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

To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm, Dying: “I know thee well; nor did I hope To change thy purpose; iron is thy soul.

But see that on thy head I bring not down The wrath of Heav’n, when by the Scaean gate The hand of Paris, with Apollo’s aid,

Brave warrior as thou art, shall strike thee down.”

E’en as he spoke, his eyes were clos’d in death; And to the viewless shades his spirit fled, Mourning his fate, his youth and vigour lost.

To him, though dead, Achilles thus replied: “Die thou! my fate I then shall meet, whene’er Jove and th’ immortal Gods shall so decree.”

He said, and from the corpse his spear withdrew, And laid aside; then stripp’d the armour off, With, blood besmear’d; the Greeks around him throng’d, Gazing on Hector’s noble form and face, And none approach’d that did not add a wound: And one to other look’d, and said, “Good faith, Hector is easier far to handle now,

Then when erewhile he wrapp’d our ships in fire.”

Thus would they say, then stab the dead anew.

But when the son of Peleus, swift of foot, Had stripp’d the armour from the corpse, he rose, And, standing, thus th’ assembled Greeks address’d: “O friends, the chiefs and councillors of Greece, Since Heav’n hath granted us this man to slay, Whose single arm hath wrought us more of ill Than all the rest combin’d, advance we now Before the city in arms, and trial make What is the mind of Troy; if, Hector slain, They from the citadel intend retreat,

Or still, despite their loss, their ground maintain.

But wherefore entertain such thoughts, my soul?

Beside the ships, unwept, unburied, lies Patroclus: whom I never can forget,

While number’d with the living, and my limbs Have pow’r to move; in Hades though the dead May be forgotten, yet e’en there will I The mem’ry of my lov’d companion keep.

Now to the ships return we, sons of Greece, Glad paeans singing! with us he shall go; Great glory is ours, the godlike Hector slain, The pride of Troy, and as a God rever’d.”

He said, and foully Hector’s corpse misus’d; Of either foot he pierc’d the tendon through, That from the ancle passes to the heel, And to his chariot bound with leathern thongs, Leaving the head to trail along the ground; Then mounted, with the captur’d arms, his car, And urg’d his horses; nothing loth, they flew.

A cloud of dust the trailing body rais’d: Loose hung his glossy hair; and in the dust Was laid that noble head, so graceful once; Now to foul insult doom’d by Jove’s decree, In his own country, by a foeman’s hand.

So lay the head of Hector; at the sight His aged mother tore her hair, and far From off her head the glitt’ring veil she threw, And with loud cries her slaughter’d son bewail’d.

Piteous, his father groan’d; and all around Was heard the voice of wailing and of woe.

Such was the cry, as if the beetling height Of Ilium all were smould’ring in the fire.

Scarce in his anguish could the crowd restrain The old man from issuing through the Dardan gates; Low in the dust he roll’d, imploring all, Entreating by his name each sev’ral man: “Forbear, my friends; though sorrowing, stay me not; Leave me to reach alone the Grecian ships, And there implore this man of violence, This haughty chief, if haply he my years May rev’rence, and have pity on my age.

For he too has a father, like to me;

Peleus, by whom he was begot, and bred, The bane of Troy; and, most of all, to me The cause of endless grief, who by his hand Have been of many stalwart sons bereft.

Yet all, though griev’d for all, I less lament, Than one, whose loss will sink me to the grave, Hector! oh would to Heav’n that in mine arms He could have died; with mourning then and tears We might have satisfied our grief, both she Who bore him, hapless mother, and myself.”

Weeping, he spoke; and with him wept the crowd: Then, ‘mid the women, Hecuba pour’d forth Her vehement grief: “My child, oh whither now, Heart-stricken, shall I go, of thee bereft, Of thee, who wast to me by night and day A glory and a boast; the strength of all The men of Troy, and women? as a God

They worshipp’d thee: for in thy life thou wast The glory of all; but fate hath found thee now.”

Weeping, she spoke; but nought as yet was known To Hector’s wife; to her no messenger

Had brought the tidings, that without the walls Remained her husband; in her house withdrawn A web she wove, all purple, double woof, With varied flow’rs in rich embroidery, And to her neat-hair’d maidens gave command To place the largest caldrons on the fire, That with warm baths, returning from the fight, Hector might be refresh’d; unconscious she, That by Achilles’ hand, with Pallas’ aid, Far from the bath, was godlike Hector slain.

The sounds of wailing reach’d her from the tow’r; Totter’d her limbs, the distaff left her hand, And to her neat-hair’d maidens thus she spoke: “Haste, follow me, some two, that I may know What mean these sounds; my honour’d mother’s voice I hear; and in my breast my beating heart Leaps to my mouth; my limbs refuse to move; Some evil, sure, on Priam’s house impends.

Be unfulfill’d my words! yet much I fear Lest my brave Hector be cut off alone, By great Achilles, from the walls of Troy, Chas’d to the plain, the desp’rate courage quench’d, Which ever led him from the gen’ral ranks Far in advance, and bade him yield to none.”

Then from the house she rush’d, like one distract, With beating heart; and with her went her maids.

But when she reach’d the tow’r, where stood the crowd, And mounted on the wall, she look’d around, And saw the body which with insult foul The flying steeds were dragging towards the ships; Then sudden darkness overspread her eyes; Backward she fell, and gasp’d her spirit away.

Far off were flung th’ adornments of her head, The net, the fillet, and the woven bands; The nuptial veil by golden Venus giv’n, That day when Hector of the glancing helm Led from Eetion’s house his wealthy bride.

The sisters of her husband round her press’d, And held, as in the deadly swoon she lay.

But when her breath and spirit return’d again, With sudden burst of anguish thus she cried: “Hector, oh woe is me! to misery

We both were born alike; thou here in Troy In Priam’s royal palace; I in Thebes,

By wooded Placos, in Eetion’s house,

Who nurs’d my infancy; unhappy he,

Unhappier I! would I had ne’er been born!

Now thou beneath the depths of earth art gone, Gone to the viewless shades; and me hast left A widow in thy house, in deepest woe;

Our child, an infant still, thy child and mine, Ill-fated parents both! nor thou to him, Hector, shalt be a guard, nor he to thee: For though he ‘scape this tearful war with Greece, Yet nought for him remains but ceaseless woe, And strangers on his heritage shall seize.

No young companions own the orphan boy: With downcast eyes, and cheeks bedew’d with tears, His father’s friends approaching, pinch’d with want, He hangs upon the skirt of one, of one He plucks the cloak; perchance in pity some May at their tables let him sip the cup, Moisten his lips, but scarce his palate touch; While youths, with both surviving parents bless’d, May drive him from their feast with blows and taunts, ‘Begone! thy father sits not at our board:’

Then weeping, to his widow’d mother’s arms He flies, that orphan boy, Astyanax,

Who on his father’s knees erewhile was fed On choicest marrow, and the fat of lambs; And, when in sleep his childish play was hush’d, Was lull’d to slumber in his nurse’s arms On softest couch, by all delights surrounded.

But grief, his father lost, awaits him now, Astyanax, of Trojans so surnam’d,

Since thou alone wast Troy’s defence and guard.

But now on thee, beside the beaked ships, Far from thy parents, when the rav’ning dogs Have had their fill, the wriggling worms shall feed; On thee, all naked; while within thy house Lies store of raiment, rich and rare, the work Of women’s hands; these will I burn with fire; Not for thy need—thou ne’er shalt wear them more,—

But for thine honour in the sight of Troy.”

Weeping she spoke; the women join’d her wail.

ARGUMENT.

FUNERAL GAMES IN HONOUR OF PATROCLUS.

Achilles and the Myrmidons do honour to the body of Patroclus. After the funeral feast he retires to the seashore, where, falling asleep, the ghost of his friend appears to him, and demands the rites of burial: the next morning the soldiers are sent with mules and waggons to fetch wood for the pyre. The funeral procession, and the offering their hair to the dead. Achilles sacrifices several animals, and lastly, twelve Trojan captives, at the pile; then sets fire to it. He pays libations to the winds, which (at the instance of Iris) rise, and raise the flame. When the pile has burned all night, they gather the bones, place them in an urn of gold, and raise the tomb. Achilles institutes the funeral games: the chariot-race, the fight of the caestus, the wrestling, the footrace, the single combat, the discus, the shooting with arrows, the darting the javelin: the various descriptions of which, and the various success of the several antagonists, make the greatest part of the book.

In this book ends the thirtieth day: the night following, the ghost of Patroclus appears to Achilles: the one-and-thirtieth day is employed in felling the timber for the pile; the two-and-thirtieth in burning it; and the three-and-thirtieth in the games. The scene is generally on the seashore.

BOOK XXIII.

Thus they throughout the city made their moan; But when the Greeks had come where lay their ships By the broad Hellespont, their sev’ral ways They each pursu’d, dispersing; yet not so Achilles let his Myrmidons disperse,

But thus his warlike comrades he address’d: “My faithful comrades, valiant Myrmidons, Loose we not yet our horses from the cars; But for Patroclus mourn, approaching near, With horse and car; such tribute claim the dead; Then, free indulgence to our sorrows giv’n, Loose we the steeds, and share the ev’ning meal.”

He said; and they with mingled voices rais’d The solemn dirge; Achilles led the strain; Thrice round the dead they drove their sleek-skinn’d steeds, Mourning, with hearts by Thetis grief-inspir’d; With tears the sands, with tears the warriors’ arms, Were wet; so mighty was the chief they mourn’d.

Then on his comrade’s breast Achilles laid His blood-stain’d hands, and thus began the wail: “All hail, Patroclus, though in Pluto’s realm; All that I promis’d, lo! I now perform; That on the corpse of Hector, hither dragg’d, Our dogs should feed; and that twelve noble youths, The sons of Troy, before thy fun’ral pyre, My hand, in vengeance for thy death, should slay.”

He said, and foully Hector’s corpse misus’d, Flung prostrate in the dust, beside the couch Where lay Menoetius’ son. His comrades then Their glitt’ring armour doff’d, of polish’d brass, And loos’d their neighing steeds; then round the ship Of Peleus’ son in countless numbers sat, While he th’ abundant fun’ral feast dispens’d.

There many a steer lay stretch’d beneath the knife, And many a sheep, and many a bleating goat, And many