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

Her I release not, till her youth be fled; Within my walls, in Argos, far from home, Her lot is cast, domestic cares to ply, And share a master’s bed. For thee, begone!

Incense me not, lest ill betide thee now.”

He said: the old man trembled, and obeyed; Beside the many-dashing Ocean’s shore

Silent he pass’d; and all apart, he pray’d To great Apollo, fair Latona’s son:

“Hear me, God of the silver bow! whose care Chrysa surrounds, and Cilia’s lovely vale; Whose sov’reign sway o’er Tenedos extends; O Smintheus, hear! if e’er my offered gifts Found favour in thy sight; if e’er to thee I burn’d the fat of bulls and choicest goats, Grant me this boon—upon the Grecian host Let thine unerring darts avenge my tears.”

Thus as he pray’d, his pray’r Apollo heard: Along Olympus’ heights he pass’d, his heart Burning with wrath; behind his shoulders hung His bow, and ample quiver; at his back Rattled the fateful arrows as he mov’d; Like the night-cloud he pass’d, and from afar He bent against the ships, and sped the bolt; And fierce and deadly twang’d the silver bow.

First on the mules and dogs, on man the last, Was pour’d the arrowy storm; and through the camp, Constant and num’rous, blaz’d the fun’ral fires.

Nine days the heav’nly Archer on the troops Hurl’d his dread shafts; the tenth, th’ assembled Greeks Achilles call’d to council; so inspir’d By Juno, white-arm’d Goddess, who beheld With pitying eyes the wasting hosts of Greece.

When all were met, and closely throng’d around, Rose the swift-footed chief, and thus began: “Great son of Atreus, to my mind there seems, If we would ‘scape from death, one only course, Home to retrace our steps: since here at once By war and pestilence our forces waste.

But seek we first some prophet, or some priest, Or some wise vision-seer (since visions too From Jove proceed), who may the cause explain, Which with such deadly wrath Apollo fires: If for neglected hecatombs or pray’rs

He blame us; or if fat of lambs and goats May soothe his anger and the plague assuage.”

This said, he sat; and Thestor’s son arose, Calchas, the chief of seers, to whom were known The present, and the future, and the past; Who, by his mystic art, Apollo’s gift, Guided to Ilium’s shore the Grecian fleet.

Who thus with cautious speech replied, and said; “Achilles, lov’d of Heav’n, thou bidd’st me say Why thus incens’d the far-destroying King; Therefore I speak; but promise thou, and swear, By word and hand, to bear me harmless through.

For well I know my speech must one offend, The Argive chief, o’er all the Greeks supreme; And terrible to men of low estate

The anger of a King; for though awhile He veil his wrath, yet in his bosom pent It still is nurs’d, until the time arrive; Say, then, wilt thou protect me, if I speak?”

Him answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Speak boldly out whate’er thine art can tell; For by Apollo’s self I swear, whom thou, O Calchas, serv’st, and who thy words inspires, That, while I live, and see the light of Heav’n, Not one of all the Greeks shall dare on thee, Beside our ships, injurious hands to lay: No, not if Agamemnon’s self were he,

Who ‘mid our warriors boasts the foremost place.”

Embolden’d thus, th’ unerring prophet spoke: “Not for neglected hecatombs or pray’rs, But for his priest, whom Agamemnon scorn’d, Nor took his ransom, nor his child restor’d; On his account the Far-destroyer sends This scourge of pestilence, and yet will send; Nor shall we cease his heavy hand to feel, Till to her sire we give the bright-ey’d girl, Unbought, unransom’d, and to Chrysa’s shore A solemn hecatomb despatch; this done, The God, appeas’d, his anger may remit.”

This said, he sat; and Atreus’ godlike son, The mighty monarch, Agamemnon, rose,

His dark soul fill’d with fury, and his eyes Flashing like flames of fire; on Calchas first A with’ring glance he cast, and thus he spoke; “Prophet of ill! thou never speak’st to me But words of evil omen; for thy soul

Delights to augur ill, but aught of good Thou never yet hast promis’d, nor perform’d.

And now among the Greeks thou spread’st abroad Thy lying prophecies, that all these ills Come from the Far-destroyer, for that I Refus’d the ransom of my lovely prize, And that I rather chose herself to keep, To me not less than Clytemnestra dear, My virgin-wedded wife; nor less adorn’d In gifts of form, of feature, or of mind.

Yet, if it must he so, I give her back; I wish my people’s safety, not their death.

But seek me out forthwith some other spoil, Lest empty-handed I alone appear

Of all the Greeks; for this would ill beseem; And how I lose my present share, ye see.”

To whom Achilles, swift of foot, replied: “Haughtiest of men, and greediest of the prey!

How shall our valiant Greeks for thee seek out Some other spoil? no common fund have we Of hoarded treasures; what our arms have won From captur’d towns, has been already shar’d, Nor can we now resume th’ apportion’d spoil.

Restore the maid, obedient to the God!

And if Heav’n will that we the strong-built walls Of Troy should raze, our warriors will to thee A threefold, fourfold recompense assign.”

To whom the monarch Agamemnon thus:

“Think not, Achilles, valiant though thou art In fight, and godlike, to defraud me thus; Thou shalt not so persuade me, nor o’erreach.

Think’st thou to keep thy portion of the spoil, While I with empty hands sit humbly down?

The bright-ey’d girl thou bidd’st me to restore; If then the valiant Greeks for me seek out Some other spoil, some compensation just, ‘Tis well: if not, I with my own right hand Will from some other chief, from thee perchance, Or Ajax, or Ulysses, wrest his prey;

And woe to him, on whomsoe’er I call!

But this for future counsel we remit:

Haste we then now our dark-ribb’d bark to launch, Muster a fitting crew, and place on board The sacred hecatomb; then last embark

The fair Chryseis; and in chief command Let some one of our councillors be plac’d, Ajax, Ulysses, or Idomeneus,

Or thou, the most ambitious of them all, That so our rites may soothe the angry God.”

To whom Achilles thus with scornful glance; “Oh, cloth’d in shamelessness! oh, sordid soul!

How canst thou hope that any Greek for thee Will brave the toils of travel or of war?

Well dost thou know that ‘t was no feud of mine With Troy’s brave sons that brought me here in arms; They never did me wrong; they never drove My cattle, or my horses; never sought

In Phthia’s fertile, life-sustaining fields To waste the crops; for wide between us lay The shadowy mountains and the roaring sea.

With thee, O void of shame! with thee we sail’d, For Menelaus and for thee, ingrate,

Glory and fame on Trojan crests to win.

All this hast thou forgotten, or despis’d; And threat’nest now to wrest from me the prize I labour’d hard to win, and Greeks bestow’d.

Nor does my portion ever equal thine,

When on some populous town our troops have made Successful war; in the contentious fight The larger portion of the toil is mine; But when the day of distribution comes, Thine is the richest spoil; while I, forsooth, Must be too well content to bear on board Some paltry prize for all my warlike toil.

To Phthia now I go; so better far,

To steer my homeward course, and leave thee here But little like, I deem, dishonouring me, To fill thy coffers with the spoils of war.”

Whom answer’d Agamemnon, King of men:

“Fly then, if such thy mind! I ask thee not On mine account to stay; others there are Will guard my honour and avenge my cause: And chief of all, the Lord of counsel, Jove!

Of all the Heav’n-born Kings, thou art the man I hate the most; for thou delight’st in nought But war and strife: thy prowess I allow; Yet this, remember, is the gift of Heav’n.

Return then, with thy vessels, if thou wilt, And with thy followers, home; and lord it there Over thy Myrmidons! I heed thee not!

I care not for thy fury! Hear my threat: Since Phoebus wrests Chryseis from my arms, In mine own ship, and with mine own good crew, Her I send forth; and, in her stead, I mean, Ev’n from thy tent, myself, to bear thy prize, The fair Briseis; that henceforth thou know How far I am thy master; and that, taught By thine example, others too may fear

To rival me, and brave me to my face.”

Thus while he spake, Achilles chaf’d with rage; And in his manly breast his heart was torn With thoughts conflicting—whether from his side To draw his mighty sword, and thrusting by Th’ assembled throng, to kill th’ insulting King; Or school his soul, and keep his anger down.

But while in mind and spirit thus he mus’d, And half unsheath’d his sword, from Heav’n came down Minerva, sent by Juno, white-arm’d Queen, Whose love and care both chiefs alike enjoy’d.

She stood behind, and by the yellow hair She held the son of Peleus, visible

To him alone, by all the rest unseen.

Achilles, wond’ring, turn’d, and straight he knew The blue-eyed Pallas; awful was her glance; Whom thus the chief with winged words address’d: “Why com’st thou, child of aegis-bearing Jove?

To see the arrogance of Atreus’ son?

But this I say, and will make good my words, This insolence may cost him soon his life.”

To whom the blue-ey’d Goddess thus replied: “From Heav’n I came, to curb, if thou wilt hear, Thy fury; sent by Juno, white-arm’d Queen, Whose love and care ye both alike enjoy.

Cease, then, these broils, and draw not thus thy sword; In words, indeed, assail him as thou wilt.

But this I promise, and will make it good, The time shall come, when for this insolence A threefold compensation shall be thine; Only be sway’d by me, and curb thy wrath.”

Whom answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Goddess, I needs must yield to your commands, Indignant though I be—for so ‘tis best; Who hears the Gods, of them his pray’rs are heard.”

He said: and on the silver hilt he stay’d His pow’rful hand, and flung his mighty sword Back to its scabbard, to Minerva’s word Obedient: she her heav’nward course pursued To join th’ Immortals in th’ abode of Jove.

But Peleus’ son, with undiminish’d wrath, Atrides thus with bitter words address’d: “Thou sot, with eye of dog, and heart of deer!

Who never dar’st to lead in armed fight Th’ assembled host, nor with a chosen few To man the secret ambush—for thou fear’st To look on death—no doubt ‘tis easier far, Girt with thy troops, to plunder of his right Whoe’er may venture to oppose thy will!

A tyrant King, because thou rul’st o’er slaves!

Were it not so, this insult were thy last.

But this I say, and with an oath confirm, By this my royal staff, which never more Shall put forth leaf nor spray, since first it left Upon the mountain-side its parent stem, Nor blossom more; since all around the axe Hath lopp’d both leaf and bark, and now ‘tis borne Emblem of justice, by the sons of Greece, Who guard the sacred