Book IX
How from his long lone exile returned to the war Philoctetes.
When ended was night’s darkness, and the DawnRose from the world’s verge, and the wide air glowedWith splendour, then did Argos’ warrior-sonsGaze o’er the plain; and lo, all cloudless-clearStood Ilium’s towers. The marvel of yesterdaySeemed a strange dream. No thought the Trojans hadOf standing forth to fight without the wall.A great fear held them thralls, the awful thoughtThat yet alive was Peleus’ glorious son.But to the King of Heaven Antenor cried:“Zeus, Lord of Ida and the starry sky,Hearken my prayer! Oh turn back from our townThat battle-eager murderous-hearted man,Be he Achilles who hath not passed downTo Hades, or some other like to him.For now in heaven-descended Priam’s burgBy thousands are her people perishing:No respite cometh from calamity:Murder and havoc evermore increase.O Father Zeus, thou carest not though weBe slaughtered of our foes: thou helpest them,Forgetting thy son, godlike Dardanus!But, if this be the purpose of thine heartThat Argives shall destroy us wretchedly,Now do it: draw not out our agony!”
In passionate prayer he cried; and Zeus from heavenHearkened, and hasted on the end of all,Which else he had delayed. He granted himThis awful boon, that myriads of Troy’s sonsShould with their children perish: but that prayerHe granted not, to turn Achilles’ sonBack from the wide-wayed town; nay, all the moreHe enkindled him to war, for he would nowGive grace and glory to the Nereid Queen.
So purposed he, of all Gods mightiest.But now between the city and HellespontWere Greeks and Trojans burning men and steedsIn battle slain, while paused the murderous strife.For Priam sent his herald Menoetes forthTo Agamemnon and the Achaean chiefs,Asking a truce wherein to burn the dead;And they, of reverence for the slain, gave ear;For wrath pursueth not the dead. And whenThey had lain their slain on those close-thronging pyres,Then did the Argives to their tents return,And unto Priam’s gold-abounding hallsThe Trojans, for Eurypylus sorrowing sore:For even as Priam’s sons they honoured him.Therefore apart from all the other slain,Before the Gate Dardanian—where the streamsOf eddying Xanthus down from Ida flowFed by the rains of heavens—they buried him.
Aweless Achilles’ son the while went forthTo his sire’s huge tomb. Outpouring tears, he kissedThe tall memorial pillar of the dead,And groaning clasped it round, and thus he cried:“Hail, father! Though beneath the earth thou lieIn Hades’ halls, I shall forget thee not.Oh to have met thee living mid the host!Then of each other had our souls had joy,Then of her wealth had we spoiled Ilium.But now, thou hast not seen thy child, nor ISeen thee, who yearned to look on thee in life.Yet, though thou be afar amidst the dead,Thy spear, thy son, have made thy foes to quail;And Danaans with exceeding joy beholdOne like to thee in stature, fame and deeds.”
He spake, and wiped the hot tears from his face;And to his father’s ships passed swiftly thence:With him went Myrmidon warriors two and ten,And white-haired Phoenix followed on with theseWoefully sighing for the glorious dead.
Night rose o’er earth, the stars flashed out in heaven;So these brake bread, and slept till woke the Dawn.Then the Greeks donned their armour: flashed afarIts splendour up to the very firmament.Forth of their gates in one great throng they poured,Like snowflakes thick and fast, which drift adownHeavily from the clouds in winter’s cold;So streamed they forth before the wall, and roseTheir dread shout: groaned the deep earth ’neath their tramp.
The Trojans heard that shout, and saw that host,And marvelled. Crushed with fear were all their heartsForeboding doom; for like a huge cloud seemedThat throng of foes: with clashing arms they came:Volumed and vast the dust rose ’neath their feet.Then either did some God with hardihood thrillDeiphobus’ heart, and made it void of fear,Or his own spirit spurred him on to fight,To drive by thrust of spear that terrible hostOf foemen from the city of his birth.So there in Troy he cried with heartening speech:“O friends, be stout of heart to play the men!Remember all the agonies that warBrings in the end to them that yield to foes.Ye wrestle not for Alexander alone,Nor Helen, but for home, for your own lives,For wives, for little ones, for parents grey,For all the grace of life, for all ye have,For this dear land—oh may she shroud me o’erSlain in the battle, ere I see her lie’Neath foemen’s spears—my country! I know notA bitterer pang than this for hapless men!O be ye strong for battle! Forth to the fightWith me, and thrust this horror far away!Think not Achilles liveth still to warAgainst us: him the ravening fire consumed.Some other Achaean was it who so lateEnkindled them to war. Oh, shame it wereIf men who fight for fatherland should fearAchilles’ self, or any Greek beside!Let us not flinch from war-toil! have we notEndured much battle-travail heretofore?What, know ye not that to men sorely triedProsperity and joyance follow toil?So after scourging winds and ruining stormsZeus brings to men a morn of balmy air;After disease new strength comes, after warPeace: all things know Time’s changeless law of change.”
Then eager all for war they armed themselvesIn haste. All through the town rang clangour of armsAs for grim fight strong men arrayed their limbs.Here stood a wife, shuddering with dread of war,Yet piling, as she wept, her husband’s armsBefore his feet. There little children broughtTo a father his war-gear with eager haste;And now his heart was wrung to hear their sobs,And now he smiled on those small ministers,And stronger waxed his heart’s resolve to fightTo the last gasp for these, the near and dear.Yonder again, with hands that had not lostOld cunning, a grey father for the frayGirded a son, and murmured once and again:“Dear boy, yield thou to no man in the war!”And showed his son the old scars on his breast,Proud memories of fights fought long ago.
So when they all stood mailed in battle-gear,Forth of the gates they poured all eager-souledFor war. Against the chariots of the GreeksTheir chariots charged; their ranks of footmen pressedTo meet the footmen of the foe. The earthRang to the tramp of onset; pealed the cheerFrom man to man; swift closed the fronts of war.Loud clashed their arms all round; from either sideWar-cries were mingled in one awful roarSwift-winged full many a dart and arrow flewFrom host to host; loud clanged the smitten shields’Neath thrusting spears, ’neath javelin-point and sword:Men hewed with battle-axes lightening down;Crimson the armour ran with blood of men.And all this while Troy’s wives and daughters watchedFrom high walls that grim battle of the strong.All trembled as they prayed for husbands, sons,And brothers: white-haired sires amidst them sat,And gazed, while anguished fear for sons devouredTheir hearts. But Helen in her bower abodeAmidst her maids, there held by utter shame.
So without pause before the wall they fought,While Death exulted o’er them; deadly StrifeShrieked out a long wild cry from host to host.With blood of slain men dust became red mire:Here, there, fast fell the warriors mid the fray.
Then slew Deiphobus the charioteerOf Nestor, Hippasus’ son: from that high carDown fell he ‘midst the dead; fear seized his lordLest, while his hands were cumbered with the reins,He too by Priam’s strong son might be slain.Melanthius marked his plight: swiftly he sprangUpon the car; he urged the horses on,Shaking the reins, goading them with his spear,Seeing the scourge was lost. But Priam’s sonLeft these, and plunged amid a throng of foes.There upon many he brought the day of doom;For like a ruining tempest on he stormedThrough reeling ranks. His mighty hand struck downFoes numberless: the plain was heaped with dead.
As when a woodman on the long-ridged hillsPlunges amid the forest-depths, and hewsWith might and main, and fells sap-laden treesTo make him store of charcoal from the heapsOf billets overturfed and set afire:The trunks on all sides fallen strew the slopes,While o’er his work the man exulteth; soBefore Deiphobus’ swift death-dealing handsIn heaps the Achaeans each on other fell.The charging lines of Troy swept over some;Some fled to Xanthus’ stream: Deiphobus chasedInto the flood yet more, and slew and slew.As when on fish-abounding Hellespont’s strandThe fishermen hard-straining drag a netForth of the depths to land; but, while it trailsYet through the sea, one leaps amid the wavesGrasping in hand a sinuous-headed spearTo deal the sword-fish death, and here and there,Fast as he meets them, slays them, and with bloodThe waves are reddened; so were Xanthus’ streamsImpurpled by his hands, and choked with dead.
Yet not without sore loss the Trojans fought;For all this while Peleides’ fierce-heart sonOf other ranks made havoc. Thetis gazedRejoicing in her son’s son, with a joyAs great as was her grief for Achilles slain.For a great host beneath his spear were hurledDown to the dust, steeds, warriors slaughter-blent.And still he chased, and still he slew: he smoteAmides war-renowned, who on his steedBore down on him, but of his horsemanshipSmall profit won. The bright spear pierced him throughFrom navel unto spine, and all his bowelsGushed out, and deadly Doom laid hold on himEven as he fell beside his horse’s feet.Ascanius and Oenops next he slew;Under the fifth rib of the one he draveHis spear, the other stabbed he ’neath the throatWhere a wound bringeth surest doom to man.Whomso he met besides he slew—the namesWhat man could tell of all that by the handsOf Neoptolemus died? Never his limbsWaxed weary. As some brawny labourer,With strong hands toiling in a fruitful fieldThe livelong day, rains down to earth the fruitOf olives, swiftly beating with his pole,And with the downfall covers all the ground,So fast fell ’neath his hands the thronging foe.
Elsewhere did Agamemnon, Tydeus’ son,And other chieftains of the Danaans toilWith fury in the fight. Yet never quailedThe mighty men of Troy: with heart and soulThey also fought, and ever stayed from flightSuch as gave back. Yet many heeded notTheir chiefs, but fled, cowed by the Achaeans’ might.
Now at the last Achilles’ strong son markedHow fast beside Scamander’s outfall GreeksWere perishing. Those Troyward-fleeing foesWhom he had followed slaying, left he now,And bade Automedon thither drive, where hostsWere falling of the Achaeans. Straightway heHearkened, and scourged the steeds immortal onTo that wild fray: bearing their lord they flewSwiftly o’er battle-highways paved with death.
As Ares chariot-borne to murderous warFares forth, and round his onrush quakes the ground,While on the God’s breast clash celestial armsOutflashing fire, so charged Achilles’ sonAgainst Deiphobus. Clouds of dust upsoaredAbout his horses’ feet. Automedon markedThe Trojan chief, and knew him. To his lordStraightway he named that hero war-renowned:“My king, this is Deiphobus’ array—The man who from thy father fled in fear.Some God or fiend with courage fills him now.”
Naught answered Neoptolemus, save to bidDrive on the steeds yet faster, that with speedHe might avert grim death from perishing friends.But when to each other now full nigh they drew,Deiphobus, despite his battle-lust,Stayed, as a ravening fire stays when it meetsWater. He marvelled, seeing Achilles’ steedsAnd that gigantic son, huge as his sire;And his heart wavered, choosing now to flee,And now to face that hero, man to manAs when a mountain boar from his young broodChases the jackals—then a lion leapsFrom hidden ambush into view: the boarHalts in his furious onset, loth to advance,Loth to retreat, while foam his jaws aboutHis whetted tusks; so halted Priam’s sonCar-steeds and car, perplexed, while quivered his handsAbout the lance. Shouted Achilles’ son:“Ho, Priam’s son, why thus so mad to smiteThose weaker Argives, who have feared thy wrathAnd fled thine onset? So thou deem’st thyselfFar mightiest! If thine heart be brave indeed,Of my spear now make trial in the strife.”
On rushed he, as a lion against a stag,Borne by the steeds and chariot of his sire.And now full soon his lance had slain his foe,Him and his charioteer—but Phoebus pouredA dense cloud round him from the viewless heightsOf heaven, and snatched him from the deadly fray,And set him down in Troy, amid the routOf fleeing Trojans: so did Peleus’ sonStab but the empty air; and loud he cried:“Dog, thou hast ‘scaped my wrath! No might of thineSaved thee, though ne’er so fain! Some God hath castNight’s veil o’er thee, and snatched thee from thy death.”
Then Cronos’ Son dispersed that dense dark cloud:Mist-like it thinned and vanished into air:Straightway the plain and all the land were seen.Then far away about the Scaean GateHe saw the Trojans: seeming like his sire,He sped against them; they at his coming quailed.As shipmen tremble when a wild wave bearsDown on their bark, wind-heaved until it swingsBroad, mountain-high above them, when the seaIs mad with tempest; so, as on he came,Terror clad all those Trojans as a cloak,The while he shouted, cheering on his men:“Hear, friends!—fill full your hearts with dauntless strength,The strength that well beseemeth mighty menWho thirst to win them glorious victory,To win renown from battle’s tumult! Come,Brave hearts, now strive we even beyond our strengthTill we smite Troy’s proud city, till we winOur hearts’ desire! Foul shame it were to abideLong deedless here and strengthless, womanlike!Ere I be called war-blencher, let me die!”
Then unto Ares’ work their spirits flamed.Down on the Trojans charged they: yea, and theseFought with high courage, round their city now,And now from wall and gate-towers. Never lulledThe rage of war, while Trojan hearts were hotTo hurl the foemen back, and the strong GreeksTo smite the town: grim havoc compassed all.
Then, eager for the Trojans’ help, swooped downOut of Olympus, cloaked about with clouds,The son of Leto. Mighty rushing windsBare him in golden armour clad; and gleamedWith lightning-splendour of his descent the longHighways of air. His quiver clashed; loud rangThe welkin; earth re-echoed, as he setHis tireless feet by Xanthus. Pealed his shoutDreadly, with courage filling them of Troy,Scaring their foes from biding the red fray.But of all this the mighty Shaker of EarthWas ware: he breathed into the faintingGreeks Fierce valour, and the fight waxed murderousThrough those Immortals’ clashing wills. Then diedHosts numberless on either side. In wrathApollo thought to smite Achilles’ sonIn the same place where erst he smote his sire;But birds of boding screamed to left, to stayHis mood, and other signs from heaven were sent;Yet was his wrath not minded to obeyThose portents. Swiftly drew Earth-shaker nighIn mist celestial cloaked: about his feetQuaked the dark earth as came the Sea-king on.Then, to stay Phoebus’ hand, he cried to him:“Refrain thy wrath: Achilles’ giant sonSlay not! Olympus’ Lord himself shall beWroth for his death, and bitter grief shall lightOn me and all the Sea-gods, as erstwhileFor Achilles’ sake. Nay, get thee back to heightsCelestial, lest thou kindle me to wrath,And so I cleave a sudden chasm in earth,And Ilium and all her walls go downTo darkness. Thine own soul were vexed thereat.”
Then, overawed by the brother of his sire,And fearing for Troy’s fate and for her folk,To heaven went back Apollo, to the seaPoseidon. But the sons of men fought on,And slew; and Strife incarnate gloating watched.
At last by Calchas’ counsel Achaea’s sonsDrew back to the ships, and put from them the thoughtOf battle, seeing it was not foreordainedThat Ilium should fall until the mightOf war-wise Philoctetes came to aidThe Achaean host. This had the prophet learnt.From birds of prosperous omen, or had readIn hearts of victims. Wise in prophecy-loreWas he, and like a God knew things to be.
Trusting in him, the sons of Atreus stayedAwhile the war, and unto Lemnos, landOf stately mansions, sent they Tydeus’ sonAnd battle-staunch Odysseus oversea.Fast by the Fire-god’s city sped they onOver the broad flood of the Aegean SeaTo vine-clad Lemnos, where in far-off daysThe wives wreaked murderous vengeance on their lords,In fierce wrath that they gave them not their due,But couched beside the handmaid-thralls of Thrace,The captives of their spears when they laid wasteThe land of warrior Thracians. Then these wives,Their hearts with fiery jealousy’s fever filled,Murdered in every home with merciless handsTheir husbands: no compassion would they showTo their own wedded lords—such madness shakesThe heart of man or woman, when it burnsWith jealousy’s fever, stung by torturing pangs.So with souls filled with desperate hardihoodIn one night did they slaughter all their lords;And on a widowed nation rose the sun.
To hallowed Lemnos came those heroes twain;They marked the rocky cave where lay the sonOf princely Poeas. Horror came on themWhen they beheld the hero of their questGroaning with bitter pangs, on the hard earthLying, with many feathers round him strewn,And others round his body, rudely sewnInto a cloak, a screen from winter’s cold.For, oft as famine stung him, would he shootThe shaft that missed no fowl his aim had doomed.Their flesh he ate, their feathers vestured him.And there lay herbs and healing leaves, the which,Spread on his deadly wound, assuaged its pangs.Wild tangled elf-locks hung about his head.He seemed a wild beast, that hath set its foot,Prowling by night, upon a hidden trap,And so hath been constrained in agonyTo bite with fierce teeth through the prisoned limbEre it could win back to its cave, and thereIn hunger and torturing pains it languisheth.So in that wide cave suffering crushed the man;And all his frame was wasted: naught but skinCovered his bones. Unwashen there he crouchedWith famine-haggard cheeks, with sunken eyesGlaring his misery ’neath cavernous brows.Never his groaning ceased, for evermoreThe ulcerous black wound, eating to the bone,Festered with thrills of agonizing pain.As when a beetling cliff, by seething seasAye buffeted, is carved and underscooped,For all its stubborn strength, by tireless waves,Till, scourged by winds and lashed by tempest-flails,The sea into deep caves hath gnawed its base;So greater ’neath his foot grew evermoreThe festering wound, dealt when the envenomed fangsTare him of that fell water-snake, which menSay dealeth ghastly wounds incurable,When the hot sun hath parched it as it crawlsOver the sands; and so that mightiest manLay faint and wasted with his cureless pain;And from the ulcerous wound aye streamed to earthFetid corruption fouling all the floorOf that wide cave, a marvel to be heardOf men unborn. Beside his stony bedLay a long quiver full of arrows, someFor hunting, some to smite his foes withal;With deadly venom of that fell water-snakeWere these besmeared. Before it, nigh to his hand,Lay the great bow, with curving tips of horn,Wrought by the mighty hands of Hercules.
Now when that solitary spied these twainDraw nigh his cave, he sprang to his bow, he laidThe deadly arrow on the string; for nowFierce memory of his wrongs awoke againstThese, who had left him years agone, in painGroaning upon the desolate sea-shore.Yea, and his heart’s stem will he had swiftly wrought,But, even as upon that godlike twainHe gazed, Athena caused his bitter wrathTo melt away. Then drew they nigh to himWith looks of sad compassion, and sat downOn either hand beside him in the cave,And of his deadly wound and grievous pangsAsked; and he told them all his sufferings.And they spake hope and comfort; and they said:“Thy woeful wound, thine anguish, shall be healed,If thou but come with us to Achaea’s host—The host that now is sorrowing after theeWith all its kings. And no man of them allWas cause of thine affliction, but the Fates,The cruel ones, whom none that walk the earthEscape, but aye they visit hapless menUnseen; and day by day with pitiless heartsNow they afflict men, now again exaltTo honour—none knows why; for all the woesAnd all the joys of men do these deviseAfter their pleasure.” Hearkening he satTo Odysseus and to godlike Diomede;And all the hoarded wrath for olden wrongsAnd all the torturing rage, melted away.
Straight to the strand dull-thundering and the ship,Laughing for joy, they bare him with his bow.There washed they all his body and that foul woundWith sponges, and with plenteous water bathed:So was his soul refreshed. Then hasted theyAnd made meat ready for the famished man,And in the galley supped with him. Then cameThe balmy night, and sleep slid down on them.Till rose the dawn they tarried by the strandOf sea-girt Lemnos, but with dayspring castThe hawsers loose, and heaved the anchor-stonesOut of the deep. Athena sent a breezeBlowing behind the galley taper-prowed.They strained the sail with either stern-sheet taut;Seaward they pointed the stout-girdered ship;O’er the broad flood she leapt before the wind;Broken to right and left the dark wave sighed,And seething all around was hoary foam,While thronging dolphins raced on either handFlashing along the paths of silver sea.
Full soon to fish-fraught Hellespont they cameAnd the far-stretching ships. Glad were the GreeksTo see the longed-for faces. Forth the shipWith joy they stepped; and Poeas’ valiant sonOn those two heroes leaned thin wasted hands,Who bare him painfully halting to the shoreStaying his weight upon their brawny arms.As seems mid mountain-brakes an oak or pineBy strength of the woodcutter half hewn through,Which for a little stands on what was leftOf the smooth trunk by him who hewed thereatHard by the roots, that its slow-smouldering woodMight yield him pitch—now like to one in painIt groans, in weakness borne down by the wind,Yet is upstayed upon its leafy boughsWhich from the earth bear up its helpless weight;So by pain unendurable bowed downLeaned he on those brave heroes, and was borneUnto the war-host. Men beheld, and allCompassionated that great archer, crushedBy anguish of his hurt. But one drew near,Podaleirius, godlike in his power to heal.Swifter than thought he made him whole and sound;For deftly on the wound he spread his salves,Calling on his physician-father’s name;And soon the Achaeans shouted all for joy,All praising with one voice Asclepius’ son.Lovingly then they bathed him, and with oilAnointed. All his heaviness of cheerAnd misery vanished by the Immortals’ will;And glad at heart were all that looked on him;And from affliction he awoke to joy.Over the bloodless face the flush of healthGlowed, and for wretched weakness mighty strengthThrilled through him: goodly and great waxed all his limbs.As when a field of corn revives againWhich erst had drooped, by rains of ruining stormDown beaten flat, but by warm summer windsRequickened, o’er the laboured land it smiles,So Philoctetes’ erstwhile wasted frameWas all requickened:—in the galley’s holdHe seemed to have left all cares that crushed his soul.
And Atreus’ sons beheld him marvellingAs one re-risen from the dead: it seemedThe work of hands immortal. And indeedSo was it verily, as their hearts divined;For ’twas the glorious Trito-born that shedStature and grace upon him. SuddenlyHe seemed as when of old mid Argive menHe stood, before calamity struck him down.Then unto wealthy Agamemnon’s tentDid all their mightiest men bring Poeas’ son,And set him chief in honour at the feast,Extolling him. When all with meat and drinkWere filled, spake Agamemnon lord of spears:“Dear friend, since by the will of Heaven our soulsWere once perverted, that in sea-girt LemnosWe left thee, harbour not thine heart withinFierce wrath for this: by the blest Gods constrainedWe did it; and, I trow, the Immortals willedTo bring much evil on us, bereft of thee,Who art of all men skilfullest to quellWith shafts of death all foes that face thee in fight.For all the tangled paths of human life,By land and sea, are by the will of FateHid from our eyes, in many and devious tracksAre cleft apart, in wandering mazes lost.Along them men by Fortune’s dooming driftLike unto leaves that drive before the wind.Oft on an evil path the good man’s feetStumble, the brave finds not a prosperous path;And none of earth-born men can shun the Fates,And of his own will none can choose his way.So then doth it behove the wise of heartThough on a troublous track the winds of fateSweep him away to suffer and be strong.Since we were blinded then, and erred herein,With rich gifts will we make amends to theeHereafter, when we take the stately towersOf Troy: but now receive thou handmaids seven,Fleet steeds two-score, victors in chariot-race,And tripods twelve, wherein thine heart may joyThrough all thy days; and always in my tentShall royal honour at the feast be thine.”
He spake, and gave the hero those fair gifts.Then answered Poeas’ mighty-hearted son;“Friend, I forgive thee freely, and all besideWhoso against me haply hath trangressed.I know how good men’s minds sometimes be warped:Nor meet it is that one be obdurateEver, and nurse mean rancours: sternest wrathMust yield anon unto the melting mood.Now pass we to our rest; for better is sleepThan feasting late, for him who longs to fight.”
He spake, and rose, and came to his comrades’ tent;Then swiftly for their war-fain king they dightThe couch, while laughed their hearts for very joy.Gladly he laid him down to sleep till dawn.
So passed the night divine, till flushed the hillsIn the sun’s light, and men awoke to toil.Then all athirst for war the Argive men‘Gan whet the spear smooth-shafted, or the dart,Or javelin, and they brake the bread of dawn,And foddered all their horses. Then to theseSpake Poeas’ son with battle-kindling speech:“Up! let us make us ready for the war!Let no man linger mid the galleys, ereThe glorious walls of Ilium stately-toweredBe shattered, and her palaces be burned!”
Then at his words each heart and spirit glowed:They donned their armour, and they grasped their shields.Forth of the ships in one huge mass they pouredArrayed with bull-hide bucklers, ashen spears,And gallant-crested helms. Through all their ranksShoulder to shoulder marched they: thou hadst seenNo gap ‘twixt man and man as on they charged;So close they thronged, so dense was their array.