The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (69 page)

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