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

Three daughters fair are his, Chrysothemis, Iphianassa, and Laodice;

Of these whiche’er thou wilt, to Peleus’ house, No portion ask’d for, thou shalt take to wife; And with her will he add such wedding gifts, As never man before to daughter gave.

Sev’n prosp’rous towns besides; Cardamyle, And Enope, and Ira’s grassy plains,

And Pherae, and Antheia’s pastures deep, AEpeia fair, and vine-clad Pedasus;

All by the sea, by sandy Pylos’ bounds.

The dwellers there in flocks and herds are rich, And, as a God, will honour thee with gifts, And to thy sceptre ample tribute pay.

All these he gives, so thou thy wrath remit.

But if thou hold Atrides in such hate, Him and his gifts, yet let thy pity rest On all the other Greeks, thus sore bested; By whom thou shalt be honour’d as a God: For great the triumph that thou now mayst gain; E’en Hector’s self is now within thy reach; For he is near at hand; and in his pride And martial fury deems that none, of all Our ships contain, can rival him in arms.”

Whom answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Heav’n-born Ulysses, sage in council, son Of great Laertes, I must frankly speak My mind at once, my fix’d resolve declare: That from henceforth I may not by the Greeks, By this man and by that, be importun’d.

Him as the gates of hell my soul abhors, Whose outward words his secret thoughts belie, Hear then what seems to me the wisest course.

On me nor Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,

Nor others shall prevail, since nought is gain’d By toil unceasing in the battle field.

Who nobly fight, but share with those who skulk; Like honours gain the coward and the brave; Alike the idlers and the active die:

And nought it profits me, though day by day In constant toil I set my life at stake; But as a bird, though ill she fare herself, Brings to her callow brood the food she takes, So I through many a sleepless night have lain, And many a bloody day have labour’d through, Engag’d in battle on your wives’ behalf.

Twelve cities have I taken with my ships; Eleven more by land, on Trojan soil:

From all of these abundant stores of wealth I took, and all to Agamemnon gave;

He, safe beside his ships, my spoils receiv’d, A few divided, but the most retain’d.

To other chiefs and Kings he meted out Their sev’ral portions, and they hold them still; From me, from me alone of all the Greeks, He bore away, and keeps my cherish’d wife; Well! let him keep her, solace of his bed!

But say then, why do Greeks with Trojans fight?

Why hath Atrides brought this mighty host To Troy, if not in fair-hair’d Helen’s cause?

Of mortals are there none that love their wives, Save Atreus’ sons alone? or do not all, Who boast the praise of sense and virtue, love And cherish each his own? as her I lov’d E’en from my soul, though captive of my spear.

Now, since he once hath robb’d me, and deceiv’d, Let him not seek my aid; I know him now, And am not to be won; let him devise,

With thee, Ulysses, and the other Kings, How best from hostile fires to save his ships.

He hath completed many mighty works

Without my aid; hath built a lofty wall, And dug a trench around it, wide and deep, And in the trench hath fix’d a palisade; Nor so the warrior-slayer Hector’s might Can keep in check; while I was in the field, Not far without the walls would Hector range His line of battle, nor beyond the Oak And Scaean gates would venture; there indeed He once presum’d to meet me, hand to hand, And from my onset narrowly escap’d.

But as with Hector now no more I fight, To-morrow morn, my off’rings made to Jove, And all the Gods, and freighted well my ships, And launch’d upon the main, thyself shall see, If that thou care to see, my vessels spread O’er the broad bosom of the Hellespont, My lusty crews plying the vig’rous oar; And if th’ Earth-shaker send a fav’ring breeze, Three days will bear us home to Phthia’s shore.

There did I leave abundant store of wealth, When hitherward I took my luckless way; Thither from hence I bear, of ruddy gold, And brass, and women fair, and iron hoar The share assign’d me; but my chiefest prize The monarch Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,

Himself who gave, with insult takes away.

To him then speak aloud the words I send, That all may know his crimes, if yet he hope Some other Greek by treach’rous wiles to cheat, Cloth’d as he is in shamelessness! my glance, All brazen as he is, he dare not meet.

I share no more his counsels, nor his acts; He hath deceiv’d me once, and wrong’d; again He shall not cozen me! Of him, enough!

I pass him by, whom Jove hath robb’d of sense.

His gifts I loathe, and spurn; himself I hold At a hair’s worth; and would he proffer me Tenfold or twentyfold of all he has,

Or ever may be his; or all the gold

Sent to Orchomenos or royal Thebes,

Egyptian, treasurehouse of countless wealth, Who boasts her hundred gates, through each of which With horse and car two hundred warriors march: Nay, were his gifts in number as the sand, Or dust upon the plain, yet ne’er will I By Agamemnon be prevail’d upon,

Till I have paid him back my heart’s offence.

Nor e’er of Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,

Will I a daughter wed; not were she fair As golden Venus, and in works renown’d As Pallas, blue-ey’d Maid, yet her e’en so I wed not; let him choose some other Greek, Some fitting match, of nobler blood than mine.

But should the Gods in safety bring me home, At Peleus’ hands I may receive a wife; And Greece can boast of many a lovely maid, In Hellas or in Phthia, daughters fair Of chiefs who hold their native fortresses: Of these, at will, a wife I may select: And ofttimes hath my warlike soul inclin’d To take a wedded wife, a fitting bride, And aged Peleus’ wealth in peace enjoy.

For not the stores which Troy, they say, contain’d In peaceful times, ere came the sons of Greece, Nor all the treasures which Apollo’s shrine, The Archer-God, in rock-built Pythos holds, May weigh with life; of oxen and of sheep Successful forays may good store provide; And tripods may be gain’d, and noble steeds: But when the breath of man hath pass’d his lips, Nor strength nor foray can the loss repair.

I by my Goddess-mother have been warn’d, The silver-footed Thetis, that o’er me A double chance of destiny impends:

If here remaining, round the walls of Troy I wage the war, I ne’er shall see my home, But then undying glory shall be mine:

If I return, and see my native land,

My glory all is gone; but length of life Shall then be mine, and death be long deferr’d.

If others ask’d my counsel, I should say, ‘Homeward direct your course; of lofty Troy Ye see not yet the end; all-seeing Jove O’er her extends his hand; on him relying Her people all with confidence are fill’d.’

Go then; my answer to the chiefs of Greece Speak boldly—such the privilege of age—

Bid that some better counsel they devise To save their ships and men; their present scheme, My anger unappeas’d, avails them nought.

But Phoenix here shall stay, and sleep to-night; And with the morrow he with me shall sail And seek our native land, if so he will: For not by force will I remove him hence.”

He said; they all, confounded by his words, In silence heard; so sternly did he speak.

At length, in tears, the aged Phoenix spoke, For greatly fear’d he for the ships of Greece: “If, great Achilles, on returning home Thy mind is set, nor canst thou be induc’d To save the ships from fire, so fierce thy wrath; How then, dear boy, can I remain behind, Alone? whom with thee aged Peleus sent, That day when he in Agamemnon’s cause

From Phthia sent thee, inexperienc’d yet In all the duties of confed’rate war,

And sage debate, on which attends renown.

Me then he sent, instructor of thy youth, To prompt thy language, and thine acts to guide.

So not from thee, dear boy, can I consent To part, though Heav’n should undertake my age To prompt thy language, and thine acts to guide.

So not from thee, dear boy, can I consent To part, though Heav’n should undertake my age To wipe away, and vig’rous youth restore, Such as I boasted, when from Greece I fled Before my angry sire, Amyntor, son

Of Ormenus; a fair-hair’d concubine

Cause of the quarrel; her my father lov’d, And by her love estrang’d, despis’d his wife, My mother; oft she pray’d me to seduce, To vex th’ old man, my father’s concubine; I yielded; he, suspecting, on my head

A curse invok’d, and on the Furies call’d His curse to witness, that upon his knees No child, by me begotten, e’er should sit: His curse the Gods have heard, and ratified, Th’ infernal King, and awful Proserpine.

Then would I fain have slain him with the sword, Had not some God my rising fury quell’d, And set before my mind the public voice, The odium I should have to bear ‘mid Greeks, If branded with the name of patricide.

But longer in my angry father’s house

To dwell, my spirit brook’d not, though my friends And kinsmen all besought me to remain; And many a goodly sheep, and many a steer They slew, and many swine, with fat o’erlaid, They sing’d, and roasted o’er the burning coals; And drank in many a cup the old man’s wine.

Nine nights they kept me in continual watch, By turns relieving guards. The fires meanwhile Burnt constant: one beneath the porch that fac’d The well-fenc’d court; one in the vestibule Before my chamber door. The tenth dark night My chamber’s closely-fitting doors I broke, And lightly vaulted o’er the court-yard fence, By guards alike and servant maids unmark’d.

Through all the breadth of Hellas then I fled, Until at length to Phthia’s fruitful soil, Mother of flocks, to Peleus’ realm I came, Who kindly welcom’d me, and with such love As to his only son, his well-belov’d,

A father shows, his gen’rous gifts bestow’d.

He gave me wealth, he gave me ample rule; And on the bounds of Phthia bade me dwell, And o’er the Dolopes hold sov’reign sway.

Thee too, Achilles, rival of the Gods, Such, as thou art I made thee; from my soul I lov’d thee; nor wouldst thou with others go Or to the meal, or in the house be fed, Till on my knee thou satt’st, and by my hand Thy food were cut, the cup were tender’d thee; And often, in thy childish helplessness.

The bosom of my dress with wine was drench’d; Such care I had of thee, such pains I took, Rememb’ring that by Heav’n’s decree, no son Of mine I e’er might see; then thee I made, Achilles, rival of the Gods, my son,

That thou mightst be the guardian of mine age.

But thou, Achilles, curb thy noble rage; A heart implacable beseems thee not.

The Gods themselves, in virtue, honour, strength, Excelling thee, may yet be mollified;

For they, when mortals have transgress’d, or fail’d To do aright, by sacrifice and pray’r, Libations and burnt-off’rings, may be sooth’d.

Pray’rs are the daughters of immortal Jove; But halt, and wrinkled, and of feeble sight, They plod in Ate’s track; while Ate, strong And swift of foot, outstrips their laggard