whose hot height they cast the corse, and then they pour’d on tears.

Numbers of fat sheep, and like store of crooked-going steers,

They slew before the solemn fire, stripp’d off their hides and dress’d.

Of which Achilles took the fat, and cover’d the deceas’d

From head to foot: and round about he made the officers pile

The beasts nak’d bodies, vessels full of honey and of oil

Pour’d in them, laid upon a bier, and cast into the fire.

Four goodly horse, and of nine hounds, two most in the desire

Of that great prince, and trencher-fed, all fed that hungry flame.

Twelve Trojan princes last stood forth, young, and of toward fame,

All which (set on with wicked spirits) there struck he, there he slew,

And to the iron strength of fire their noble limbs he threw.

Then breath’d his last sighs, and these words: ‘Again rejoice, my friend,

Ev’n in the joyless depth of hell; now give I complete end

To all my vows. Alone thy life sustain’d not violence;

Twelve Trojan princes wait on thee, and labour to incense

Thy glorious heap of funeral. Great Hector I’ll excuse;

The dogs shall eat him.’ These high threats perform’d not their abuse.

Jove’s daughter, Venus, took the guard of noble Hector’s corse,

And kept the dogs off, night and day applying sov’reign force

Of rosy balms, that to the dogs were horrible in taste,

And with which she the body fill’d. Renown’d Apollo cast

A cloud from heav’n, lest with the sun the nerves and lineaments

Might dry and putrefy. And now some pow’rs denied consents

To this solemnity: the fire (for all the oily fuel

It had injected) would not burn; and then the loving cruel

Studied for help, and standing off, invok’d the two fair winds

(Zephyr and Boreas) to afford the rage of both their kinds

To aid his outrage. Precious gifts his earnest zeal did vow,

Pour’d from a golden bowl much wine, and pray’d them both to blow,

That quickly his friend’s corse might burn, and that heap’s sturdy breast

Embrace consumption. Iris heard; the winds were at a feast,

All in the court of Zephyrus (that boist’rous-blowing air)

Gather’d together. She that wears the thousand-colour’d hair

Flew thither, standing in the porch: they (seeing her) all arose,

Call’d to her; every one desir’d she would awhile repose,

And eat with them. She answer’d: ‘No, no place of seat is here;

Retreat calls to the Ocean and Ethiopia, where

A hecatomb is offering now to heav’n, and there must I

Partake the feast of sacrifice; I come to signify

That Thetis’ son implores your aids (princes of north and west)

With vows of much fair sacrifice, if each will set his breast

Against his heap of funeral, and make it quickly burn.

Patroclus lies there, whose decease all the Achaians mourn.’

She said, and parted; and out rush’d, with an unmeasur’d roar,

Those two winds, tumbling clouds in heaps, ushers to either’s blore,

And instantly they reach’d the sea. Up flew the waves; the gale

Was strong, reach’d fruitful Troy; and full upon the fire they fall.

The huge heap thunder’d. All night long from his chok’d breast they blew

A liberal flame up; and all night swift-foot Achilles threw

Wine from a golden bowl on earth, and steep’d the soil in wine,

Still calling on Patroclus’ soul. No father could incline

More to a son most dear, nor more mourn at his burned bones,

Than did the great prince to his friend at his combustions,

Still creeping near and near the heap, still sighing, weeping still:

But when the day-star look’d abroad, and promis’d from his hill

Light, which the saffron morn made good, and sprinkled on the seas,

Then languish’d the great pile, then sunk the flames, and then calm peace