Book III
How by the shaft of a God laid low was Hero Achilles.
When shone the light of Dawn the splendour-throned,Then to the ships the Pylian spearmen boreAntilochus’ corpse, sore sighing for their prince,And by the Hellespont they buried himWith aching hearts. Around him groaning stoodThe battle-eager sons of Argives, all,Of love for Nestor, shrouded o’er with grief.But that grey hero’s heart was nowise crushedBy sorrow; for the wise man’s soul enduresBravely, and cowers not under affliction’s stroke.But Peleus’ son, wroth for AntilochusHis dear friend, armed for vengeance terribleUpon the Trojans. Yea, and these withal,Despite their dread of mighty Achilles’ spear,Poured battle-eager forth their gates, for nowThe Fates with courage filled their breasts, of whomMany were doomed to Hades to descend,Whence there is no return, thrust down by handsOf Aeacus’ son, who also was foredoomedTo perish that same day by Priam’s wall.Swift met the fronts of conflict: all the tribesOf Troy’s host, and the battle-biding Greeks,Afire with that new-kindled fury of war.
Then through the foe the son of Peleus madeWide havoc: all around the earth was drenchedWith gore, and choked with corpses were the streamsOf Simois and Xanthus. Still he chased,Still slaughtered, even to the city’s walls;For panic fell on all the host. And nowAll had he slain, had dashed the gates to earth,Rending them from their hinges, or the bolts,Hurling himself against them, had he snapped,And for the Danaans into Priam’s burgHad made a way, had utterly destroyedThat goodly town—but now was Phoebus wrothAgainst him with grim fury, when he sawThose countless troops of heroes slain of him.Down from Olympus with a lion-leapHe came: his quiver on his shoulders lay,And shafts that deal the wounds incurable.Facing Achilles stood he; round him clashedQuiver and arrows; blazed with quenchless flameHis eyes, and shook the earth beneath his feet.Then with a terrible shout the great God cried,So to turn back from war Achilles awedBy the voice divine, and save from death the Trojans:“Back from the Trojans, Peleus’ son! Beseems notThat longer thou deal death unto thy foes,Lest an Olympian God abase thy pride.”
But nothing quailed the hero at the voiceImmortal, for that round him even nowHovered the unrelenting Fates. He reckedNaught of the God, and shouted his defiance.“Phoebus, why dost thou in mine own despiteStir me to fight with Gods, and wouldst protectThe arrogant Trojans? Heretofore hast thouBy thy beguiling turned me from the fray,When from destruction thou at the first didst saveHector, whereat the Trojans all through TroyExulted. Nay, thou get thee back: returnUnto the mansion of the Blessed, lestI smite thee—ay, immortal though thou be!”
Then on the God he turned his back, and spedAfter the Trojans fleeing cityward,And harried still their flight; but wroth at heartThus Phoebus spake to his indignant soul:“Out on this man! he is sense-bereft! But nowNot Zeus himself nor any other PowerShall save this madman who defies the Gods!”
From mortal sight he vanished into cloud,And cloaked with mist a baleful shaft he shotWhich leapt to Achilles’ ankle: sudden pangsWith mortal sickness made his whole heart faint.He reeled, and like a tower he fell, that fallsSmit by a whirlwind when an earthquake cleavesA chasm for rushing blasts from underground;So fell the goodly form of Aeacus’ son.He glared, a murderous glance, to right, to left,[Upon the Trojans, and a terrible threat]Shouted, a threat that could not be fulfilled:“Who shot at me a stealthy-smiting shaft?Let him but dare to meet me face to face!So shall his blood and all his bowels gush outAbout my spear, and he be hellward sped!I know that none can meet me man to manAnd quell in fight—of earth-born heroes none,Though such an one should bear within his breastA heart unquailing, and have thews of brass.But dastards still in stealthy ambush lurkFor lives of heroes. Let him face me then!—Ay! though he be a God whose anger burnsAgainst the Danaans! Yea, mine heart forebodesThat this my smiter was Apollo, cloakedIn deadly darkness. So in days gone byMy mother told me how that by his shaftsI was to die before the Scaean GatesA piteous death. Her words were not vain words.”
Then with unflinching hands from out the woundIncurable he drew the deadly shaftIn agonized pain. Forth gushed the blood; his heartWaxed faint beneath the shadow of coming doom.Then in indignant wrath he hurled from himThe arrow: a sudden gust of wind swept by,And caught it up, and, even as he trodZeus’ threshold, to Apollo gave it back;For it beseemed not that a shaft divine,Sped forth by an Immortal, should be lost.He unto high Olympus swiftly came,To the great gathering of immortal Gods,Where all assembled watched the war of men,These longing for the Trojans’ triumph, thoseFor Danaan victory; so with diverse willsWatched they the strife, the slayers and the slain.
Him did the Bride of Zeus behold, and straightUpbraided with exceeding bitter words:“What deed of outrage, Phoebus, hast thou doneThis day, forgetful of that day whereonTo godlike Peleus’ spousals gathered allThe Immortals? Yea, amidst the feasters thouSangest how Thetis silver-footed leftThe sea’s abysses to be Peleus’ bride;And as thou harpedst all earth’s children cameTo hearken, beasts and birds, high craggy hills,Rivers, and all deep-shadowed forests came.All this hast thou forgotten, and hast wroughtA ruthless deed, hast slain a godlike man,Albeit thou with other Gods didst pourThe nectar, praying that he might be the sonBy Thetis given to Peleus. But that prayerHast thou forgotten, favouring the folkOf tyrannous Laomedon, whose kineThou keptest. He, a mortal, did despiteTo thee, the deathless! O, thou art wit-bereft!Thou favourest Troy, thy sufferings all forgot.Thou wretch, and doth thy false heart know not this,What man is an offence, and meritethSuffering, and who is honoured of the Gods?Ever Achilles showed us reverence—yea,Was of our race. Ha, but the punishmentOf Troy, I ween, shall not be lighter, thoughAeacus’ son have fallen; for his sonRight soon shall come from Scyros to the warTo help the Argive men, no less in mightThan was his sire, a bane to many a foe.But thou—thou for the Trojans dost not care,But for his valour enviedst Peleus’ son,Seeing he was the mightest of all men.Thou fool! how wilt thou meet the Nereid’s eyes,When she shall stand in Zeus’ hall midst the Gods,Who praised thee once, and loved as her own son?”
So Hera spake, in bitterness of soulUpbraiding, but he answered her not a word,Of reverence for his mighty Father’s bride;Nor could he lift his eyes to meet her eyes,But sat abashed, aloof from all the GodsEternal, while in unforgiving wrathScowled on him all the Immortals who maintainedThe Danaans’ cause; but such as fain would bringTriumph to Troy, these with exultant heartsExtolled him, hiding it from Hera’s eyes,Before whose wrath all Heaven-abiders shrank.
But Peleus’ son the while forgat not yetWar’s fury: still in his invincible limbsThe hot blood throbbed, and still he longed for fight.Was none of all the Trojans dared draw nighThe stricken hero, but at distance stood,As round a wounded lion hunters standMid forest-brakes afraid, and, though the shaftStands in his heart, yet faileth not in himHis royal courage, but with terrible glareRoll his fierce eyes, and roar his grimly jaws;So wrath and anguish of his deadly hurtTo fury stung Peleides’ soul; but ayeHis strength ebbed through the god-envenomed wound.Yet leapt he up, and rushed upon the foe,And flashed the lightning of his lance; it slewThe goodly Orythaon, comrade stoutOf Hector, through his temples crashing clear:His helm stayed not the long lance fury-spedWhich leapt therethrough, and won within the bonesThe heart of the brain, and spilt his lusty life.Then stabbed he ’neath the brow HipponousEven to the eye-roots, that the eyeball fellTo earth: his soul to Hades flitted forth.Then through the jaw he pierced Alcathous,And shore away his tongue: in dust he fellGasping his life out, and the spear-head shotOut through his ear. These, as they rushed on him,That hero slew; but many a fleer’s lifeHe spilt, for in his heart still leapt the blood.
But when his limbs grew chill, and ebbed awayHis spirit, leaning on his spear he stood,While still the Trojans fled in huddled routOf panic, and he shouted unto them:“Trojan and Dardan cravens, ye shall notEven in my death, escape my merciless spear,But unto mine Avenging Spirits yeShall pay—ay, one and all—destruction’s debt!”
He spake; they heard and quailed: as mid the hillsFawns tremble at a lion’s deep-mouthed roar,And terror-stricken flee the monster, soThe ranks of Trojan chariot-lords, the linesOf battle-helpers drawn from alien lands,Quailed at the last shout of Achilles, deemedThat he was woundless yet. But ’neath the weightOf doom his aweless heart, his mighty limbs,At last were overborne. Down midst the deadHe fell, as fails a beetling mountain-cliff.Earth rang beneath him: clanged with a thundercrashHis arms, as Peleus’ son the princely fell.And still his foes with most exceeding dreadStared at him, even as, when some murderous beastLies slain by shepherds, tremble still the sheepEyeing him, as beside the fold he lies,And shrinking, as they pass him, far aloofAnd, even as he were living, fear him dead;So feared they him, Achilles now no more.
Yet Paris strove to kindle those faint hearts;For his own heart exulted, and he hoped,Now Peleus’ son, the Danaans’ strength, had fallen,Wholly to quench the Argive battle-fire:“Friends, if ye help me truly and loyally,Let us this day die, slain by Argive men,Or live, and hale to Troy with Hector’s steedsIn triumph Peleus’ son thus fallen dead,The steeds that, grieving, yearning for their lordTo fight have borne me since my brother died.Might we with these but hale Achilles slain,Glory were this for Hector’s horses, yea,For Hector—if in Hades men have senseOf righteous retribution. This man ayeDevised but mischief for the sons of Troy;And now Troy’s daughters with exultant heartsFrom all the city streets shall gather round,As pantheresses wroth for stolen cubs,Or lionesses, might stand around a manWhose craft in hunting vexed them while he lived.So round Achilles—a dead corpse at last!—In hurrying throngs Troy’s daughters then shall comeIn unforgiving, unforgetting hate,For parents wroth, for husbands slain, for sons,For noble kinsmen. Most of all shall joyMy father, and the ancient men, whose feetUnwillingly are chained within the wallsBy eld, if we shall hale him through our gates,And give our foe to fowls of the air for meat.”
Then they, which feared him theretofore, in hasteClosed round the corpse of strong-heart Aeacus’ son,Glaucus, Aeneas, battle-fain Agenor,And other cunning men in deadly fight,Eager to hale him thence to IliumThe god-built burg. But Aias failed him not.Swiftly that godlike man bestrode the dead:Back from the corpse his long lance thrust them all.Yet ceased they not from onslaught; thronging round,Still with swift rushes fought they for the prize,One following other, like to long-lipped beesWhich hover round their hive in swarms on swarmsTo drive a man thence; but he, recking naughtOf all their fury, carveth out the combsOf nectarous honey: harassed sore are theyBy smoke-reek and the robber; spite of allEver they dart against him; naught cares he;So naught of all their onsets Aias recked;But first he stabbed Agelaus in the breast,And slew that son of Maion: Thestor next:Ocythous he smote, Agestratus,Aganippus, Zorus, Nessus, ErymasThe war-renowned, who came from Lycia-landWith mighty-hearted Glaucus, from his homeIn Melanippion on the mountain-ridge,Athena’s fane, which Massikyton frontsAnigh Chelidonia’s headland, dreaded soreOf scared seafarers, when its lowering cragsMust needs be doubled. For his death the bloodOf famed Hippolochus’ son was horror-chilled;For this was his dear friend. With one swift thrustHe pierced the sevenfold hides of Aias’ shield,Yet touched his flesh not; stayed the spear-head wasBy those thick hides and by the corset-plateWhich lapped his battle-tireless limbs. But stillFrom that stern conflict Glaucus drew not back,Burning to vanquish Aias, Aeacus’ son,And in his folly vaunting threatened him:“Aias, men name thee mightiest man of allThe Argives, hold thee in passing-high esteemEven as Achilles: therefore thou, I wot,By that dead warrior dead this day shalt lie!”
So hurled he forth a vain word, knowing notHow far in might above him was the manWhom his spear threatened. Battle-bider AiasDarkly and scornfully glaring on him, said“Thou craven wretch, and knowest thou not this,How much was Hector mightier than thouIn war-craft? yet before my might, my spear,He shrank. Ay, with his valour was there blentDiscretion. Thou thy thoughts are deathward set,Who dar’st defy me to the battle, me,A mightier far than thou! Thou canst not sayThat friendship of our fathers thee shall screen;Nor me thy gifts shall wile to let thee passScatheless from war, as once did Tydeus’ son.Though thou didst ’scape his fury, will not ISuffer thee to return alive from war.Ha, in thy many helpers dost thou trustWho with thee, like so many worthless flies,Flit round the noble Achilles’ corpse? To theseDeath and black doom shall my swift onset deal.”
Then on the Trojans this way and that he turned,As mid long forest-glens a lion turnsOn hounds, and Trojans many and Lycians slewThat came for honour hungry, till he stoodMid a wide ring of flinchers; like a shoalOf darting fish when sails into their midstDolphin or shark, a huge sea-fosterling;So shrank they from the might of Telamon’s son,As aye he charged amidst the rout. But stillSwarmed fighters up, till round Achilles’ corseTo right, to left, lay in the dust the slainCountless, as boars around a lion at bay;And evermore the strife waxed deadlier.Then too Hippolochus’ war-wise son was slainBy Aias of the heart of fire. He fellBackward upon Achilles, even as fallsA sapling on a sturdy mountain-oak;So quelled by the spear on Peleus’ son he fell.But for his rescue Anchises’ stalwart sonStrove hard, with all his comrades battle-fain,And haled the corse forth, and to sorrowing friendsGave it, to bear to Ilium’s hallowed burg.Himself to spoil Achilles still fought on,Till warrior Aias pierced him with the spearThrough the right forearm. Swiftly leapt he backFrom murderous war, and hasted thence to Troy.There for his healing cunning leeches wrought,Who stanched the blood-rush, and laid on the gashBalms, such as salve war-stricken warriors’ pangs.
But Aias still fought on: here, there he slewWith thrusts like lightning-flashes. His great heartAched sorely for his mighty cousin slain.And now the warrior-king Laertes’ sonFought at his side: before him blenched the foe,As he smote down Peisander’s fleetfoot son,The warrior Maenalus, who left his homeIn far-renowned Abydos: down on himHe hurled Atymnius, the goodly sonWhom Pegasis the bright-haired Nymph had borneTo strong Emathion by Granicus’ stream.Dead by his side he laid Orestius’ son,Proteus, who dwelt ’neath lofty Ida’s folds.Ah, never did his mother welcome homeThat son from war, Panaceia beauty-famed!He fell by Odysseus’ hands, who spilt the livesOf many more whom his death-hungering spearReached in that fight around the mighty dead.Yet Alcon, son of Megacles battle-swift,Hard by Odysseus’ right knee drave the spearHome, and about the glittering greave the bloodDark-crimson welled. He recked not of the wound,But was unto his smiter sudden death;For clear through his shield he stabbed him with his spearAmidst his battle-fury: to the earthBackward he dashed him by his giant mightAnd strength of hand: clashed round him in the dustHis armour, and his corslet was distainedWith crimson life-blood. Forth from flesh and shieldThe hero plucked the spear of death: the soulFollowed the lance-head from the body forth,And life forsook its mortal mansion. ThenRushed on his comrades, in his wound’s despite,Odysseus, nor from that stern battle-toilRefrained him. And by this a mingled hostOf Danaans eager-hearted fought aroundThe mighty dead, and many and many a foeSlew they with those smooth-shafted ashen spears.Even as the winds strew down upon the groundThe flying leaves, when through the forest-gladesSweep the wild gusts, as waneth autumn-tide,And the old year is dying; so the spearsOf dauntless Danaans strewed the earth with slain,For loyal to dead Achilles were they all,And loyal to hero Aias to the death.For like black Doom he blasted the ranks of Troy.Then against Aias Paris strained his bow;But he was ware thereof, and sped a stoneSwift to the archer’s head: that bolt of deathCrashed through his crested helm, and darkness closedRound him. In dust down fell he: naught availedHis shafts their eager lord, this way and thatScattered in dust: empty his quiver lay,Flew from his hand the bow. In haste his friendsUpcaught him from the earth, and Hector’s steedsHurried him thence to Troy, scarce drawing breath,And moaning in his pain. Nor left his menThe weapons of their lord, but gathered upAll from the plain, and bare them to the prince;While Aias after him sent a wrathful shout:“Dog, thou hast ‘scaped the heavy hand of deathTo-day! But swiftly thy last hour shall comeBy some strong Argive’s hands, or by mine own,But now have I a nobler task in hand,From murder’s grip to rescue Achilles’ corse.”Then turned he on the foe, hurling swift doomOn such as fought around Peleides yet.‘These saw how many yielded up the ghostNeath his strong hands, and, with hearts failing themFor fear, against him could they stand no more.As rascal vultures were they, which the swoopOf an eagle, king of birds, scares far awayFrom carcasses of sheep that wolves have torn;So this way, that way scattered they beforeThe hurtling stones, the sword, the might of Aias.In utter panic from the war they fled,In huddled rout, like starlings from the swoopOf a death-dealing hawk, when, fleeing bane,One drives against another, as they dartAll terror-huddled in tumultuous flight.So from the war to Priam’s burg they fledWretchedly clad with terror as a cloak,Quailing from mighty Aias’ battle-shout,As with hands dripping blood-gouts he pursued.Yea, all, one after other, had he slain,Had they not streamed through city-gates flung wideHard-panting, pierced to the very heart with fear.Pent therewithin he left them, as a shepherdLeaves folded sheep, and strode back o’er the plain;Yet never touched he with his feet the ground,But aye he trod on dead men, arms, and blood;For countless corpses lay o’er that wide stretchEven from broad-wayed Troy to Hellespont,Bodies of strong men slain, the spoil of Doom.As when the dense stalks of sun-ripened cornFall ’neath the reapers’ hands, and the long swaths,Heavy with full ears, overspread the field,And joys the heart of him who overseesThe toil, lord of the harvest; even so,By baleful havoc overmastered, layAll round face-downward men remembering notThe death-denouncing war-shout. But the sonsOf fair Achaea left their slaughtered foesIn dust and blood unstripped of arms awhileTill they should lay upon the pyre the sonOf Peleus, who in battle-shock had beenTheir banner of victory, charging in his might.So the kings drew him from that stricken fieldStraining beneath the weight of giant limbs,And with all loving care they bore him on,And laid him in his tent before the ships.And round him gathered that great host, and wailedHeart-anguished him who had been the Achaeans’ strength,And now, forgotten all the splendour of spears,Lay mid the tents by moaning Hellespont,In stature more than human, even as layTityos, who sought to force Queen Leto, whenShe fared to Pytho: swiftly in his wrathApollo shot, and laid him low, who seemedInvincible: in a foul lake of goreThere lay he, covering many a rood of ground,On the broad earth, his mother; and she moanedOver her son, of blessed Gods abhorred;But Lady Leto laughed. So grand of mouldThere in the foemen’s land lay Aeacus’ son,For joy to Trojans, but for endless griefTo Achaean men lamenting. Moaned the airWith sighing from the abysses of the sea;And passing heavy grew the hearts of all,Thinking: “Now shall we perish by the handsOf Trojans!” Then by those dark ships they thoughtOf white-haired fathers left in halls afar,Of wives new-wedded, who by couches coldMourned, waiting, waiting, with their tender babesFor husbands unreturning; and they groanedIn bitterness of soul. A passion of griefCame o’er their hearts; they fell upon their facesOn the deep sand flung down, and wept as menAll comfortless round Peleus’ mighty son,And clutched and plucked out by the roots their hair,And east upon their heads defiling sand.Their cry was like the cry that goeth upFrom folk that after battle by their wallsAre slaughtered, when their maddened foes set fireTo a great city, and slay in heaps on heapsHer people, and make spoil of all her wealth;So wild and high they wailed beside the sea,Because the Danaans’ champion, Aeacus’ son,Lay, grand in death, by a God’s arrow slain,As Ares lay, when She of the Mighty FatherWith that huge stone down dashed him on Troy’s plain.
Ceaselessly wailed the Myrmidons Achilles,A ring of mourners round the kingly dead,That kind heart, friend alike to each and all,To no man arrogant nor hard of mood,But ever tempering strength with courtesy.
Then Aias first, deep-groaning, uttered forthHis yearning o’er his father’s brother’s sonGod-stricken—ay, no man had smitten himOf all upon the wide-wayed earth that dwell!Him glorious Aias heavy-hearted mourned,Now wandering to the tent of Peleus’ son,Now cast down all his length, a giant form,On the sea-sands; and thus lamented he:“Achilles, shield and sword of Argive men,Thou hast died in Troy, from Phthia’s plains afar,Smitten unwares by that accursed shaft,Such thing as weakling dastards aim in fight!For none who trusts in wielding the great shield,None who for war can skill to set the helmUpon his brows, and sway the spear in grip,And cleave the brass about the breasts of foes,Warreth with arrows, shrinking from the fray.Not man to man he met thee, whoso smote;Else woundless never had he ‘scaped thy lance!But haply Zeus purposed to ruin all,And maketh all our toil and travail vain—Ay, now will grant the Trojans victoryWho from Achaea now hath reft her shield!Ah me! how shall old Peleus in his hallsTake up the burden of a mighty griefNow in his joyless age! His heart shall breakAt the mere rumour of it. Better so,Thus in a moment to forget all pain.But if these evil tidings slay him not,Ah, laden with sore sorrow eld shall comeUpon him, eating out his heart with griefBy a lone hearth Peleus so passing dearOnce to the Blessed! But the Gods vouchsafeNo perfect happiness to hapless men.”
So he in grief lamented Peleus’ son.Then ancient Phoenix made heart-stricken moan,Clasping the noble form of Aeacus’ seed,And in wild anguish wailed the wise of heart:“Thou art reft from me, dear child, and cureless painHast left to me! Oh that upon my faceThe veiling earth had fallen, ere I sawThy bitter doom! No pang more terribleHath ever stabbed mine heart no, not that hourOf exile, when I fled from fatherlandAnd noble parents, fleeing Hellas through,Till Peleus welcomed me with gifts, and lordOf his Dolopians made me. In his armsThee through his halls one day he bare, and setUpon my knees, and bade me foster thee,His babe, with all love, as mine own dear child:I hearkened to him: blithely didst thou clingAbout mine heart, and, babbling wordless speech,Didst call me `father’ oft, and didst bedewMy breast and tunic with thy baby lips.Ofttimes with soul that laughed for glee I heldThee in mine arms; for mine heart whispered me`This fosterling through life shall care for thee,Staff of thine age shall be.’ And that mine hopeWas for a little while fulfilled; but nowThou hast vanished into darkness, and to meIs left long heart-ache wild with all regret.Ah, might my sorrow slay me, ere the taleTo noble Peleus come! When on his earsFalleth the heavy tidings, he shall weepAnd wail without surcease. Most piteous griefWe twain for thy sake shall inherit aye,Thy sire and I, who, ere our day of doom,Mourning shall go down to the grave for thee—Ay, better this than life unholpen of thee!”
So moaned his ever-swelling tide of grief.And Atreus’ son beside him mourned and weptWith heart on fire with inly smouldering pain:“Thou hast perished, chiefest of the Danaan men,Hast perished, and hast left the Achaean hostFenceless! Now thou art fallen, are they leftAn easier prey to foes. Thou hast given joyTo Trojans by thy fall, who dreaded theeAs sheep a lion. These with eager heartsEven to the ships will bring the battle now.Zeus, Father, thou too with deceitful wordsBeguilest mortals! Thou didst promise meThat Priam’s burg should be destroyed; but nowThat promise given dost thou not fulfil,But thou didst cheat mine heart: I shall not winThe war’s goal, now Achilles is no more.”
So did he cry heart-anguished. Mourned all roundWails multitudinous for Peleus’ son:The dark ships echoed back the voice of grief,And sighed and sobbed the immeasurable air.And as when long sea-rollers, onward drivenBy a great wind, heave up far out at sea,And strandward sweep with terrible rush, and ayeHeadland and beach with shattered spray are scourged,And roar unceasing; so a dread sound roseOf moaning of the Danaans round the corse,Ceaselessly wailing Peleus’ aweless son.
And on their mourning soon black night had come,But spake unto Atreides Neleus’ son,Nestor, whose own heart bare its load of griefRemembering his own son Antilochus:“O mighty Agamemnon, sceptre-lordOf Argives, from wide-shrilling lamentationRefrain we for this day. None shall withholdHereafter these from all their heart’s desireOf weeping and lamenting many days.But now go to, from aweless Aeacus’ sonWash we the foul blood-gouts, and lay we himUpon a couch: unseemly it is to shameThe dead by leaving them untended long.”
So counselled Neleus’ son, the passing-wise.Then hasted he his men, and bade them setCaldrons of cold spring-water o’er the flames,And wash the corse, and clothe in vesture fair,Sea-purple, which his mother gave her sonAt his first sailing against Troy. With speedThey did their lord’s command: with loving care,All service meetly rendered, on a couchLaid they the mighty fallen, Peleus’ son.
The Trito-born, the passing-wise, beheldAnd pitied him, and showered upon his headAmbrosia, which hath virtue aye to keepTaintless, men say, the flesh of warriors slain.Like softly-breathing sleeper dewy-freshShe made him: over that dead face she drewA stern frown, even as when he lay, with wrathDarkening his grim face, clasping his slain friendPatroclus; and she made his frame to beMore massive, like a war-god to behold.And wonder seized the Argives, as they throngedAnd saw the image of a living man,Where all the stately length of Peleus’ sonLay on the couch, and seemed as though he slept.
Around him all the woeful captive-maids,Whom he had taken for a prey, what timeHe had ravaged hallowed Lemnos, and had scaledThe towered crags of Thebes, Eetion’s town,Wailed, as they stood and rent their fair young flesh,And smote their breasts, and from their hearts bemoanedThat lord of gentleness and courtesy,Who honoured even the daughters of his foes.And stricken most of all with heart-sick painBriseis, hero Achilles’ couchmate, bowedOver the dead, and tore her fair young fleshWith ruthless fingers, shrieking: her soft breastWas ridged with gory weals, so cruellyShe smote it thou hadst said that crimson bloodHad dripped on milk. Yet, in her griefs despite,Her winsome loveliness shone out, and graceHung like a veil about her, as she wailed:“Woe for this grief passing all griefs beside!Never on me came anguish like to thisNot when my brethren died, my fatherlandWas wasted—like this anguish for thy death!Thou wast my day, my sunlight, my sweet life,Mine hope of good, my strong defence from harm,Dearer than all my beauty—yea, more dearThan my lost parents! Thou wast all in allTo me, thou only, captive though I be.Thou tookest from me every bondmaid’s taskAnd like a wife didst hold me. Ah, but nowMe shall some new Achaean master bearTo fertile Sparta, or to thirsty Argos.The bitter cup of thraldom shall I drain,Severed, ah me, from thee! Oh that the earthHad veiled my dead face ere I saw thy doom!”
So for slain Peleus’ son did she lamentWith woeful handmaids and heart-anguished Greeks,Mourning a king, a husband. Never driedHer tears were: ever to the earth they streamedLike sunless water trickling from a rockWhile rime and snow yet mantle o’er the earthAbove it; yet the frost melts down beforeThe east-wind and the flame-shafts of the sun.
Now came the sound of that upringing wailTo Nereus’ Daughters, dwellers in the depthsUnfathomed. With sore anguish all their heartsWere smitten: piteously they moaned: their cryShivered along the waves of Hellespont.Then with dark mantles overpalled they spedSwiftly to where the Argive men were thronged.As rushed their troop up silver paths of sea,The flood disported round them as they came.With one wild cry they floated up; it rang,A sound as when fleet-flying cranes forebodeA great storm. Moaned the monsters of the deepPlaintively round that train of mourners. FastOn sped they to their goal, with awesome cryWailing the while their sister’s mighty son.Swiftly from Helicon the Muses cameHeart-burdened with undying grief, for loveAnd honour to the Nereid starry-eyed.
Then Zeus with courage filled the Argive men,That-eyes of flesh might undismayed beholdThat glorious gathering of Goddesses.Then those Divine Ones round Achilles’ corsePealed forth with one voice from immortal lipsA lamentation. Rang again the shoresOf Hellespont. As rain upon the earthTheir tears fell round the dead man, Aeacus’ son;For out of depths of sorrow rose their moan.And all the armour, yea, the tents, the shipsOf that great sorrowing multitude were wetWith tears from ever-welling springs of grief.His mother cast her on him, clasping him,And kissed her son’s lips, crying through her tears:“Now let the rosy-vestured Dawn in heavenExult! Now let broad-flowing AxiusExult, and for Asteropaeus deadPut by his wrath! Let Priam’s seed be gladBut I unto Olympus will ascend,And at the feet of everlasting ZeusWill cast me, bitterly planning that he gaveMe, an unwilling bride, unto a man—A man whom joyless eld soon overtook,To whom the Fates are near, with death for gift.Yet not so much for his lot do I grieveAs for Achilles; for Zeus promised meTo make him glorious in the Aeacid halls,In recompense for the bridal I so loathedThat into wild wind now I changed me, nowTo water, now in fashion as a birdI was, now as the blast of flame; nor mightA mortal win me for his bride, who seemedAll shapes in turn that earth and heaven contain,Until the Olympian pledged him to bestowA godlike son on me, a lord of war.Yea, in a manner this did he fulfilFaithfully; for my son was mightiestOf men. But Zeus made brief his span of lifeUnto my sorrow. Therefore up to heavenWill I: to Zeus’s mansion will I goAnd wail my son, and will put Zeus in mindOf all my travail for him and his sonsIn their sore stress, and sting his soul with shame.”
So in her wild lament the Sea-queen cried.But now to Thetis spake Calliope,She in whose heart was steadfast wisdom throned:“From lamentation, Thetis, now forbear,And do not, in the frenzy of thy griefFor thy lost son, provoke to wrath the LordOf Gods and men. Lo, even sons of Zeus,The Thunder-king, have perished, overborneBy evil fate. Immortal though I be,Mine own son Orpheus died, whose magic songDrew all the forest-trees to follow him,And every craggy rock and river-stream,And blasts of winds shrill-piping stormy-breathed,And birds that dart through air on rushing wings.Yet I endured mine heavy sorrow: GodsOught not with anguished grief to vex their souls.Therefore make end of sorrow-stricken wailFor thy brave child; for to the sons of earthMinstrels shall chant his glory and his might,By mine and by my sisters’ inspiration,Unto the end of time. Let not thy soulBe crushed by dark grief, nor do thou lamentLike those frail mortal women. Know’st thou notThat round all men which dwell upon the earthHovereth irresistible deadly Fate,Who recks not even of the Gods? Such powerShe only hath for heritage. Yea, sheSoon shall destroy gold-wealthy Priam’s town,And Trojans many and Argives doom to death,Whomso she will. No God can stay her hand.”
So in her wisdom spake Calliope.Then plunged the sun down into Ocean’s stream,And sable-vestured Night came floating upO’er the wide firmament, and brought her boonOf sleep to sorrowing mortals. On the sandsThere slept they, all the Achaean host, with headsBowed ’neath the burden of calamity.But upon Thetis sleep laid not his hand:Still with the deathless Nereids by the seaShe sate; on either side the Muses spakeOne after other comfortable wordsTo make that sorrowing heart forget its pain.
But when with a triumphant laugh the DawnSoared up the sky, and her most radiant lightShed over all the Trojans and their king,Then, sorrowing sorely for Achilles still,The Danaans woke to weep. Day after day,For many days they wept. Around them moanedFar-stretching beaches of the sea, and mournedGreat Nereus for his daughter Thetis’ sake;And mourned with him the other Sea-gods allFor dead Achilles. Then the Argives gaveThe corpse of great Peleides to the flame.A pyre of countless tree-trunks built they upWhich, all with one mind toiling, from the heightsOf Ida they brought down; for Atreus’ sonsSped on the work, and charged them to bring thenceWood without measure, that consumed with speedMight be Achilles’ body. All aroundPiled they about the pyre much battle-gearOf strong men slain; and slew and cast thereonFull many goodly sons of Trojan men,And snorting steeds, and mighty bulls withal,And sheep and fatling swine thereon they cast.And wailing captive maids from coffers broughtMantles untold; all cast they on the pyre:Gold heaped they there and amber. All their hairThe Myrmidons shore, and shrouded with the sameThe body of their king. Briseis laidHer own shorn tresses on the corpse, her gift,Her last, unto her lord. Great jars of oilFull many poured they out thereon, with jarsOf honey and of wine, rich blood of the grapeThat breathed an odour as of nectar, yea,Cast incense-breathing perfumes manifoldMarvellous sweet, the precious things put forthBy earth, and treasures of the sea divine.
Then, when all things were set in readinessAbout the pyre, all, footmen, charioteers,Compassed that woeful bale, clashing their arms,While, from the viewless heights Olympian, ZeusRained down ambrosia on dead Aeacus’ son.For honour to the Goddess, Nereus’ child,He sent to Aeolus Hermes, bidding himSummon the sacred might of his swift winds,For that the corpse of Aeacus’ son must nowBe burned. With speed he went, and AeolusRefused not: the tempestuous North in hasteHe summoned, and the wild blast of the West;And to Troy sped they on their whirlwind wings.Fast in mad onrush, fast across the deepThey darted; roared beneath them as they flewThe sea, the land; above crashed thunder-voicedClouds headlong hurtling through the firmament.Then by decree of Zeus down on the pyreOf slain Achilles, like a charging hostSwooped they; upleapt the Fire-god’s madding breath:Uprose a long wail from the Myrmidons.Then, though with whirlwind rushes toiled the winds,All day, all night, they needs must fan the flamesEre that death-pyre burned out. Up to the heavensVast-volumed rolled the smoke. The huge tree-trunksGroaned, writhing, bursting, in the heat, and droppedThe dark-grey ash all round. So when the windsHad tirelessly fulfilled their mighty task,Back to their cave they rode cloud-charioted.
Then, when the fire had last of all consumedThat hero-king, when all the steeds, the menSlain round the pyre had first been ravined up,With all the costly offerings laid aroundThe mighty dead by Achaia’s weeping sons,The glowing embers did the Myrmidons quenchWith wine. Then clear to be discerned were seenHis bones; for nowise like the rest were they,But like an ancient Giant’s; none besideWith these were blent; for bulls and steeds, and sonsOf Troy, with all that mingled hecatomb,Lay in a wide ring round his corse, and heAmidst them, flame-devoured, lay there alone.So his companions groaning gathered upHis bones, and in a silver casket laidMassy and deep, and banded and bestarredWith flashing gold; and Nereus’ daughters shedAmbrosia over them, and precious nardsFor honour to Achilles: fat of kineAnd amber honey poured they over all.A golden vase his mother gave, the giftIn old time of the Wine-god, glorious workOf the craft-master Fire-god, in the whichThey laid the casket that enclosed the bonesOf mighty-souled Achilles. All aroundThe Argives heaped a barrow, a giant sign,Upon a foreland’s uttermost end, besideThe Hellespont’s deep waters, wailing loudFarewells unto the Myrmidons’ hero-king.
Nor stayed the immortal steeds of Aeacus’ sonTearless beside the ships; they also mournedTheir slain king: sorely loth were they to abideLonger mid mortal men or Argive steedsBearing a burden of consuming grief;But fain were they to soar through air, afarFrom wretched men, over the Ocean’s streams,Over the Sea-queen’s caverns, unto whereDivine Podarge bare that storm-foot twainBegotten of the West-wind clarion-voicedYea, and they had accomplished their desire,But the Gods’ purpose held them back, untilFrom Scyros’ isle Achilles’ fleetfoot sonShould come. Him waited they to welcome, whenHe came unto the war-host; for the Fates,Daughters of holy Chaos, at their birthHad spun the life-threads of those deathless foals,Even to serve Poseidon first, and nextPeleus the dauntless king, Achilles thenThe invincible, and, after these, the fourth,The mighty-hearted Neoptolemus,Whom after death to the Elysian PlainThey were to bear, unto the Blessed Land,By Zeus’ decree. For which cause, though their heartsWere pierced with bitter anguish, they abodeStill by the ships, with spirits sorrowingFor their old lord, and yearning for the new.
Then from the surge of heavy-plunging seasRose the Earth-shaker. No man saw his feetPace up the strand, but suddenly he stoodBeside the Nereid Goddesses, and spakeTo Thetis, yet for Achilles bowed with grief:“Refrain from endless mourning for thy son.Not with the dead shall he abide, but dwellWith Gods, as doth the might of Herakles,And Dionysus ever fair. Not himDread doom shall prison in darkness evermore,Nor Hades keep him. To the light of ZeusSoon shall he rise; and I will give to himA holy island for my gift: it liesWithin the Euxine Sea: there evermoreA God thy son shall be. The tribes that dwellAround shall as mine own self honour himWith incense and with steam of sacrifice.Hush thy laments, vex not thine heart with grief.”
Then like a wind-breath had he passed awayOver the sea, when that consoling wordWas spoken; and a little in her breastRevived the spirit of Thetis: and the GodBrought this to pass thereafter. All the hostMoved moaning thence, and came unto the shipsThat brought them o’er from Hellas. Then returnedTo Helicon the Muses: ’neath the sea,Wailing the dear dead, Nereus’ Daughters sank,