The Iliad by Homer (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📕

To whom great Hector of the glancing helm: “Though kind thy wish, yet, Helen, ask me not To sit or rest; I cannot yield to thee: For to the succour of our friends I haste, Who feel my loss, and sorely need my aid.

But thou thy husband rouse, and let him speed, That he may find me still within the walls.

For I too homeward go; to see once more My household, and my wife, and infant child: For whether I may e’er again return,

I know not, or if Heav’n have so decreed, That I this day by Grecian hands should fall.”

Thus saying, Hector of the glancing helm Turn’d to depart; with rapid step he reach’d His own well-furnished house, but found not there His white-arm’d spouse, the fair Andromache.

She with her infant child and maid the while Was standing, bath’d in tears, in bitter grief, On Ilium’s topmost tower: but when her Lord Found not within the house his peerless wife, Upon the threshold pausing, thus he spoke: “Tell me, my maidens, tell me true, which way Your mistress went, the fair Andromache; Or to my sisters, or my brothers’ wives?

Or to the temple where the fair-hair’d dames Of Troy invoke Minerva’s awful name?”

To whom the matron of his house replied: “Hector, if truly we must answer thee, Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives, Nor to the temple where the fair-hair’d dames Of Troy invoke Minerva’s awful name,

But to the height of Ilium’s topmost tow’r Andromache is gone; since tidings came The Trojan force was overmatch’d, and great The Grecian strength; whereat, like one distract, She hurried to the walls, and with her took, Borne in the nurse’s arms, her infant child.”

So spoke the ancient dame; and Hector straight Through the wide streets his rapid steps retrac’d.

But when at last the mighty city’s length Was travers’d, and the Scaean gates were reach’d, Whence was the outlet to the plain, in haste Running to meet him came his priceless wife, Eetion’s daughter, fair Andromache;

Eetion, who from Thebes Cilicia sway’d, Thebes, at the foot of Placos’ wooded heights.

His child to Hector of the brazen helm Was giv’n in marriage: she it was who now Met him, and by her side the nurse, who bore, Clasp’d to her breast, his all unconscious child, Hector’s lov’d infant, fair as morning star; Whom Hector call’d Scamandrius, but the rest Astyanax, in honour of his sire,

The matchless chief, the only prop of Troy.

Silent he smil’d as on his boy he gaz’d: But at his side Andromache, in tears,

Hung on his arm, and thus the chief address’d: “Dear Lord, thy dauntless spirit will work thy doom: Nor hast thou pity on this thy helpless child, Or me forlorn, to be thy widow soon:

For thee will all the Greeks with force combin’d Assail and slay: for me, ‘twere better far, Of thee bereft, to lie beneath the sod; Nor comfort shall be mine, if thou be lost, But endless grief; to me nor sire is left, Nor honour’d mother; fell Achilles’ hand My sire Eetion slew, what time his arms The populous city of Cilicia raz’d,

The lofty-gated Thebes; he slew indeed, But stripp’d him not; he reverenc’d the dead; And o’er his body, with his armour burnt, A mound erected; and the mountain nymphs, The progeny of aegis-bearing Jove,

Planted around his tomb a grove of elms.

There were sev’n brethren in my father’s house; All in one day they fell, amid their herds And fleecy flocks, by fierce Achilles’ hand.

My mother, Queen of Placos’ wooded height, Brought with the captives here, he soon releas’d For costly ransom; but by Dian’s shafts She, in her father’s house, was stricken down.

But, Hector, thou to me art all in one, Sire, mother, brethren! thou, my wedded love!

Then pitying us, within the tow’r remain, Nor make thy child an orphan, and thy wife A hapless widow; by the fig-tree here

Array thy troops; for here the city wall, Easiest of access, most invites assault.

Thrice have their boldest chiefs this point assail’d, The two Ajaces, brave Idomeneus,

Th’ Atridae both, and Tydeus’ warlike son, Or by the prompting of some Heav’ntaught seer, Or by their own advent’rous courage led.”

To whom great Hector of the glancing helm; “Think not, dear wife, that by such thoughts as these My heart has ne’er been wrung; but I should blush To face the men and long-rob’d dames of Troy, If, like a coward, I could shun the fight.

Nor could my soul the lessons of my youth So far forget, whose boast it still has been In the fore-front of battle to be found, Charg’d with my father’s glory and mine own.

Yet in my inmost soul too well I know, The day must come when this our sacred Troy, And Priam’s race, and Priam’s royal self Shall in one common ruin be o’erthrown.

But not the thoughts of Troy’s impending fate, Nor Hecuba’s nor royal Priam’s woes,

Nor loss of brethren, numerous and brave, By hostile hands laid prostrate in the dust, So deeply wring my heart as thoughts of thee, Thy days of freedom lost, and led away A weeping captive by some brass-clad Greek; Haply in Argos, at a mistress’ beck,

Condemn’d to ply the loom, or water draw From Hypereia’s or Messeis’ fount,

Heart-wrung, by stern necessity constrain’d.

Then they who see thy tears perchance may say, ‘Lo! this was Hector’s wife, who, when they fought On plains of Troy, was Ilium’s bravest chief.’

Thus may they speak; and thus thy grief renew For loss of him, who might have been thy shield To rescue thee from slav’ry’s bitter hour.

Oh may I sleep in dust, ere be condemn’d To hear thy cries, and see thee dragg’d away!”

Thus as he spoke, great Hector stretch’d his arms To take his child; but back the infant shrank, Crying, and sought his nurse’s shelt’ring breast, Scar’d by the brazen helm and horsehair plume, That nodded, fearful, on the warrior’s crest.

Laugh’d the fond parents both, and from his brow Hector the casque remov’d, and set it down, All glitt’ring, on the ground; then kiss’d his child, And danc’d him in his arms; then thus to Jove And to th’ Immortals all address’d his pray’r: “Grant, Jove, and all ye Gods, that this my son May be, as I, the foremost man of Troy, For valour fam’d, his country’s guardian King; That men may say, ‘This youth surpasses far His father,’ when they see him from the fight, From slaughter’d foes, with bloody spoils of war Returning, to rejoice his mother’s heart!”

Thus saying, in his mother’s arms he plac’d His child; she to her fragrant bosom clasp’d, Smiling through tears; with eyes of pitying love Hector beheld, and press’d her hand, and thus Address’d her—“Dearest, wring not thus my heart!

For till my day of destiny is come,

No man may take my life; and when it comes, Nor brave nor coward can escape that day.

But go thou home, and ply thy household cares, The loom, and distaff, and appoint thy maids Their sev’ral tasks; and leave to men of Troy And, chief of all to me, the toils of war.”

Great Hector said, and rais’d his plumed helm; And homeward, slow, with oft-reverted eyes, Shedding hot tears, his sorrowing wife return’d.

Arriv’d at valiant Hector’s well-built house, Her maidens press’d around her; and in all Arose at once the sympathetic grief.

For Hector, yet alive, his household mourn’d, Deeming he never would again return,

Safe from the fight, by Grecian hands unharm’d.

Nor linger’d Paris in his lofty halls; But donn’d his armour, glitt’ring o’er with brass, And through the city pass’d with bounding steps.

As some proud steed, at well-fill’d manger fed, His halter broken, neighing, scours the plain, And revels in the widely-flowing stream To bathe his sides; then tossing high his head, While o’er his shoulders streams his ample mane.

Light borne on active limbs, in conscious pride.

To the wide pastures of the mares he flies; So Paris, Priam’s son, from Ilium’s height, His bright arms flashing like the gorgeous sun, Hasten’d, with boastful mien, and rapid step.

Hector he found, as from the spot he turn’d Where with his wife he late had converse held; Whom thus the godlike Paris first address’d: “Too long, good brother, art then here detain’d, Impatient for the fight, by my delay;

Nor have I timely, as thou bad’st me, come.”

To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm: “My gallant brother, none who thinks aright Can cavil at thy prowess in the field; For thou art very valiant; but thy will Is weak and sluggish; and it grieves my heart, When from the Trojans, who in thy behalf Such labours undergo, I hear thy name

Coupled with foul reproach! But go we now!

Henceforth shall all be well, if Jove permit That from our shores we drive th’ invading Greeks, And to the ever-living Gods of Heav’n

In peaceful homes our free libations pour.”

ARGUMENT.

THE SINGLE COMBAT OF HECTOR AND AJAX.

The battle renewing with double ardour upon the return of Hector, Minerva is under apprehensions for the Greeks. Apollo, seeing her descend from Olympus, joins her near the Scaean gate. They agree to put off the general engagement for that day, and incite Hector to challenge the Greeks to a single combat. Nine of the princes accepting the challenge, the lot is cast, and falls upon Ajax. These heroes, after several attacks, are parted by the night. The Trojans calling a council, Antenor proposes the delivery of Helen to the Greeks, to which Paris will not consent, but offers to restore them her riches. Priam sends a herald to make this offer, and to demand a truce for burning the dead, the last of which only is agreed to by Agamemnon. When the funerals are performed, the Greeks, pursuant to the advice of Nestor, erect a fortification to protect their fleet and camp, flanked with towers, and defended by a ditch and palisades. Neptune testifies his jealousy at this work, but is pacified by a promise from Jupiter. Both armies pass the night in feasting, but Jupiter disheartens the Trojans with thunder and other signs of his wrath.

The three-and-twentieth day ends with the duel of Hector and Ajax; the next day the truce is agreed: another is taken up in the funeral rites of the slain; and one more in building the fortification before the ships; so that somewhat above three days is employed in this book. The scene lies wholly in the field.

BOOK VII.

Thus as he spoke, from out the city gates The noble Hector pass’d, and by his side His brother Paris; in the breast of both Burnt the fierce ardour of the battle-field.

As when some God a fav’ring breeze bestows On seamen tugging at the well-worn oar, Faint with excess of toil, ev’n so appear’d Those brethren twain to Troy’s o’erlabour’d host.

Then to their prowess fell, by Paris’ hand Menesthius, royal Areithous’ son,

Whom to the King, in Arna, where he dwelt, The stag-ey’d dame Phylomedusa bore;

While Hector smote, with well-directed spear, Beneath the brass-bound headpiece, through the throat, Eioneus, and slack’d his limbs in death; And Glaucus, leader of the Lycian bands, Son of Hippolochus, amid the fray

Iphinous, son of Dexias, borne on high By two fleet mares upon a lofty car,

Pierc’d through the shoulder; from the car he fell Prone to the earth, his limbs relax’d in death.

But them when Pallas saw, amid the fray Dealing destruction on the hosts of Greece, From high Olympus to the walls of Troy She came in haste; Apollo