Book VII
How the Son of Achilles was brought to the War from the Isle of Scyros.
When heaven hid his stars, and Dawn awokeOutspraying splendour, and night’s darkness fled,Then undismayed the Argives’ warrior-sonsMarched forth without the ships to meet in fightEurypylus, save those that tarried stillTo render to Machaon midst the shipsDeath-dues, with Nireus—Nireus, who in graceAnd goodlihead was like the Deathless Ones,Yet was not strong in bodily might: the GodsGrant not perfection in all things to men;But evil still is blended with the goodBy some strange fate: to Nireus’ winsome graceWas linked a weakling’s prowess. Yet the GreeksSlighted him not, but gave him all death-dues,And mourned above his grave with no less griefThan for Machaon, whom they honoured aye,For his deep wisdom, as the immortal Gods.One mound they swiftly heaped above these twain.
Then in the plain once more did murderous warMadden: the multitudinous clash and cryRose, as the shields were shattered with huge stones,Were pierced with lances. So they toiled in fight;But all this while lay PodaleiriusFasting in dust and groaning, leaving notHis brother’s tomb; and oft his heart was movedWith his own hands to slay himself. And nowHe clutched his sword, and now amidst his herbsSought for a deadly drug; and still his friendsEssayed to stay his hand and comfort himWith many pleadings. But he would not ceaseFrom grieving: yea, his hands had spilt his lifeThere on his noble brother’s new-made tomb,But Nestor heard thereof, and sorrowed soreIn his affliction, and he came on himAs now he flung him on that woeful grave,And now was casting dust upon his head,Beating his breast, and on his brother’s nameCrying, while thralls and comrades round their lordGroaned, and affliction held them one and all.Then gently spake he to that stricken one:“Refrain from bitter moan and deadly grief,My son. It is not for a wise man’s honourTo wail, as doth a woman, o’er the fallen.Thou shalt not bring him up to light againWhose soul hath fleeted vanishing into air,Whose body fire hath ravined up, whose bonesEarth has received. His end was worthy his life.Endure thy sore grief, even as I endured,Who lost a son, slain by the hands of foes,A son not worse than thy Machaon, goodWith spears in battle, good in counsel. NoneOf all the youths so loved his sire as heLoved me. He died for me yea, died to saveHis father. Yet, when he was slain, did IEndure to taste food, and to see the light,Well knowing that all men must tread one pathHades-ward, and before all lies one goal,Death’s mournful goal. A mortal man must bearAll joys, all griefs, that God vouchsafes to send.”
Made answer that heart-stricken one, while stillWet were his cheeks with ever-flowing tears:“Father, mine heart is bowed ’neath crushing griefFor a brother passing wise, who fostered meEven as a son. When to the heavens had passedOur father, in his arms he cradled me:Gladly he taught me all his healing lore;We shared one table; in one bed we lay:We had all things in common these, and love.My grief cannot forget, nor I desire,Now he is dead, to see the light of life.”
Then spake the old man to that stricken one:“To all men Fate assigns one same sad lot,Bereavement: earth shall cover all alike,Albeit we tread not the same path of life,And none the path he chooseth; for on highGood things and bad lie on the knees ofGods Unnumbered, indistinguishably blent.These no Immortal seeth; they are veiledIn mystic cloud-folds. Only Fate puts forthHer hands thereto, nor looks at what she takes,But casts them from Olympus down to earth.This way and that they are wafted, as it wereBy gusts of wind. The good man oft is whelmedIn suffering: wealth undeserved is heapedOn the vile person. Blind is each man’s life;Therefore he never walketh surely; oftHe stumbleth: ever devious is his path,Now sloping down to sorrow, mounting nowTo bliss. All-happy is no living manFrom the beginning to the end, but stillThe good and evil clash. Our life is short;Beseems not then in grief to live. Hope on,Still hope for better days: chain not to woeThine heart. There is a saying among menThat to the heavens unperishing mount the soulsOf good men, and to nether darkness sinkSouls of the wicked. Both to God and manDear was thy brother, good to brother-men,And son of an Immortal. Sure am IThat to the company of Gods shall heAscend, by intercession of thy sire.”
Then raised he that reluctant mourner upWith comfortable words. From that dark graveHe drew him, backward gazing oft with groans.To the ships they came, where Greeks and Trojan menHad bitter travail of rekindled war.
Eurypylus there, in dauntless spirit likeThe War-god, with mad-raging spear and handsResistless, smote down hosts of foes: the earthWas clogged with dead men slain on either side.On strode he midst the corpses, awelesslyHe fought, with blood-bespattered hands and feet;Never a moment from grim strife he ceased.Peneleos the mighty-hearted cameAgainst him in the pitiless fray: he fellBefore Eurypylus’ spear: yea, many moreFell round him. Ceased not those destroying hands,But wrathful on the Argives still he pressed,As when of old on Pholoe’s long-ridged heightsUpon the Centaurs terrible Hercules rushedStorming in might, and slew them, passing-swiftAnd strong and battle-cunning though they were;So rushed he on, so smote he down the array,One after other, of the Danaan spears.Heaps upon heaps, here, there, in throngs they fellStrewn in the dust. As when a river in floodComes thundering down, banks crumble on either sideTo drifting sand: on seaward rolls the surgeTossing wild crests, while cliffs on every handRing crashing echoes, as their brows break downBeneath long-leaping roaring waterfalls,And dikes are swept away; so fell in dustThe war-famed Argives by Eurypylus slain,Such as he overtook in that red rout.Some few escaped, whom strength of fleeing feetDelivered. Yet in that sore strait they drewPeneleos from the shrieking tumult forth,And bare to the ships, though with swift feet themselvesWere fleeing from ghastly death, from pitiless doom.Behind the rampart of the ships they fledIn huddled rout: they had no heart to standBefore Eurypylus, for Hercules,To crown with glory his son’s stalwart son,Thrilled them with panic. There behind their wallThey cowered, as goats to leeward of a hillShrink from the wild cold rushing of the windThat bringeth snow and heavy sleet and haft.No longing for the pasture tempteth themOver the brow to step, and face the blast,But huddling screened by rock-wall and ravineThey abide the storm, and crop the scanty grassUnder dim copses thronging, till the gustsOf that ill wind shall lull: so, by their towersScreened, did the trembling Danaans abideTelephus’ mighty son. Yea, he had burntThe ships, and all that host had he destroyed,Had not Athena at the last inspiredThe Argive men with courage. CeaselesslyFrom the high rampart hurled they at the foeWith bitter-biting darts, and slew them fast;And all the walls were splashed with reeking gore,And aye went up a moan of smitten men.
So fought they: nightlong, daylong fought they on,Ceteians, Trojans, battle-biding Greeks,Fought, now before the ships, and now againRound the steep wall, with fury unutterable.Yet even so for two days did they ceaseFrom murderous fight; for to Eurypylus cameA Danaan embassage, saying, “From the warForbear we, while we give unto the flamesThe battle-slain.” So hearkened he to them:From ruin-wreaking strife forebore the hosts;And so their dead they buried, who in dustHad fallen. Chiefly the Achaeans mournedPeneleos; o’er the mighty dead they heapedA barrow broad and high, a sign for menOf days to be. But in a several placeThe multitude of heroes slain they laid,Mourning with stricken hearts. On one great pyreThey burnt them all, and buried in one grave.So likewise far from thence the sons of TroyBuried their slain. Yet murderous Strife slept not,But roused again Eurypylus’ dauntless mightTo meet the foe. He turned not from the ships,But there abode, and fanned the fury of war.
Meanwhile the black ship on to Scyros ran;And those twain found before his palace-gateAchilles’ son, now hurling dart and lance,Now in his chariot driving fleetfoot steeds.Glad were they to behold him practisingThe deeds of war, albeit his heart was sadFor his slain sire, of whom had tidings comeEre this. With reverent eyes of awe they wentTo meet him, for that goodly form and faceSeemed even as very Achilles unto them.But he, or ever they had spoken, cried:“All hail, ye strangers, unto this mine homeSay whence ye are, and who, and what the needThat hither brings you over barren seas.”
So spake he, and Odysseus answered him:“Friends are we of Achilles lord of war,To whom of Deidameia thou wast born—Yea, when we look on thee we seem to seeThat Hero’s self; and like the Immortal OnesWas he. Of Ithaca am I: this manOf Argos, nurse of horses—if perchanceThou hast heard the name of Tydeus’ warrior sonOr of the wise Odysseus. Lo, I standBefore thee, sent by voice of prophecy.I pray thee, pity us: come thou to TroyAnd help us. Only so unto the warAn end shall be. Gifts beyond words to theeThe Achaean kings shall give: yea, I myselfWill give to thee thy godlike father’s arms,And great shall be thy joy in bearing them;For these be like no mortal’s battle-gear,But splendid as the very War-god’s arms.Over their marvellous blazonry hath goldBeen lavished; yea, in heaven Hephaestus’ selfRejoiced in fashioning that work divine,The which thine eyes shall marvel to behold;For earth and heaven and sea upon the shieldAre wrought, and in its wondrous compass areCreatures that seem to live and move—a wonderEven to the Immortals. Never manHath seen their like, nor any man hath worn,Save thy sire only, whom the Achaeans allHonoured as Zeus himself. I chiefliestFrom mine heart loved him, and when he was slain,To many a foe I dealt a ruthless doom,And through them all bare back to the ships his corse.Therefore his glorious arms did Thetis giveTo me. These, though I prize them well, to theeWill I give gladly when thou com’st to Troy.Yea also, when we have smitten Priam’s townsAnd unto Hellas in our ships return,Shall Menelaus give thee, an thou wilt,His princess-child to wife, of love for thee,And with his bright-haired daughter shall bestowRich dower of gold and treasure, even allThat meet is to attend a wealthy king.”
So spake he, and replied Achilles’ son:“If bidden of oracles the Achaean menSummon me, let us with to-morrow’s dawnFare forth upon the broad depths of the sea,If so to longing Danaans I may proveA light of help. Now pass we to mine halls,And to such guest-fare as befits to setBefore the stranger. For my marriage-day—To this the Gods in time to come shall see.”
Then hall-ward led he them, and with glad heartsThey followed. To the forecourt when they cameOf that great mansion, found they there the QueenDeidameia in her sorrow of soulGrief-wasted, as when snow from mountain-sidesBefore the sun and east-wind wastes away;So pined she for that princely hero slain.Then came to her amidst her grief the kings,And greeted her in courteous wise. Her sonDrew near and told their lineage and their names;But that for which they came he left untoldUntil the morrow, lest unto her woeThere should be added grief and floods of tears,And lest her prayers should hold him from the pathWhereon his heart was set. Straight feasted these,And comforted their hearts with sleep, even allWhich dwelt in sea-ringed Scyros, nightlong lulledBy long low thunder of the girdling deep,Of waves Aegean breaking on her shores.But not on Deidameia fell the handsOf kindly sleep. She bore in mind the namesOf crafty Odysseus and of DiomedeThe godlike, how these twain had widowed herOf battle-fain Achilles, how their wordsHad won his aweless heart to fare with themTo meet the war-cry where stern Fate met him,Shattered his hope of home-return, and laidMeasureless grief on Peleus and on her.Therefore an awful dread oppressed her soulLest her son too to tumult of the warShould speed, and grief be added to her grief.
Dawn climbed the wide-arched heaven, straightway theyRose from their beds. Then Deidameia knew;And on her son’s broad breast she cast herself,And bitterly wailed: her cry thrilled through the air,As when a cow loud-lowing mid the hillsSeeks through the glens her calf, and all aroundEcho long ridges of the mountain-steep;So on all sides from dim recesses rangThe hall; and in her misery she cried:“Child, wherefore is thy soul now on the wingTo follow strangers unto IliumThe fount of tears, where perish many in fight,Yea, cunning men in war and battle grim?And thou art but a youth, and hast not learntThe ways of war, which save men in the dayOf peril. Hearken thou to me, abideHere in thine home, lest evil tidings comeFrom Troy unto my ears, that thou in fightHast perished; for mine heart saith, never thouHitherward shalt from battle-toil return.Not even thy sire escaped the doom of death—He, mightier than thou, mightier than allHeroes on earth, yea, and a Goddess’ son—But was in battle slain, all through the wilesAnd crafty counsels of these very menWho now to woeful war be kindling thee.Therefore mine heart is full of shuddering fearLest, son, my lot should be to live bereavedOf thee, and to endure dishonour and pain,For never heavier blow on woman fallsThan when her lord hath perished, and her sonsDie also, and her house is left to herDesolate. Straightway evil men removeHer landmarks, yea, and rob her of her all,Setting the right at naught. There is no lotMore woeful and more helpless than is hersWho is left a widow in a desolate home.”
Loud-wailing spake she; but her son replied:“Be of good cheer, my mother; put from theeEvil foreboding. No man is in warBeyond his destiny slain. If my weird beTo die in my country’s cause, then let me dieWhen I have done deeds worthy of my sire.”
Then to his side old Lycomedes came,And to his battle-eager grandson spake:“O valiant-hearted son, so like thy sire,I know thee strong and valorous; yet, O yetFor thee I fear the bitter war; I fearThe terrible sea-surge. Shipmen evermoreHang on destruction’s brink. Beware, my child,Perils of waters when thou sailest backFrom Troy or other shores, such as besetFull oftentimes the voyagers that rideThe long sea-ridges, when the sun hath leftThe Archer-star, and meets the misty Goat,When the wild blasts drive on the lowering storm,Or when Orion to the darkling westSlopes, into Ocean’s river sinking slow.Beware the time of equal days and nights,When blasts that o’er the sea’s abysses rush,None knoweth whence in fury of battle clash.Beware the Pleiads’ setting, when the seaMaddens beneath their power nor these alone,But other stars, terrors of hapless men,As o’er the wide sea-gulf they set or rise.”
Then kissed he him, nor sought to stay the feetOf him who panted for the clamour of war,Who smiled for pleasure and for eagernessTo haste to the ship. Yet were his hurrying feetStayed by his mother’s pleading and her tearsStill in those halls awhile. As some swift horseIs reined in by his rider, when he strainsUnto the race-course, and he neighs, and champsThe curbing bit, dashing his chest with foam,And his feet eager for the course are stillNever, his restless hooves are clattering aye;His mane is a stormy cloud, he tosses highHis head with snortings, and his lord is glad;So reined his mother back the glorious sonOf battle-stay Achilles, so his feetWere restless, so the mother’s loving prideJoyed in her son, despite her heart-sick pain.
A thousand times he kissed her, then at lastLeft her alone with her own grief and moanThere in her father’s halls. As o’er her nestA swallow in her anguish cries aloudFor her lost nestlings which, mid piteous shrieks,A fearful serpent hath devoured, and wrungThe loving mother’s heart; and now aboveThat empty cradle spreads her wings, and nowFlies round its porchway fashioned cunninglyLamenting piteously her little ones:So for her child Deidameia mourned.Now on her son’s bed did she cast herself,Crying aloud, against his door-post nowShe leaned, and wept: now laid she in her lapThose childhood’s toys yet treasured in her bower,Wherein his babe-heart joyed long years agone.She saw a dart there left behind of him,And kissed it o’er and o’er yea, whatso elseHer weeping eyes beheld that was her son’s.
Naught heard he of her moans unutterable,But was afar, fast striding to the ship.He seemed, as his feet swiftly bare him on,Like some all-radiant star; and at his sideWith Tydeus’ son war-wise Odysseus went,And with them twenty gallant-hearted men,Whom Deidameia chose as trustiestOf all her household, and unto her sonGave them for henchmen swift to do his will.And these attended Achilles’ valiant son,As through the city to the ship he sped.On, with glad laughter, in their midst he strode;And Thetis and the Nereids joyed thereat.Yea, glad was even the Raven-haired, the LordOf all the sea, beholding that brave sonOf princely Achilles, marking how he longedFor battle. Beardless boy albeit he was,His prowess and his might were inward spursTo him. He hasted forth his fatherlandLike to the War-god, when to gory strifeHe speedeth, wroth with foes, when maddenethHis heart, and grim his frown is, and his eyesFlash levin-flame around him, and his faceIs clothed with glory of beauty terror-blent,As on he rusheth: quail the very Gods.So seemed Achilles’ goodly son; and prayersWent up through all the city unto HeavenTo bring their noble prince safe back from war;And the Gods hearkened to them. High he toweredAbove all stateliest men which followed him.
So came they to the heavy-plunging sea,And found the rowers in the smooth-wrought shipHandling the tackle, fixing mast and sail.Straightway they went aboard: the shipmen castThe hawsers loose, and heaved the anchor-stones,The strength and stay of ships in time of need.Then did the Sea-queen’s lord grant voyage fairTo these with gracious mind; for his heart yearnedO’er the Achaeans, by the Trojan menAnd mighty-souled Eurypylus hard-bestead.On either side of Neoptolemus satThose heroes, gladdening his soul with talesOf his sire’s mighty deeds—of all he wroughtIn sea-raids, and in valiant Telephus’ land,And how he smote round Priam’s burg the menOf Troy, for glory unto Atreus’ sons.His heart glowed, fain to grasp his heritage,His aweless father’s honour and renown.
In her bower, sorrowing for her son the while,Deidameia poured forth sighs and tears.With agony of soul her very heartMelted in her, as over coals doth leadOr wax, and never did her moaning cease,As o’er the wide sea her gaze followed him.Ay, for her son a mother fretteth still,Though it be to a feast that he hath gone,By a friend bidden forth. But soon the sailOf that good ship far-fleeting o’er the blueGrew faint and fainter—melted in sea-haze.But still she sighed, still daylong made her moan.
On ran the ship before a following wind,Seeming to skim the myriad-surging sea,And crashed the dark wave either side the prow:Swiftly across the abyss unplumbed she sped.Night’s darkness fell about her, but the breezeHeld, and the steersman’s hand was sure. O’er gulfsOf brine she flew, till Dawn divine rose upTo climb the sky. Then sighted they the peaksOf Ida, Chrysa next, and Smintheus’ fane,Then the Sigean strand, and then the tombOf Aeacus’ son. Yet would Laertes’ seed,The man discreet of soul, not point it outTo Neoptolemus, lest the tide of griefToo high should swell within his breast. They passedCalydnae’s isles, left Tenedos behind;And now was seen the fane of Eleus,Where stands Protesilaus’ tomb, beneathThe shade of towery elms; when, soaring highAbove the plain, their topmost boughs discernTroy, straightway wither all their highest sprays.Nigh Ilium now the ship by wind and oarWas brought: they saw the long strand fringed with keelsOf Argives, who endured sore travail of warEven then about the wall, the which themselvesHad reared to screen the ships and men in stressOf battle. Even now Eurypylus’ handsTo earth were like to dash it and destroy;But the quick eyes of Tydeus’ strong son markedHow rained the darts and stones on that long wall.Forth of the ship he sprang, and shouted loudWith all the strength of his undaunted breast:“Friends, on the Argive men is heaped this daySore travail! Let us don our flashing armsWith speed, and to yon battle-turmoil haste.For now upon our towers the warrior sonsOf Troy press hard—yea, haply will they tearThe long walls down, and burn the ships with fire,And so the souls that long for home-returnShall win it never; nay, ourselves shall fallBefore our due time, and shall lie in gravesIn Troyland, far from children and from wives.”
All as one man down from the ship they leapt;For trembling seized on all for that grim sight—On all save aweless NeoptolemusWhose might was like his father’s: lust of warSwept o’er him. To Odysseus’ tent in hasteThey sped, for close it lay to where the shipTouched land. About its walls was hung great storeOf change of armour, of wise Odysseus some,And rescued some from gallant comrades slain.Then did the brave man put on goodly arms;But they in whose breasts faintlier beat their heartsMust don the worser. Odysseus stood arrayedIn those which came with him from Ithaca:To Diomede he gave fair battle-gearStripped in time past from mighty Socus slain.But in his father’s arms Achilles’ sonClad him and lo, he seemed Achilles’ self!Light on his limbs and lapping close they lay—So cunning was Hephaestus’ workmanship—Which for another had been a giant’s arms.The massive helmet cumbered not his brows;Yea, the great Pelian spear-shaft burdened notHis hand, but lightly swung he up on highThe heavy and tall lance thirsting still for blood.
Of many Argives which beheld him thenMight none draw nigh to him, how fain soe’er,So fast were they in that grim grapple lockedOf the wild war that raged all down the wall.But as when shipmen, under a desolate isleMid the wide sea by stress of weather bound,Chafe, while afar from men the adverse blastsPrison them many a day; they pace the deckWith sinking hearts, while scantier grows their storeOf food; they weary till a fair wind sings;So joyed the Achaean host, which theretoforeWere heavy of heart, when Neoptolemus came,Joyed in the hope of breathing-space from toil.Then like the aweless lion’s flashed his eyes,Which mid the mountains leaps in furious moodTo meet the hunters that draw nigh his cave,Thinking to steal his cubs, there left aloneIn a dark-shadowed glen but from a heightThe beast hath spied, and on the spoilers leapsWith grim jaws terribly roaring; even soThat glorious child of Aeacus’ aweless sonAgainst the Trojan warriors burned in wrath.Thither his eagle-swoop descended firstWhere loudest from the plain uproared the fight,There weakest, he divined, must be the wall,The battlements lowest, since the surge of foesBrake heaviest there. Charged at his side the restBreathing the battle-spirit. There they foundEurypylus mighty of heart and all his menScaling a tower, exultant in the hopeOf tearing down the walls, of slaughteringThe Argives in one holocaust. No mindThe Gods had to accomplish their desire!But now Odysseus, Diomede the strong,Leonteus, and Neoptolemus, as a GodIn strength and beauty, hailed their javelins down,And thrust them from the wall. As dogs and shepherdsBy shouting and hard fighting drive awayStrong lions from a steading, rushing forthFrom all sides, and the brutes with glaring eyesPace to and fro; with savage lust for bloodOf calves and kine their jaws are slavering;Yet must their onrush give back from the houndsAnd fearless onset of the shepherd folk;[So from these new defenders shrank the foe]A little, far as one may hurl a stoneExceeding great; for still EurypylusSuffered them not to flee far from the ships,But cheered them on to bide the brunt, untilThe ships be won, and all the Argives slain;For Zeus with measureless might thrilled all his frame.Then seized he a rugged stone and huge, and leaptAnd hurled it full against the high-built wall.It crashed, and terribly boomed that rampart steepTo its foundations. Terror gripped the Greeks,As though that wall had crumbled down in dust;Yet from the deadly conflict flinched they not,But stood fast, like to jackals or to wolvesBold robbers of the sheep—when mid the hillsHunter and hound would drive them forth their caves,Being grimly purposed there to slay their whelps.Yet these, albeit tormented by the darts,Flee not, but for their cubs’ sake bide and fight;So for the ships’ sake they abode and fought,And for their own lives. But EurypylusAfront of all the ships stood, taunting them:“Coward and dastard souls! no darts of yoursHad given me pause, nor thrust back from your ships,Had not your rampart stayed mine onset-rush.Ye are like to dogs, that in a forest flinchBefore a lion! Skulking therewithinYe are fighting—nay, are shrinking back from death!But if ye dare come forth on Trojan ground,As once when ye were eager for the fray,None shall from ghastly death deliver you:Slain by mine hand ye all shall lie in dust!”
So did he shout a prophecy unfulfilled,Nor heard Doom’s chariot-wheels fast rolling nearBearing swift death at Neoptolemus’ hands,Nor saw death gleaming from his glittering spear.Ay, and that hero paused not now from fight,But from the ramparts smote the Trojans aye.From that death leaping from above they quailedIn tumult round Eurypylus: deadly fearGripped all their hearts. As little children cowerAbout a father’s knees when thunder of ZeusCrashes from cloud to cloud, when all the airShudders and groans, so did the sons of Troy,With those Ceteians round their great king, cowerEver as prince Neoptolemus hurled; for deathRode upon all he cast, and bare his wrathStraight rushing down upon the heads of foes.Now in their hearts those wildered Trojans saidThat once more they beheld Achilles’ selfGigantic in his armour. Yet they hidThat horror in their breasts, lest panic fearShould pass from them to the Ceteian hostAnd king Eurypylus; so on every sideThey wavered ‘twixt the stress of their hard straitAnd that blood-curdling dread, ‘twixt shame and fear.As when men treading a precipitous pathLook up, and see adown the mountain-slopeA torrent rushing on them, thundering downThe rocks, and dare not meet its clamorous flood,But hurry shuddering on, with death in sightHolding as naught the perils of the path;So stayed the Trojans, spite of their desire[To flee the imminent death that waited them]Beneath the wall. Godlike EurypylusAye cheered them on to fight. He trusted stillThat this new mighty foe would weary at lastWith toil of slaughter; but he wearied not.
That desperate battle-travail Pallas saw,And left the halls of Heaven incense-sweet,And flew o’er mountain-crests: her hurrying feetTouched not the earth, borne by the air divineIn form of cloud-wreaths, swifter than the wind.She came to Troy, she stayed her feet uponSigeum’s windy ness, she looked forth thenceOver the ringing battle of dauntless men,And gave the Achaeans glory. Achilles’ sonBeyond the rest was filled with valour and strengthWhich win renown for men in whom they meet.Peerless was he in both: the blood of ZeusGave strength; to his father’s valour was he heir;So by those towers he smote down many a foe.And as a fisher on the darkling sea,To lure the fish to their destruction, takesWithin his boat the strength of fire; his breathKindles it to a flame, till round the boatGlareth its splendour, and from the black seaDart up the fish all eager to beholdThe radiance—for the last time; for the barbsOf his three-pointed spear, as up they leap,Slay them; his heart rejoices o’er the prey.So that war-king Achilles’ glorious sonSlew hosts of onward-rushing foes aroundThat wall of stone. Well fought the Achaeans all,Here, there, adown the ramparts: rang againThe wide strand and the ships: the battered wallsGroaned ever. Men with weary ache of toilFainted on either side; sinews and mightOf strong men were unstrung. But o’er the sonOf battle-stay Achilles wearinessCrept not: his battle-eager spirit ayeWas tireless; never touched by palsying fearHe fought on, as with the triumphant strengthOf an ever-flowing river: though it roll‘Twixt blazing forests, though the madding blastRoll stormy seas of flame, it feareth not,For at its brink faint grows the fervent heat,The strong flood turns its might to impotence;So weariness nor fear could bow the kneesOf Hero Achilles’ gallant-hearted son,Still as he fought, still cheered his comrades on.Of myriad shafts sped at him none might touchHis flesh, but even as snowflakes on a rockFell vainly ever: wholly screened was heBy broad shield and strong helmet, gifts of a God.In these exulting did the Aeacid’s sonStride all along the wall, with ringing shoutsCheering the dauntless Argives to the fray,Being their mightiest far, bearing a soulInsatiate of the awful onset-cry,Burning with one strong purpose, to avengeHis father’s death: the Myrmidons in their kingExulted. Roared the battle round the wall.
Two sons he slew of Meges rich in gold,Scion of Dymas—sons of high renown,Cunning to hurl the dart, to drive the steedIn war, and deftly cast the lance afar,Born at one birth beside Sangarius’ banksOf Periboea to him, Celtus one,And Eubius the other. But not longHis boundless wealth enjoyed they, for theFates Span them a thread of life exceeding brief.As on one day they saw the light, they diedOn one day by the same hand. To the heartOf one Neoptolemus sped a javelin; oneHe smote down with a massy stone that crashedThrough his strong helmet, shattered all its ridge,And dashed his brains to earth. Around them fellFoes many, a host untold. The War-god’s workWaxed ever mightier till the eventide,Till failed the light celestial; then the hostOf brave Eurypylus from the ships drew backA little: they that held those leaguered towersHad a short breathing-space; the sons of TroyHad respite from the deadly-echoing strife,From that hard rampart-battle. Verily allThe Argives had beside their ships been slain,Had not Achilles’ strong son on that dayWithstood the host of foes and their great chiefEurypylus. Came to that young hero’s sidePhoenix the old, and marvelling gazed on oneThe image of Peleides. Tides of joyAnd grief swept o’er him—grief, for memoriesOf that swift-footed father—joy, for sightOf such a son. He for sheer gladness wept;For never without tears the tribes of menLive—nay, not mid the transports of delight.He clasped him round as father claspeth sonWhom, after long and troublous wanderings,The Gods bring home to gladden a father’s heart.So kissed he Neoptolemus’ head and breast,Clasping him round, and cried in rapture of joy:“Hail, goodly son of that Achilles whomI nursed a little one in mine own armsWith a glad heart. By Heaven’s high providenceLike a strong sapling waxed he in stature fast,And daily I rejoiced to see his formAnd prowess, my life’s blessing, honouring himAs though he were the son of mine old age;For like a father did he honour me.I was indeed his father, he my sonIn spirit: thou hadst deemed us of one bloodWho were in heart one: but of nobler mouldWas he by far, in form and strength a God.Thou art wholly like him—yea, I seem to seeAlive amid the Argives him for whomSharp anguish shrouds me ever. I waste awayIn sorrowful age—oh that the grave had closedOn me while yet he lived! How blest to beBy loving hands of kinsmen laid to rest!Ah child, my sorrowing heart will nevermoreForget him! Chide me not for this my grief.But now, help thou the Myrmidons and GreeksIn their sore strait: wreak on the foe thy wrathFor thy brave sire. It shall be thy renownTo slay this war-insatiate Telephus’ son;For mightier art thou, and shalt prove, than he,As was thy father than his wretched sire.”
Made answer golden-haired Achilles’ son:“Ancient, our battle-prowess mighty FateAnd the o’ermastering War-god shall decide.”
But, as he spake, he had fain on that same dayForth of the gates have rushed in his sire’s arms;But night, which bringeth men release from toil,Rose from the ocean veiled in sable pall.
With honour as of mighty Achilles’ selfHim mid the ships the glad Greeks hailed, who had wonCourage from that his eager rush to war.With princely presents did they honour him,With priceless gifts, whereby is wealth increased;For some gave gold and silver, handmaids some,Brass without weight gave these, and iron those;Others in deep jars brought the ruddy wine:Yea, fleetfoot steeds they gave, and battle-gear,And raiment woven fair by women’s hands.Glowed Neoptolemus’ heart for joy of these.A feast they made for him amidst the tents,And there extolled Achilles’ godlike sonWith praise as of the immortal Heavenly Ones;And joyful-voiced Agamemnon spake to him:“Thou verily art the brave-souled Aeacid’s son,His very image thou in stalwart might,In beauty, stature, courage, and in soul.Mine heart burns in me seeing thee. I trustThine hands and spear shall smite yon hosts of foes,Shall smite the city of Priam world-renowned—So like thy sire thou art! Methinks I seeHimself beside the ships, as when his shoutOf wrath for dead Patroclus shook the ranksOf Troy. But he is with the Immortal Ones,Yet, bending from that heaven, sends thee to-dayTo save the Argives on destruction’s brink.”
Answered Achilles’ battle-eager son:“Would I might meet him living yet, O King,That so himself might see the son of his loveNot shaming his great father’s name. I trustSo shall it be, if the Gods grant me life.”
So spake he in wisdom and in modesty;And all there marvelled at the godlike man.But when with meat and wine their hearts were filled,Then rose Achilles’ battle-eager son,And from the feast passed forth unto the tentThat was his sire’s. Much armour of heroes slainLay there; and here and there were captive maidsArraying that tent widowed of its lord,As though its king lived. When that son beheldThose Trojan arms and handmaid-thralls, he groaned,By passionate longing for his father seized.As when through dense oak-groves and tangled glensComes to the shadowed cave a lion’s whelpWhose grim sire by the hunters hath been slain,And looketh all around that empty den,And seeth heaps of bones of steeds and kineSlain theretofore, and grieveth for his sire;Even so the heart of brave Peleides’ sonWith grief was numbed. The handmaids marvelling gazed;And fair Briseis’ self, when she beheldAchilles’ son, was now right glad at heart,And sorrowed now with memories of the dead.Her soul was wildered all, as though indeedThere stood the aweless Aeacid living yet.
Meanwhile exultant Trojans camped aloofExtolled Eurypylus the fierce and strong,As erst they had praised Hector, when he smoteTheir foes, defending Troy and all her wealth.But when sweet sleep stole over mortal men,Then sons of Troy and battle-biding GreeksAll slumber-heavy slept unsentinelled.