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Iliad of Homer, Rendered into English Blank Verse

But when Achilles had indulg’d his grief, And eas’d the yearning of his heart and limbs, Uprising, with his hand the aged sire, Pitying his hoary head and hoary beard, He rais’d, and thus with gentle words address’d: “Alas, what sorrows, poor old man, are thine! How couldst thou venture to the Grecian ships Alone, and to the presence of the man Whose hand hath slain so many of thy sons, Many and brave? an iron heart is thine! But sit thou on this seat; and in our hearts, Though filled with grief, let us that grief suppress; For woful lamentation nought avails. Such, is the thread the Gods for mortals spin, To live in woe, while they from cares are free. Two coffers lie beside the door of Jove, With gifts for man: one good, the other ill; To whom from each the Lord of lightning gives, Him sometimes evil, sometimes good befalls; To whom the ill alone, him foul disgrace And grinding mis’ry o’er the earth pursue: By God and man alike despis’d he roams. Thus from his birth the Gods to Peleus gave Excellent gifts; with wealth and substance bless’d Above his fellows; o’er the Myrmidons He rul’d with sov’reign sway; and Heav’n bestow’d On him, a mortal, an immortal bride. Yet this of ill was mingled in his lot, That in his house no rising race he saw Of future Kings; one only son he had, One doom’d to early death; nor is it mine To tend my father’s age; but far from home Thee and thy sons in Troy I vex with war. Much have we heard too of thy former wealth; Above what Lesbos northward, Macar’s seat, Contains, and Upper Phrygia, and the shores Of boundless Hellespont, ’tis said that thou In wealth and number of thy sons wast bless’d. But since on thee this curse the Gods have brought, Still round thy city war and murder rage. Bear up, nor thus with grief incessant mourn; Vain is thy sorrow for thy gallant son; Thou canst not raise him, and mayst suffer more.” To whom in answer Priam, godlike sire; “Tell me not yet, illustrious chief, to sit, While Hector lies, uncar’d for, in the tent; But let me quickly go, that with mine eyes I may behold my son; and thou accept The ample treasures which we tender thee: Mayst thou enjoy them, and in safety reach Thy native land, since thou hast spar’d my life, And bidd’st me still behold the light of Heav’n.” To whom Achilles thus with stern regard: “Old man, incense me not; I mean myself To give thee back thy son; for here of late Despatch’d by Jove, my Goddess-mother came, The daughter of the aged Ocean-God: And thee too, Priam, well I know, some God (I cannot err) hath guided to our ships. No mortal, though in vent’rous youth, would dare Our camp to enter; nor could hope to pass Unnotic’d by the watch, nor easily Remove the pond’rous bar that guards our doors. But stir not up my anger in my grief; Lest, suppliant though thou be, within my tent I brook thee not, and Jove’s command transgress.” He said; the old man trembled, and obey’d; Then to the door-way, with a lion’s spring, Achilles rush’d; not unaccompanied; With him Automedon and Alcimus, His two attendants, of his followers all, Next to the lost Patroclus, best-esteem’d; They from the yoke the mules and horses loos’d; Then led the herald of the old man in, And bade him sit; and from the polish’d wain The costly ransom took of Hector’s head. Two robes they left, and one well-woven vest, To clothe the corpse, and send with honour home. Then to the female slaves he gave command To wash the body, and anoint with oil, Apart, that Priam might not see his son; Lest his griev’d heart its passion unrestrain’d Should utter, and Achilles, rous’d to wrath, His suppliant slay, and Jove’s command transgress. When they had wash’d the body, and with oil Anointed, and around it wrapp’d the robe And vest, Achilles lifted up the dead With his own hands, and laid him on the couch; Which to the polish’d wain his followers rais’d. Then groaning, on his friend by name he call’d: “Forgive, Patroclus! be not wroth with me, If in the realm of darkness thou shouldst hear That godlike Hector to his father’s arms, For no mean ransom, I restore; whereof A fitting share for thee I set aside.” This said, Achilles to the tent return’d; On the carv’d couch, from whence he rose, he sat Beside the wall; and thus to Priam spoke: “Old man, thy son, according to thy pray’r, Is giv’n thee back; upon the couch he lies; Thyself shalt see him at the dawn of day. Meanwhile the ev’ning meal demands our care. Not fair-hair’d Niobe abstain’d from food When in the house her children lay in death, Six beauteous daughters and six stalwart sons. The youths, Apollo with his silver bow, The maids, the Archer-Queen, Diana, slew, With anger fill’d that Niobe presum’d Herself with fair Latona to compare, Her many children with her rival’s two; So by the two were all the many slain. Nine days in death they lay; and none was there To pay their fun’ral rites; for Saturn’s son Had given to all the people hearts of stone. At length th’ immortal Gods entomb’d the dead. Nor yet did Niobe, when now her grief Had worn itself in tears, from food refrain. And now in Sipylus, amid the rocks, And lonely mountains, where the Goddess nymphs That love to dance by Achelous’ stream, ’Tis said, were cradled, she, though turn’d to stone, Broods o’er the wrongs inflicted by the Gods. So we too, godlike sire, the meal may share; And later, thou thy noble son mayst mourn, To Troy restor’d—well worthy he thy tears.” This said, he slaughter’d straight a white-fleec’d sheep; His comrades then the carcase flay’d and dress’d: The meat prepar’d, and fasten’d to the spits; Roasted with care, and from the fire withdrew. The bread Automedon from baskets fair Apportion’d out; the meat Achilles shar’d. They on the viands set before them fell. The rage of thirst and hunger satisfied, In wonder Priam on Achilles gaz’d, His form and stature; as a God he seem’d; And he too look’d on Priam, and admir’d His venerable face, and gracious speech. With mutual pleasure each on other gaz’d, Till godlike Priam first address’d his host: “Dismiss me now, illustrious chief, to rest; And lie we down, in gentle slumbers wrapp’d; For never have mine eyes been clos’d in sleep, Since by thy hand my gallant son was slain: But groaning still, I brood upon my woes, And in my court with dust my head defile. Now have I tasted bread, now ruddy wine Hath o’er my palate pass’d; but not till now.” Thus he; his comrades and th’ attendant maids Achilles order’d in the corridor Two mattresses to place, with blankets fair Of purple wool o’erlaid; and on the top Rugs and soft sheets for upper cov’ring spread. They from the chamber, torch in hand, withdrew, And with obedient haste two beds prepar’d. Then thus Achilles spoke in jesting tone: “Thou needs must sleep without, my good old friend; Lest any leader of the Greeks should come, As is their custom, to confer with me; Of them whoe’er should find thee here by night Forthwith to Agamemnon would report, And Hector might not be so soon, restor’d. But tell me truly this; how many days For godlike Hector’s fun’ral rites ye need; That for so long a time I may myself Refrain from combat, and the people stay.” To whom in answer Priam, godlike sire: “If by thy leave we may indeed perform His fun’ral rites, to thee, Achilles, great Will be our gratitude, if this thou grant. Thou know’st how close the town is hemm’d around; And from the mountain, distant as it is, The Trojans well may fear to draw the wood. Nine days to public mourning would we give; The tenth, to fun’ral rites and fun’ral feast; Then on th’ eleventh would we raise his mound; The twelfth, renew the war, if needs we must.” To whom Achilles swift of foot replied: “So shall it be, old Priam; I engage To stay the battle for the time requir’d.” Thus speaking, with his hand the old man’s wrist He grasp’d, in token that he need not fear. Then in the corridor lay down to rest Old Priam and the herald, Elders sage; While in his tent’s recess Achilles slept, The fair Briseis resting by his side. In night-long slumbers lay the other Gods, And helmed chiefs, by gentle sleep subdued; But on the eyes of Hermes, Guardian-God, No slumber fell, deep pond’ring in his mind How from the ships in safety to conduct The royal Priam, and the guard elude. Above the sleeper’s head he stood, and cried: “Old man, small heed thou tak’st of coming ill, Who, when Achilles gives thee leave to go, Sleep’st undisturb’d, surrounded by thy foes. Thy son hath been restor’d, and thou hast paid A gen’rous price; but to redeem thy life, If Agamemnon and the other Greeks Should know that thou art here, full thrice so much Thy sons, who yet are left, would have to pay.” He said; the old man trembled, and arous’d The herald; while the horses and the mules Were yok’d by Hermes, who with silent speed Drove through th’ encampment, unobserv’d of all. But when they came to eddying Xanthus’ ford, Fair-flowing stream, born of immortal Jove, To high Olympus Hermes took his flight, As morn, in saffron robe, o’er all the earth Was light diffusing; they with fun’ral wail Drove cityward the horses; following came The mules that drew the litter of the dead. The plain they travers’d o’er, observ’d of none, Or man or woman, till Cassandra, fair As golden Venus, from the topmost height Of Pergamus, her father in his car Upstanding saw, the herald at his side. Him too she saw, who on the litter lay; Then lifted up her voice, and cried aloud To all the city, “Hither, Trojans, come, Both men and women, Hector see restor’d; If, while he liv’d, returning from the fight, Ye met him e’er rejoicing, who indeed Was all the city’s chiefest joy and pride.” She said; nor man nor woman then was left Within the city; o’er the minds of all Grief pass’d, resistless; to the gates in throngs They press’d, to crowd round him who brought the dead. The first to clasp the body were his wife And honour’d mother; eagerly they sprang On the smooth-rolling wain, to touch the head Of Hector; round them, weeping, stood the crowd Weeping, till sunset, all the live-long day Had they before the gates for Hector mourn’d; Had not old Priam from the car address’d The crowd: “Make way, that so the mules may pass; When to my house I shall have brought my dead, Ye there may vent your sorrow as ye will.” Thus as he spoke, obedient to his word They stood aside, and for the car made way: But when to Priam’s lordly house they came, They laid him on a rich-wrought couch, and call’d The minstrels in, who by the hero’s bed Should lead the melancholy chorus; they Pour’d forth the music of the mournful dirge, While women’s voices join’d in loud lament. White-arm’d Andromache the wail began, The head of Hector clasping in her hands: “My husband, thou art gone in pride of youth, And in thine house hast left me desolate; Thy child an infant still, thy child and mine, Unhappy parents both! nor dare I hope That he may reach the ripeness of his youth; For ere that day shall Troy in ruin fall, Since thou art gone, her guardian! thou whose arm Defended her, her wives, and helpless babes! They now shall shortly o’er the sea be borne, And with them I shall go; thou too, my child, Must follow me, to servile labour doom’d, The suff’ring victim of a tyrant Lord; Unless perchance some angry Greek may seize And dash thee from the tow’r—a woful death! Whose brother, or whose father, or whose son By Hector hath been slain; for many a Greek By Hector’s hand hath bit the bloody dust; Not light in battle was thy father’s hand! Therefore for him the gen’ral city mourns; Thou to thy parents bitter grief hast caus’d, Hector! but bitt’rest grief of all hast left To me! for not to me was giv’n to clasp The hand extended from thy dying bed, Nor words of wisdom catch, which night and day, With tears, I might have treasur’d in my heart.” Weeping she spoke—the women join’d the wail. Then Hecuba took up the loud lament: “Hector, of all my children dearest thou! Dear to th’ Immortals too in life wast thou, And they in death have borne thee still in mind; For other of my sons, his captives made, Across the wat’ry waste, to Samos’ isle Or Imbros, or th’ inhospitable shore Of Lemnos, hath Achilles, swift of foot, To slav’ry sold; thee, when his sharp-edg’d spear Had robb’d thee of thy life, he dragg’d indeed Around Patroclus’ tomb, his comrade dear, Whom thou hadst slain; yet so he rais’d not up His dead to life again; now liest thou here, All fresh and fair, as dew-besprent; like one Whom bright Apollo, with his arrows keen, God of the silver bow, hath newly slain.” Weeping, she spoke; and rous’d the gen’ral grief. Then Helen, third, the mournful strain renew’d: “Hector, of all my brethren dearest thou! True, godlike Paris claims me as his wife, Who bore me hither—would I then had died! But twenty years have pass’d since here I came, And left my native land; yet ne’er from thee I heard one scornful, one degrading word; And when from others I have borne reproach, Thy brothers, sisters, or thy brothers’ wives, Or mother, (for thy sire was ever kind E’en as a father) thou hast check’d them still With tender feeling, and with gentle words. For thee I weep, and for myself no less: For, through the breadth of Troy, none love me now, None kindly look on me, but all abhor.” Weeping she spoke, and with her wept the crowd. At length the aged Priam gave command: “Haste now, ye Trojans, to the city bring Good store of fuel; fear no treach’rous wile; For when he sent me from the dark-ribb’d ships, Achilles promis’d that from hostile arms Till the twelfth morn we should no harm sustain.” He said; and they the oxen and the mules Yok’d to the wains, and from the city throng’d: Nine days they labour’d, and brought back to Troy Good store of wood; but when the tenth day’s light Upon the earth appear’d, weeping, they bore Brave Hector out; and on the fun’ral pile Laying the glorious dead, applied the torch. While yet the rosy-finger’d morn was young Round noble Hector’s pyre the people press’d: When all were gather’d round, and closely throng’d First on the burning mass, as far as spread The range of fire, they pour’d the ruddy wine, And quench’d the flames: his brethren then and friends Weeping, the hot tears flowing down their cheeks, Collected from the pile the whiten’d bones; These in a golden casket they enclos’d, And o’er it spread soft shawls of purple dye; Then in a grave they laid it, and in haste With stone in pond’rous masses cover’d o’er; And rais’d a mound, and watch’d on ev’ry side, From sudden inroad of the Greeks to guard. The mound erected, back they turn’d; and all Assembled duly, shar’d the solemn feast In Priam’s palace, Heav’n-descended King. Such were the rites to glorious Hector paid. <h3> FOOTNOTES </h3> [1] The text of the original leaves it somewhat in doubt whether the anger of the Greeks were directed against Thersites or Agamemnon. I believe the preponderance of authority, ancient and modern, is in favour of the former interpretation; but the latter is not without the support of some eminent scholars, and after much consideration I have been induced to adopt it. The original represents the Greeks as filled with anger and resentment against some one. Thersites was an object of general contempt, but he had done nothing to excite those feelings: indeed, apart from the offensiveness of his tone, the public sympathy was with him; for the army was deeply dissatisfied, and resented the conduct of Agamemnon against Achilles, mainly perhaps because they had ceased to be enriched with the plunder of his successful forays (see i. 202, and ix. 387). This dissatisfaction and resentment are referred to by Neptune (xiii. 126), and by Agamemnon himself (xiv. 55). They had lately manifested themselves in the alacrity with which the whole army had caught at the insidious suggestion of abandoning the war; and, just before the second assembly, Thersites avails himself of the general feeling, constituting himself the representative of a popular grievance, to vent his personal spite against Agamemnon. Ulysses saw how dangerous such a display might be at such a moment; and artfully assuming (line 281) that the feeling was confined to Thersites alone (though in his subsequent speech, line 335, he admits and excuses the general discontent), he proceeds to cut short its expression by summary chastisement. Thereupon the fickle multitude, “despite their anger” (against Agamemnon), cannot refrain from laughing at the signal discomfiture of their self-constituted champion. This view is very fully set forth in a note on the passage appended to a translation of the Iliad by Mr. Barter, published in 1859, but which I have only seen since the publication of this work. [2] See also Book xxii. l. 252. Milton, in the corresponding passage at the close of the 4th Book of ‘Paradise Lost,’ reverses the sign, and represents the scale of the vanquished as “flying up” and “kicking the beam.” “The Fiend look’d up, and knew His mounted scale aloft; nor more, but fled Murm’ring, and with him fled the shades of night.” [3] This comparison does not afford a very accurate criterion of the “space interposed,” which cannot be estimated without knowing the total distance within which the faster was to outstrip the slower team. [4] This passage would seem to be the result of an oversight on the part of the Poet; who, apparently, had forgotten that Pylasmenes, “the Paphlagonian Chief,” had himself been killed by Menelaus, some time before the death of his son See Book V., l. 656. [5] Line 45 et seqq. I hope I may be pardoned for having somewhat curtailed the list of these ladies, which in the original extends over ten lines of names only. In doing so, I have followed the example of Virgil, who represents the same ladies [G. 4. 336] in attendance on Cyrene; and has not only reduced the list, but added some slight touches illustrating their occupations and private history: a liberty permissible to an imitator, but not to a translator. [6] L. 151. Chthizos, yesterday. But either the word must have a more extended signification than is usually given to it, or Homer must here have fallen into an error; for two complete nights and one day, that on which Patroclus met his death, had intervened since the visit of Ajax and Ulysses to the tent of Achilles. See also l. 215. [7] L. 547. The terms made use of in this line, and in 481, may appear somewhat coarse, as addressed by one Goddess to another: but I assure the English reader that in this passage especially I have greatly softened down the expression of the original; a literal translation of which, however forcible, would shock even the least fastidious critic. It must, indeed, be admitted that the mode in which “the white-armed Goddess” proceeds to execute her threat is hardly more dignified than the language, in which it is conveyed, is refined. [8] Line 737.—They being two, while I was only one. Such I believe to be the true interpretation of this passage, which, however, is one of admitted difficulty. According to our modern notions, it is not very evident what advantage two men in a car would have over one in another; nor what would be gained by the division of labour which assigned the reins to one and the whip to the other; but such, from line 740-741, appears to have been the view taken by Homer. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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