The Iliad by Homer (the alpha prince and his bride full story free .txt) 📕

Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far, Drunk with renown, insatiable of war,

Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force, nor flight, Shall more avail him, nor his god of light.

See, where in vain he supplicates above, Roll’d at the feet of unrelenting Jove; Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on, And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun.”

Her voice divine the chief with joyful mind Obey’d; and rested, on his lance reclined While like Deiphobus the martial dame

(Her face, her gesture, and her arms the same), In show an aid, by hapless Hector’s side Approach’d, and greets him thus with voice belied: “Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight Of this distress, and sorrow’d in thy flight: It fits us now a noble stand to make,

And here, as brothers, equal fates partake.”

Then he: “O prince! allied in blood and fame, Dearer than all that own a brother’s name; Of all that Hecuba to Priam bore,

Long tried, long loved: much loved, but honoured more!

Since you, of all our numerous race alone Defend my life, regardless of your own.”

Again the goddess: “Much my father’s prayer, And much my mother’s, press’d me to forbear: My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay, But stronger love impell’d, and I obey.

Come then, the glorious conflict let us try, Let the steel sparkle, and the javelin fly; Or let us stretch Achilles on the field, Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield.”

Fraudful she said; then swiftly march’d before: The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more.

Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke: His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke: “Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view’d Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued.

But now some god within me bids me try

Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die.

Yet on the verge of battle let us stay, And for a moment’s space suspend the day; Let Heaven’s high powers be call’d to arbitrate The just conditions of this stern debate, (Eternal witnesses of all below,

And faithful guardians of the treasured vow!) To them I swear; if, victor in the strife, Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life, No vile dishonour shall thy corse pursue; Stripp’d of its arms alone (the conqueror’s due) The rest to Greece uninjured I’ll restore: Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more.”

“Talk not of oaths (the dreadful chief replies, While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes), Detested as thou art, and ought to be,

Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee: Such pacts as lambs and rabid wolves combine, Such leagues as men and furious lions join, To such I call the gods! one constant state Of lasting rancour and eternal hate:

No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife, Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life.

Rouse then thy forces this important hour, Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power.

No further subterfuge, no further chance; ‘Tis Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my lance.

Each Grecian ghost, by thee deprived of breath, Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death.”

He spoke, and launch’d his javelin at the foe; But Hector shunn’d the meditated blow:

He stoop’d, while o’er his head the flying spear Sang innocent, and spent its force in air.

Minerva watch’d it falling on the land, Then drew, and gave to great Achilles’ hand, Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy,

Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy.

“The life you boasted to that javelin given, Prince! you have miss’d. My fate depends on Heaven, To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown, Or what must prove my fortune, or thy own.

Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind, And with false terrors sink another’s mind.

But know, whatever fate I am to try,

By no dishonest wound shall Hector die.

I shall not fall a fugitive at least,

My soul shall bravely issue from my breast.

But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart End all my country’s woes, deep buried in thy heart.”

The weapon flew, its course unerring held, Unerring, but the heavenly shield repell’d The mortal dart; resulting with a bound From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground.

Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain, Nor other lance, nor other hope remain; He calls Deiphobus, demands a spear—

In vain, for no Deiphobus was there.

All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh; “‘Tis so—Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh!

I deem’d Deiphobus had heard my call,

But he secure lies guarded in the wall.

A god deceived me; Pallas, ‘twas thy deed, Death and black fate approach! ‘tis I must bleed.

No refuge now, no succour from above,

Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove, Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate!

‘Tis true I perish, yet I perish great: Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,

Let future ages hear it, and admire!”

Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew, And, all collected, on Achilles flew.

So Jove’s bold bird, high balanced in the air, Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare.

Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares: Before his breast the flaming shield he bears, Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone

The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun.

Nodding at every step: (Vulcanian frame!) And as he moved, his figure seem’d on flame.

As radiant Hesper shines with keener light, [237]

Far-beaming o’er the silver host of night, When all the starry train emblaze the sphere: So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear.

In his right hand he waves the weapon round, Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound; But the rich mail Patroclus lately wore Securely cased the warrior’s body o’er.

One space at length he spies, to let in fate, Where ‘twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate Gave entrance: through that penetrable part Furious he drove the well-directed dart: Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour.

Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies, While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries: “At last is Hector stretch’d upon the plain, Who fear’d no vengeance for Patroclus slain: Then, prince! you should have fear’d, what now you feel; Achilles absent was Achilles still:

Yet a short space the great avenger stayed, Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid.

Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn’d, For ever honour’d, and for ever mourn’d: While cast to all the rage of hostile power, Thee birds shall mangle, and the gods devour.”

Then Hector, fainting at the approach of death: “By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath!

By all the sacred prevalence of prayer; Ah, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear!

The common rites of sepulture bestow,

To soothe a father’s and a mother’s woe: Let their large gifts procure an urn at least, And Hector’s ashes in his country rest.”

“No, wretch accursed! relentless he replies; (Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes;) Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare, Nor all the sacred prevalence of prayer.

Could I myself the bloody banquet join!

No—to the dogs that carcase I resign.

Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her store, And giving thousands, offer thousands more; Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame, Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame: Their Hector on the pile they should not see, Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee.”

Then thus the chief his dying accents drew: “Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew: The Furies that relentless breast have steel’d, And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield.

Yet think, a day will come, when fate’s decree And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on thee; Phoebus and Paris shall avenge my fate, And stretch thee here before the Scaean gate.” [238]

He ceased. The Fates suppress’d his labouring breath, And his eyes stiffen’d at the hand of death; To the dark realm the spirit wings its way, (The manly body left a load of clay,)

And plaintive glides along the dreary coast, A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Achilles, musing as he roll’d his eyes

O’er the dead hero, thus unheard, replies: “Die thou the first! When Jove and heaven ordain, I follow thee”—He said, and stripp’d the slain.

Then forcing backward from the gaping wound The reeking javelin, cast it on the ground.

The thronging Greeks behold with wondering eyes His manly beauty and superior size;

While some, ignobler, the great dead deface With wounds ungenerous, or with taunts disgrace: “How changed that Hector, who like Jove of late Sent lightning on our fleets, and scatter’d fate!”

High o’er the slain the great Achilles stands, Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands; And thus aloud, while all the host attends: “Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends!

Since now at length the powerful will of heaven The dire destroyer to our arm has given, Is not Troy fallen already? Haste, ye powers!

See, if already their deserted towers

Are left unmann’d; or if they yet retain The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain.

But what is Troy, or glory what to me?

Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee, Divine Patroclus! Death hath seal’d his eyes; Unwept, unhonour’d, uninterr’d he lies!

Can his dear image from my soul depart, Long as the vital spirit moves my heart?

If in the melancholy shades below,

The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow, Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay’d, Burn on through death, and animate my shade.

Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring The corpse of Hector, and your paeans sing.

Be this the song, slow-moving toward the shore, “Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more.”

Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred; (Unworthy of himself, and of the dead;) The nervous ancles bored, his feet he bound With thongs inserted through the double wound; These fix’d up high behind the rolling wain, His graceful head was trail’d along the plain.

Proud on his car the insulting victor stood, And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood.

He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies; The sudden clouds of circling dust arise.

Now lost is all that formidable air;

The face divine, and long-descending hair, Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand; Deform’d, dishonour’d, in his native land, Given to the rage of an insulting throng, And, in his parents’ sight, now dragg’d along!

The mother first beheld with sad survey; She rent her tresses, venerable grey,

And cast, far off, the regal veils away.

With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans, While the sad father answers groans with groans Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o’erflow, And the whole city wears one face of woe: No less than if the rage of hostile fires.

From her foundations curling to her spires, O’er the proud citadel at length should rise, And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies.

The wretched monarch of the falling state, Distracted, presses to the Dardan gate.

Scarce the whole people stop his desperate course, While strong affliction gives the feeble force: Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro, In all the raging impotence of woe.

At length he roll’d in dust, and thus begun, Imploring all, and naming one by one:

“Ah! let me, let me go where sorrow calls; I, only I, will issue from your walls

(Guide or companion, friends! I ask ye none), And bow before the murderer of my son.

My grief