Phy at the flood’s shore doth express
The labours of Æacides.
And now they reach’d the goodly swelling channel of the flood,
Gulf-eating Xanthus, whom Jove mix’d with his immortal brood;
And there Achilles cleft the host of Ilion; one side fell
On Xanthus, th’ other on the town; and that did he impell
The same way that the last day’s rage put all the Greeks in rout,
When Hector’s fury reign’d; these now Achilles pour’d about
The scatter’d field. To stay the flight, Saturnia cast before
Their hasty feet a standing fog; and then flight’s violence bore
The other half full on the flood. The silver-gulféd deep
Receiv’d them with a mighty cry, the billows vast and steep
Roar’d at their armours, which the shores did round about resound;
This way and that they swum, and shriek’d as in the gulfs they drown’d
And as in fir’d fields locusts rise, as the unwearied blaze
Plies still their rising, till in swarms all rush as in amaze,
For scape into some neighbour flood; so th’ Achilleian stroke
Here drave the foe, the gulfy flood with men and horse did choke.
Then on the shore the Worthy hid and left his horrid lance
Amids the tamarisks, and sprite-like did with his sword advance
Up to the river; ill affairs took up his furious brain
For Troy’s engagements; ev’ry way he doubled slain on slain.
A most unmanly noise was made, with those he put to sword,
Of groans and outcries. The flood blush’d, to be so much engor’d
With such base souls. And as small fish the swift-finn’d dolphin fly,
Filling the deep pits in the ports, on whose close strength they lie,
And there he swallows them in shoals; so here, to rocks and holes
About the flood, the Trojans fled, and there most lost their souls,
Ev’n till he tir’d his slaught’rous arm. Twelve fair young princes then
He chose of all to take alive, to have them freshly slain
On that most solemn day of wreak, resolv’d on for his friend.
These led he trembling forth the flood, as fearful of their end
As any hind calves. All their hands he pinioned behind
With their own girdles worn upon their rich weeds, and resign’d
Their persons to his Myrmidons to bear to fleet; and he
Plung’d in the stream again to take more work of tragedy.
He met, then issuing the flood with all intent of flight,
Lycaon, Dardan Priam’s son; whom lately in the night
He had surpris’d, as in a wood of Priam’s he had cut
The green arms of a wild fig-tree, to make him spokes to put
In naves of his new chariot. An ill then, all unthought,
Stole on him in Achilles’ shape, who took him thence, and brought
To well-built Lemnos, selling him to famous Jason’s son.
From whom a guest then in his house (Imbrius Eetion)
Redeem’d at high rate, and sent home t’ Arisba, whence he fled,
And saw again his father’s court; elev’n days banqueted
Amongst his friends; the twelfth God thrust his hapless head again
In t’ hands of stern Æacides, who now must send him slain
To Pluto’s court, and ’gainst his will. Him, when Achilles knew,
Naked of helmet, shield, sword, lance (all which for ease he threw
To earth, being overcome with sweat, and labour wearying
His flying knees) he storm’d, and said: “O heav’n, a wondrous thing
Invades mine eyes! Those Ilians, that heretofore I slew,
Rise from the dark dead quick again. This man Fate makes eschew
Her own steel fingers. He was sold in Lemnos, and the deep
Of all seas ’twixt this Troy, and that (that many a man doth keep
From his lov’d country) bars not him. Come then, he now shall taste
The head of Pelias, and try if steel will down as fast
As other fortunes, or kind earth can any surer seize
On his sly person, whose strong arms have held down Hercules.”
His thoughts thus mov’d, while he stood firm, to see if he, he spied,
Would offer flight (which first he thought) but when he had descried
He was descried and flight was vain, fearful, he made more nigh,
With purpose to embrace his knees, and now long’d much to fly
His black fate and abhorréd death by coming in. His foe
Observ’d all this, and up he rais’d his lance as he would throw;
And then Lycaon close ran in, fell on his breast, and took
Achilles’ knees; whose lance, on earth now staid, did overlook
His still turn’d back, with thirst to glut his sharp point with the
blood
That lay so ready. But that thirst Lycaon’s thirst withstood
To save his blood; Achilles’ knee in his one hand he knit,
His other held the long lance hard, and would not part with it,
But thus besought: “I kiss thy knees, divine Æacides!
Respect me, and my fortunes rue. I now present th’ access
Of a poor suppliant for thy ruth; and I am one that is
Worthy thy ruth, O Jove’s belov’d. First hour my miseries
Fell into any hand, ’twas thine. I tasted all my bread
By thy gift since, O since that hour that thy surprisal led
From forth the fair wood my sad feet, far from my lov’d allies,
To famous Lemnos, where I found a hundred oxen’s prize
To make my ransom; for which now I thrice the worth will raise.
This day makes twelve, since I arriv’d in Ilion, many days
Being spent before in sufferance; and now a cruel fate
Thrusts me again into thy hands. I should haunt Jove with hate,
That with such set malignity gives thee my life again.
There were but two of us for whom Laothoe suffer’d pain,
Laothoe, old Alte’s seed; Alte, whose palace stood
In height of upper Pedasus, near Satnius’ silver flood,
And rul’d the war-like Lelegi. Whose seed (as many more)
King Priam married, and begot the god-like Polydore,
And me accurs’d. Thou slaughter’dst him; and now thy hand on me
Will prove as mortal. I did think, when here I met with thee,
I could not ’scape thee; yet give ear, and add thy mind to it:
I told my birth to intimate, though one sire did beget
Yet one womb brought not into light Hector that slew thy friend,
And me. O do not kill me then, but let the wretched end
Of Polydore excuse my life. For half our being bred
Brothers to Hector, he (half) paid, no more is forfeited.”
Thus sued he humbly; but he heard, with this austere reply:
“Fool, urge not ruth nor price to me, till that solemnity,
Resolv’d on for Patroclus’ death, pay all his rites to fate.
Till his death I did grace to Troy, and many lives did rate
At price of ransom; but none now, of all the brood of Troy,
(Whoever Jove throws to my hands) shall any breath enjoy
That death can beat out, specially that touch at Priam’s race.
Die, die, my friend. What tears are these? What sad looks spoil thy
face?
Patroclus died, that far pass’d thee. Nay, seest thou not beside,
Myself, ev’n I, a fair young man, and rarely magnified,
And, to my father being a king, a mother have that sits
In rank with Goddesses; and yet, when thou hast spent thy spirits,
Death and as violent a fate must overtake ev’n me,
By twilight, morn-light, day, high noon, whenever destiny
Sets on her man to hurl a lance, or knit out of his string
An arrow that must reach my life.” This said, a languishing
Lycaon’s heart bent like his knees, yet left him strength t’ advance
Both hands for mercy as he kneel’d. His foe yet leaves his lance,
And forth his sword flies, which he hid in furrow of a wound
Driv’n through the jointure of his neck; flat fell he on the ground,
Stretch’d with death’s pangs, and all the earth imbru’d with timeless
blood.
Then gript Æacides his heel, and to the lofty flood
Flung, swinging, his unpitied corse, to see it swim, and toss
Upon the rough waves, and said; “Go, feed fat the fish with loss
Of thy left blood, they clean will suck thy green wounds; and this
saves
Thy mother tears upon thy bed. Deep Xanthus on his waves
Shall hoise thee bravely to a tomb, that in her burly breast
The sea shall open, where great fish may keep thy fun’ral feast
With thy white fat, and on the waves dance at thy wedding fate,
Clad in black horror, keeping close inaccessible state,
So perish Ilians, till we pluck the brows of Ilion
Down to her feet, you flying still, I flying still upon
Thus in the rear, and (as my brows were fork’d with rabid horns)[1]
Toss ye together. This brave flood, that strengthens and adorns
Your city with his silver gulfs, to whom so many bulls
Your zeal hath offer’d, which blind zeal his sacred current gulls,
With casting chariots and horse quick to his pray’d-for aid,
Shall nothing profit. Perish then, till cruell’st death hath laid
All at the red feet of Revenge for my slain friend, and all
With whom the absence of my hands made yours a festival.”
This speech great Xanthus more enrag’d, and made his spirit contend
For means to shut up the op’d vein against him, and defend
The Trojans in it from his plague. In mean time Peleus’ son,
And now with that long lance he hid, for more blood set upon
Asteropæus, the descent of Pelegon, and he
Of broad-stream’d Axius, and the dame, of first nativity
To all the daughters that renown’d Acesamenus’ seed,
Bright Peribœa, whom the Flood, arm’d thick with lofty reed,
Compress’d. At her grandchild now went Thetis’ great son, whose foe
Stood arm’d with two darts, being set on by Xanthus anger’d so
For those youths’ blood shed in his stream by vengeful Thetis’ son
Without all mercy. Both being near, great Thetides begun
With this high question; “Of what race art thou that dar’st oppose
Thy pow’r to mine thus? Curséd wombs they ever did disclose,
That stood my anger.” He replied: “What makes thy fury’s heat
Talk, and seek pedigrees? Far hence lies my innative seat,
In rich Pæonia. My race from broad-stream’d Axius runs;
Axius, that gives earth purest drink, of all the wat’ry sons
Of great Oceanus, and got the famous for his spear,
Pelegonus, that father’d me; and these Pæonians here,
Arm’d with long lances, here I lead; and here th’ elev’nth fair light
Shines on us since we enter’d Troy. Come now, brave man, let’s fight.”
Thus spake he, threat’ning; and to him Pelides made reply
With shaken Pelias; but his foe with two at once let fly,
For both his hands were dexterous. One jav’lin strook the shield
Of Thetis’ son, but strook not through; the gold, God’s gift, repell’d
The eager point; the other lance fell lightly on the part
Of his fair right hand’s cubit; forth the black blood spun; the dart
Glanc’d over, fast’ning on the earth, and there his spleen was spent
That wish’d the body. With which wish Achilles his lance sent,
That quite miss’d, and infix’d itself fast in steep-up shore;
Ev’n to the midst it enter’d it. Himself then fiercely bore
Upon his enemy with his sword. His foe was tugging hard
To get his lance out; thrice he pluck’d, and thrice sure Pelias barr’d
His wish’d evulsion; the fourth pluck, he bow’d and meant to break
The ashen plant, but, ere that act, Achilles’ sword did check
His bent pow’r, and brake out his soul. Full in the navel-stead
He ripp’d his belly up, and out his entrails fell, and dead
His breathless body; whence his arms Achilles drew, and said:
“Lie there, and prove it dangerous to lift up adverse head
Against Jove’s sons, although a Flood were ancestor to thee.
Thy vaunts urg’d him, but I may vaunt a higher pedigree
From Jove himself. King Peleüs was son to Æacus,
Infernal Æacus to Jove, and I to Peleüs.
Thunder-voic’d Jove far passeth floods, that only murmurs raise
With earth and water as they run with tribute to the seas;
And his seed theirs exceeds as far. A Flood, a mighty Flood,
Rag’d near thee now, but with no aid; Jove must not be withstood.
King Achelous yields to him, and great Oceanus,
Whence all floods, all the sea, all founts, wells, all deeps humorous,
Fetch their beginnings; yet ev’n he fears Jove’s flash, and the crack
His thunder gives, when out of heav’n it tears atwo his rack.”[2]
Thus pluck’d he from the shore his lance, and left the waves to wash
The wave-sprung entrails, about which fausens and other fish
Did shoal, to nibble at the fat which his sweet kidneys hid.
This for himself. Now to his men, the well-rode Pæons, did
His rage contend, all which cold fear shook into flight, to see
Their captain slain. At whose maz’d flight, as much enrag’d, flew he.
And then fell all these, Thrasius, Mydon, Astypylus,
Great Ophelestes, Ænius, Mnesus, Thersilochus.
And on these many more had fall’n, unless the angry Flood
Had took the figure of a man, and in a whirlpit stood,
Thus speaking to Æacides: “Past all, pow’r feeds thy will,
Thou great grandchild of Æacus, and, past all, th’ art in ill,
And Gods themselves confederates, and Jove, the best of Gods,
All deaths gives thee, all places not. Make my shores periods
To all shore service. In the field let thy field-acts run high,
Not in my waters. My sweet streams choke with mortality
Of men slain by thee. Carcasses so glut me, that I fail
To pour into the sacred sea my waves; yet still assail
Thy cruel forces. Cease, amaze affects me with thy rage,
Prince of the people.” He replied: “Shall thy command assuage,
Gulf-fed Scamander, my free wrath? I’ll never leave pursu’d
Proud Ilion’s slaughters, till this hand in her fill’d walls conclude
Her flying forces, and hath tried in single fight the chance
Of war with Hector; whose event with stark death shall advance
One of our conquests.” Thus again he like a fury flew
Upon the Trojans; when the flood his sad plaint did pursue
To bright Apollo, telling him he was too negligent
Of Jove’s high charge, importuning by all means vehement
His help of Troy till latest even should her black shadows pour
On Earth’s broad breast. In all his worst, Achilles yet from shore
Leapt to his midst. Then swell’d his waves, then rag’d, then boil’d
again
Against Achilles. Up flew all, and all the bodies slain
In all his deeps (of which the heaps made bridges to his waves)
He belch’d out, roaring like a bull. The unslain yet he saves
In his black whirlpits vast and deep. A horrid billow stood
About Achilles. On his shield the violence of the Flood
Beat so, it drave him back, and took his feet up, his fair palm
Enforc’d to catch into his stay a broad and lofty elm,
Whose roots he toss’d up with his hold, and tore up all the shore.
With this then he repell’d the waves, and those thick arms it bore
He made a bridge to bear him off; (for all fell in) when he
Forth from the channel threw himself. The rage did terrify[3]
Ev’n his great spirit, and made him add wings to his swiftest feet,
And tread the land. And yet not there the Flood left his retreat,
But thrust his billows after him, and black’d them all at top,
To make him fear, and fly his charge, and set the broad field ope
For Troy to ’scape in. He sprung out a dart’s cast, but came on
Again with a redoubled force. As when the swiftest flown,
And strong’st of all fowls, Jove’s black hawk, the huntress, stoops
upon
A much lov’d quarry; so charg’d he; his arms with horror rung
Against the black waves. Yet again he was so urg’d, he flung
His body from the Flood, and fled; and after him again
The waves flew roaring. As a man that finds a water-vein,
And from some black fount is to bring his streams through plants and
groves,
Goes with his mattock, and all checks, set to his course, removes;
When that runs freely, under it the pebbles all give way,
And, where it finds a fall, runs swift; nor can the leader stay
His current then, before himself full-pac’d it murmurs on;
So of Achilles evermore the strong Flood vantage won;
Though most deliver, Gods are still above the pow’rs of men.
As oft as th’ able god-like man endeavour’d to maintain
His charge on them that kept the flood, and charg’d as he would try
If all the Gods inhabiting the broad unreachéd sky
Could daunt his spirit; so oft still, the rude waves charg’d him round,
Rampt on his shoulders; from whose depth his strength and spirit would
bound
Up to the free air, vex’d in soul. And now the vehement Flood
Made faint his knees; so overthwart his waves were, they withstood
All the denied dust, which he wish’d, and now was fain to cry,
Casting his eyes to that broad heav’n, that late he long’d to try,
And said: “O Jove, how am I left! No God vouchsafes to free
Me, miserable man. Help now, and after torture me
With any outrage. Would to heaven, Hector, the mightiest
Bred in this region, had imbru’d his jav’lin in my breast,
That strong may fall by strong! Where now weak water’s luxury
Must make my death blush, one, heav’n-born, shall like a hog-herd die,
Drown’d in a dirty torrent’s rage. Yet none of you in heav’n
I blame for this, but She alone by whom this life was giv’n
That now must die thus. She would still delude me with her tales,
Affirming Phœbus’ shafts should end within the Trojan walls
My curs’d beginning.” In this strait, Neptune and Pallas flew,
To fetch him off. In men’s shapes both close to his danger drew,
And, taking both both hands, thus spake the Shaker of the world:
“Pelides, do not stir a foot, nor these waves, proudly curl’d
Against thy bold breast, fear a jot; thou hast us two thy friends,
Neptune and Pallas, Jove himself approving th’ aid we lend.
’Tis nothing as thou fear’st with Fate; she will not see thee drown’d.
This height shall soon down, thine own eyes shall see it set aground.
Be rul’d then, we’ll advise thee well; take not thy hand away
From putting all, indiff’rently, to all that it can lay
Upon the Trojans, till the walls of haughty Ilion
Conclude all in a desp’rate flight. And when thou hast set gone
The soul of Hector, turn to fleet; our hands shall plant a wreath
Of endless glory on thy brows.” Thus to the free from death
Both made retreat. He, much impell’d by charge the Godheads gave,
The field, that now was overcome with many a boundless wave,
He overcame. On their wild breasts they toss’d the carcasses,
And arms, of many a slaughter’d man. And now the wingéd knees
Of this great captain bore aloft; against the Flood he flies
With full assault; nor could that God make shrink his rescu’d thighs.
Nor shrunk the Flood, but, as his foe grew pow’rful, he grew mad,
Thrust up a billow to the sky, and crystal Simoïs bad
To his assistance: “Simoïs, ho, brother,” out he cried,
“Come, add thy current, and resist this man half-deified,
Or Ilion he will pull down straight; the Trojans cannot stand
A minute longer. Come, assist, and instantly command
All fountains in thy rule to rise, all torrents to make in,
And stuff thy billows; with whose height, engender such a din,
With trees torn up and justling stones, as so immane a man
May shrink beneath us; whose pow’r thrives do my pow’r all it can;
He dares things fitter for a God. But, nor his form, nor force,
Nor glorious arms shall profit it; all which, and his dead corse,
I vow to roll up in my sands, nay, bury in my mud,
Nay, in the very sinks of Troy, that, pour’d into my flood,
Shall make him drowning work enough; and, being drown’d, I’ll set
A fort of such strong filth on him, that Greece shall never get
His bones from it. There, there shall stand Achilles’ sepulchre,
And save a burial for his friends.” This fury did transfer
His high-ridg’d billows on the prince, roaring with blood and foam
And carcasses. The crimson stream did snatch into her womb
Surpris’d Achilles; and her height stood, held up by the hand
Of Jove himself. Then Juno cried, and call’d (to countermand
This wat’ry Deity) the God that holds command in fire,
Afraid lest that gulf-stomach’d Flood would satiate his desire
On great Achilles: “Mulciber, my best lov’d son!” she cried,
“Rouse thee, for all the Gods conceive this Flood thus amplified
Is rais’d at thee, and shows as if his waves would drown the sky,
And put out all the sphere of fire. Haste, help thy empery.
Light flames deep as his pits. Ourself the west wind and the south
Will call out of the sea, and breathe in either’s full-charg’d mouth
A storm t’ enrage thy fires ’gainst Troy; which shall (in one exhal’d)
Blow flames of sweat about their brows, and make their armours scald.
Go thou then, and, ’gainst these winds rise, make work on Xanthus’
shore,
With setting all his trees on fire, and in his own breast pour
A fervor that shall make it burn; nor let fair words or threats
Avert thy fury till I speak, and then subdue the heats
Of all thy blazes.” Mulciber prepar’d a mighty fire,
First in the field us’d; burning up the bodies that the ire
Of great Achilles reft of souls; the quite-drown’d field it dried,
And shrunk the flood up. And as fields, that have been long time cloy’d
With catching weather, when their corn lies on the gavel heap,
Are with a constant north wind dried, with which for comfort leap
Their hearts that sow’d them; so this field was dried, the bodies
burn’d,
And ev’n the flood into a fire as bright as day was turn’d.
Elms, willows, tam’risks, were inflam’d; the lote trees, sea-grass
reeds,
And rushes, with the galingale roots, of which abundance breeds
About the sweet flood, all were fir’d; the gliding fishes flew
Upwards in flames; the grov’lling eels crept upright; all which slew
Wise Vulcan’s unresisted spirit. The Flood out of a flame
Cried to him: “Cease, O Mulciber, no Deity can tame
Thy matchless virtue; nor would I, since thou art thus hot, strive.
Cease then thy strife; let Thetis’ son, with all thy wish’d haste,
drive
Ev’n to their gates these Ilians. What toucheth me their aid,
Or this contention?” Thus in flames the burning River pray’d.
And as a caldron, underput with store of fire, and wrought
With boiling of a well-fed brawn, up leaps his wave aloft,
Bavins of sere wood urging it, and spending flames apace,
Till all the caldron be engirt with a consuming blaze;
So round this Flood burn’d, and so sod his sweet and tortur’d streams,
Nor could flow forth, bound in the fumes of Vulcan’s fi’ry beams;
Who, then not mov’d, his mother’s ruth by all his means he craves,
And ask’d, why Vulcan should invade and so torment his waves
Past other floods, when his offence rose not to such degree
As that of other Gods for Troy; and that himself would free
Her wrath to it, if she were pleas’d; and pray’d her, that her son
Might be reflected; adding this, that he would ne’er be won
To help keep off the ruinous day, in which all Troy should burn,
Fir’d by the Grecians. This vow heard, she charg’d her son to turn
His fi’ry spirits to their homes, and said it was not fit
A God should suffer so for men. Then Vulcan did remit
His so unmeasur’d violence, and back the pleasant Flood
Ran to his channel. Thus these Gods she made friends; th’ other stood
At weighty diff’rence; both sides ran together with a sound,
That earth resounded, and great heav’n about did surrebound,
Jove heard it, sitting on his hill, and laugh’d to see the Gods
Buckle to arms like angry men; and, he pleas’d with their odds,
They laid it freely. Of them all, thump-buckler Mars began,
And at Minerva with a lance of brass he headlong ran,
These vile words ushering his blows: “Thou dog-fly, what’s the cause
Thou mak’st Gods fight thus? Thy huge heart breaks all our peaceful
laws
With thy insatiate shamelessness, Rememb’rest thou the hour
When Diomed charg’d me, and by thee, and thou with all thy pow’r
Took’st lance thyself, and, in all sights, rush’d on me with a wound?
Now vengeance falls on thee for all.” This said, the shield fring’d
round
With fighting adders, borne by Jove, that not to thunder yields,
He clapt his lance on; and this God, that with the blood of fields
Pollutes his godhead, that shield pierc’d, and hurt the arméd Maid,
But back she leapt, and with her strong hand rapt a huge stone, laid
Above the champain, black and sharp, that did in old time break
Partitions to men’s lands; and that she dusted in the neck
Of that impetuous challenger. Down to the earth he sway’d,
And overlaid sev’n acres’ land. His hair was all beray’d
With dust and blood mix’d; and his arms rung out. Minerva laugh’d,
And thus insulted: “O thou fool, yet hast thou not been taught
To know mine eminence? Thy strength opposest thou to mine?
So pay thy mother’s furies then, who for these aids of thine,
(Ever afforded perjur’d Troy, Greece ever left) takes spleen,
And vows thee mischief.” Thus she turn’d her blue eyes, when love’s
Queen
The hand of Mars took, and from earth rais’d him with thick-drawn
breath,
His spirits not yet got up again. But from the press of death
Kind Aphrodite was his guide. Which Juno seeing, exclaim’d:
“Pallas, see, Mars is help’d from field! Dog-fly, his rude tongue nam’d
Thyself ev’n now; but that his love, that dog-fly, will not leave
Her old consort. Upon her fly.” Minerva did receive
This excitation joyfully, and at the Cyprian flew,
Strook with her hard hand her soft breast, a blow that overthrew
Both her and Mars; and there both lay together in broad field.
When thus she triumph’d: “So lie all, that any succours yield
To these false Trojans ’gainst the Greeks; so bold and patient
As Venus, shunning charge of me; and no less impotent
Be all their aids, than hers to Mars. So short work would be made
In our depopulating Troy, this hardiest to invade
Of all earth’s cities.” At this wish, white-wristed Juno smil’d.
Next Neptune and Apollo stood upon the point of field,
And thus spake Neptune: “Phœbus! Come, why at the lance’s end
Stand we two thus? ’Twill be a shame, for us to re-ascend
Jove’s golden house, being thus in field and not to fight. Begin;
For ’tis no graceful work for me; thou hast the younger chin,
I older and know more. O fool, what a forgetful heart
Thou bear’st about thee, to stand here, prest to take th’ Ilian part,
And fight with me! Forgett’st thou then, what we two, we alone
Of all the Gods, have suffer’d here, when proud Laomedon
Enjoy’d our service a whole year, for our agreed reward?
Jove in his sway would have it so; and in that year I rear’d
This broad brave wall about this town, that (being a work of mine)
It might be inexpugnable. This service then was thine,
In Ida, that so many hills and curl’d-head forests crown,
To feed his oxen, crooked-shank’d, and headed like the moon.
But when the much-joy-bringing Hours brought term for our reward,
The terrible Laomedon dismiss’d us both, and scar’d
Our high deservings, not alone to hold our promis’d fee,
But give us threats too. Hands and feet he swore to fetter thee,
And sell thee as a slave, dismiss’d far hence to foreign isles.
Nay more, he would have both our ears. His vow’s breach, and reviles,
Made us part angry with him then; and dost thou gratulate now
Such a king’s subjects? Or with us not their destruction vow,
Ev’n to their chaste wives and their babes?” He answer’d: “He might
hold,
His wisdom little, if with him, a God, for men he would
Maintain contention; wretched men that flourish for a time
Like leaves, eat some of that earth yields, and give earth in their
prime
Their whole selves for it. Quickly then, let us fly fight for them,
Nor show it offer’d. Let themselves bear out their own extreme.”
Thus he retir’d, and fear’d to change blows with his uncle’s hands;
His sister therefore chid him much, the Goddess that commands
In games of hunting, and thus spake: “Fly’st thou, and leav’st the
field
To Neptune’s glory, and no blows? O fool, why dost thou wield
Thy idle bow? No more my ears shall hear thee vaunt in skies
Dares to meet Neptune, but I’ll tell thy coward’s tongue it lies.”
He answer’d nothing; yet Jove’s wife could put on no such reins,
But spake thus loosely: “How dar’st thou, dog, whom no fear contains,
Encounter me? ’Twill prove a match of hard conditión.
Though the great Lady of the bow and Jove hath set thee down
For lion of thy sex, with gift to slaughter any dame
Thy proud will envies; yet some dames will prove th’ had’st better tame
Wild lions upon hills than them. But if this question rests
Yet under judgment in thy thoughts, and that thy mind contests,
I’ll make thee know it.” Suddenly with her left hand she catch’d
Both Cynthia’s palms, lock’d fingers fast, and with her right she
snatch’d
From her fair shoulders her gilt bow, and, laughing, laid it on
About her ears, and ev’ry way her turnings seiz’d upon,
Till all her arrows scatter’d out, her quiver emptied quite.
And as a dove, that, flying a hawk, takes to some rock her flight,
And in his hollow breasts sits safe, her fate not yet to die;
So fled she mourning, and her bow left there. Then Mercury
His opposite thus undertook: “Latona, at no hand
Will I bide combat. ’Tis a work right dangerous to stand
At diff’rence with the wives of Jove. Go, therefore, freely vaunt
Amongst the Deities, th’ hast subdu’d, and made thy combatant
Yield with plain pow’r.” She answer’d not, but gather’d up the bow
And shafts fall’n from her daughter’s side, retiring. Up did go
Diana to Jove’s starry hall, her incorrupted veil
Trembling about her so she shook. Phœbus, lest Troy should fail
Before her fate, flew to her walls; the other Deities flew
Up to Olympus, some enrag’d, some glad. Achilles slew
Both men and horse of Ilion. And as a city fir’d
Casts up a heat that purples heav’n, clamours and shrieks expir’d
In ev’ry corner, toil to all, to many misery,
Which fire th’ incenséd Gods let fall; Achilles so let fly
Rage on the Trojans, toils and shrieks as much by him impos’d.
Old Priam in his sacred tow’r stood, and the flight disclos’d
Of his forc’d people, all in rout, and not a stroke return’d
By fled resistance. His eyes saw in what a fury burn’d
The son of Peleüs, and down went weeping from the tow’r
To all the port-guards, and their chiefs told of his flying pow’r.
Commanding th’ op’ning of the ports, but not to let their hands
Stir from them, for Æacides would pour in with his bands.
“Destruction comes, O shut them strait, when we are in,” he pray’d,
“For not our walls I fear will check this violent man.” This said,
Off lifted they the bars, the ports hal’d open, and they gave
Safety her entry with the host; which yet they could not save,
Had not Apollo sallied out, and strook destructión,
Brought by Achilles in their necks, back; when they right upon
The ports bore all, dry, dusty, spent; and on their shoulders rode
Rabid Achilles with his lance, still glory being the goad
That prick’d his fury. Then the Greeks high-ported Ilion
Had seiz’d, had not Apollo stirr’d Antenor’s famous son,
Divine Agenor, and cast in an undertaking spirit
To his bold bosom, and himself stood by to strengthen it,
And keep the heavy hand of death from breaking in. The God
Stood by him, leaning on a beech, and cover’d his abode.
With night-like darkness; yet for all the spirit he inspir’d,
When that great city-razer’s force his thoughts strook, he retir’d,
Stood, and went on; a world of doubts still falling in his way;
When, angry with himself, he said: “Why suffer I this stay
In this so strong need to go on? If, like the rest, I fly,
’Tis his best weapon to give chace, being swift, and I should die
Like to a coward. If I stand, I fall too. These two ways
Please not my purpose; I would live. What if I suffer these
Still to be routed, and, my feet affording further length,
Pass all these fields of Ilion, till Ida’s sylvan strength
And steep heights shroud me, and at even refresh me in the flood,
And turn to Ilion? O my soul? why drown’st thou in the blood
Of these discourses? If this course, that talks of further flight,
I give my feet, his feet more swift have more odds. Get he sight
Of that pass, I pass least; for pace, and length of pace, his thighs
Will stand out all men. Meet him then; my steel hath faculties
Of pow’r to pierce him; his great breast but one soul holds, and that
Death claims his right in, all men say; but he holds special state
In Jove’s high bounty; that’s past man, that ev’ry way will hold,
And that serves all men ev’ry way.” This last heart made him bold
To stand Achilles, and stirr’d up a mighty mind to blows.
And as a panther, having heard the hounds’ trail, doth disclose
Her freckled forehead, and stares forth from out some deep-grown wood
To try what strength dares her abroad; and when her fi’ry blood
The hounds have kindled, no quench serves of love to live or fear,
Though strook, though wounded, though quite through she feels the
mortal spear,
But till the man’s close strength she tries, or strows earth with his
dart,
She puts her strength out; so it far’d with brave Agenor’s heart,
And till Achilles he had prov’d, no thoughts, no deeds, once stirr’d
His fixéd foot. To his broad breast his round shield he preferr’d,
And up his arm went with his aim, his voice out with this cry:
“Thy hope is too great, Peleus’ son, this day to show thine eye
Troy’s Ilion at thy foot. O fool! the Greeks with much more woes,
More than are suffer’d yet, must buy great Ilion’s overthrows.
We are within her many strong, that for our parents’ sakes,
Our wives and children, will save Troy; and thou, though he that makes
Thy name so terrible, shalt make a sacrifice to her
With thine own ruins.” Thus he threw, nor did his jav’lin err,
But strook his foe’s leg near his knee; the fervent steel did ring
Against his tin greaves, and leapt back; the fire’s strong-handed king
Gave virtue of repulse. And then Æacides assail’d
Divine Agenor; but in vain, Apollo’s pow’r prevail’d,
And rapt Agenor from his reach; whom quietly he plac’d
Without the skirmish, casting mists to save from being chac’d
His tender’d person; and (he gone) to give his soldiers ’scape,
The Deity turn’d Achilles still, by putting on the shape
Of him he thirsted; evermore he fed his eye, and fled,
And he with all his knees pursu’d. So cunningly he led,
That still he would be near his reach, to draw his rage, with hope,
Far from the conflict; to the flood maintaining still the scope
Of his attraction. In mean time, the other frighted pow’rs
Came to the city, comforted; when Troy and all her tow’rs
Strooted with fillers; none would stand to see who stay’d without,
Who scap’d, and who came short. The ports cleft to receive the rout
That pour’d itself in. Ev’ry man was for himself. Most fleet
Most fortunate. Whoever scap’d, his head might thank his feet.