Book X
How Paris was stricken to death, and in vain sought help of Oenone.
Now were the Trojans all without the townOf Priam, armour-clad, with battle-carsAnd chariot-steeds; for still they burnt their dead,And still they feared lest the Achaean menShould fall on them. They looked, and saw them comeWith furious speed against the walls. In hasteThey cast a hurried earth-mound o’er the slain,For greatly trembled they to see their foes.Then in their sore disquiet spake to themPolydamas, a wise and prudent chief:“Friends, unendurably against us nowMaddens the war. Go to, let us deviseHow we may find deliverance from our strait.Still bide the Danaans here, still gather strength:Now therefore let us man our stately towers,And thence withstand them, fighting night and day,Until yon Danaans weary, and returnTo Sparta, or, renownless lingering hereBeside the wall, lose heart. No strength of theirsShall breach the long walls, howsoe’er they strive,For in the imperishable work of GodsWeakness is none. Food, drink, we shall not lack,For in King Priam’s gold-abounding hallsIs stored abundant food, that shall sufficeFor many more than we, through many years,Though thrice so great a host at our desireShould gather, eager to maintain our cause.”
Then chode with him Anchises’ valiant son:“Polydamas, wherefore do they call thee wise,Who biddest suffer endless tribulationsCooped within walls? Never, how long soe’erThe Achaeans tarry here, will they lose heart;But when they see us skulking from the field,More fiercely will press on. So ours shall beThe sufferance, perishing in our native home,If for long season they beleaguer us.No food, if we be pent within our walls,Shall Thebe send us, nor Maeonia wine,But wretchedly by famine shall we die,Though the great wall stand firm. Nay, though our lotShould be to escape that evil death and doom,And not by famine miserably to die;Yet rather let us fight in armour cladFor children and grey fathers! Haply ZeusWill help us yet; of his high blood are we.Nay, even though we be abhorred of him,Better straightway to perish gloriouslyFighting unto the last for fatherland,Than die a death of lingering agony!”
Shouted they all who heard that gallant rede.Swiftly with helms and shields and spears they stoodIn close array. The eyes of mighty ZeusFrom heaven beheld the Trojans armed for fightAgainst the Danaans: then did he awakeCourage in these and those, that there might beStrain of unflinching fight ‘twixt host and host.That day was Paris doomed, for Helen’s sakeFighting, by Philoctetes’ hands to die.
To one place Strife incarnate drew them all,The fearful Battle-queen, beheld of none,But cloaked in clouds blood-raining: on she stalkedSwelling the mighty roar of battle, nowRushed through Troy’s squadrons, through Achaea’s now;Panic and Fear still waited on her stepsTo make their father’s sister glorious.From small to huge that Fury’s stature grew;Her arms of adamant were blood-besprent,The deadly lance she brandished reached the sky.Earth quaked beneath her feet: dread blasts of fireFlamed from her mouth: her voice pealed thunder-likeKindling strong men. Swift closed the fronts of fightDrawn by a dread Power to the mighty work.Loud as the shriek of winds that madly blowIn early spring, when the tall woodland treesPut forth their leaves—loud as the roar of fireBlazing through sun-scorched brakes—loud as the voiceOf many waters, when the wide sea ravesBeneath the howling blast, with thunderous crashOf waves, when shake the fearful shipman’s knees;So thundered earth beneath their charging feet.Strife swooped on them: foe hurled himself on foe.
First did Aeneas of the Danaans slayHarpalion, Arizelus’ scion, bornIn far Boeotia of Amphinome,Who came to Troy to help the Argive menWith godlike Prothoenor. ’Neath his waistAeneas stabbed, and reft sweet life from him.Dead upon him he cast Thersander’s son,For the barbed javelin pierced through Hyllus’ throatWhom Arethusa by Lethaeus bareIn Crete: sore grieved Idomeneus for his fall.
By this Peleides’ son had swiftly slainTwelve Trojan warriors with his father’s spear.First Cebrus fell, Harmon, Pasitheus then,Hysminus, Schedius, and Imbrasius,Phleges, Mnesaeus, Ennomus, Amphinous,Phasis, Galenus last, who had his home
By Gargarus’ steep—a mighty warrior heAmong Troy’s mighties: with a countless hostTo Troy he came: for Priam Dardanus’ sonPromised him many gifts and passing fair.Ah fool! his own doom never he foresaw,Whose weird was suddenly to fall in fightEre he bore home King Priam’s glorious gifts.
Doom the Destroyer against the Argives spedValiant Aeneas’ friend, Eurymenes.Wild courage spurred him on, that he might slayMany—and then fill death’s cup for himself.Man after man he slew like some fierce beast,And foes shrank from the terrible rage that burnedOn his life’s verge, nor reeked of imminent doom.Yea, peerless deeds in that fight had he done,Had not his hands grown weary, his spear-headBent utterly: his sword availed him not,Snapped at the hilt by Fate. Then Meges’ dartSmote ’neath his ribs; blood spurted from his mouth,And in death’s agony Doom stood at his side.
Even as he fell, Epeius’ henchmen twain,Deileon and Amphion, rushed to stripHis armour; but Aeneas brave and strongChilled their hot hearts in death beside the dead.As one in latter summer ‘mid his vinesKills wasps that dart about his ripening grapes,And so, ere they may taste the fruit, they die;So smote he them, ere they could seize the arms.
Menon and Amphinous Tydeides slew,Both goodly men. Paris slew Hippasus’ sonDemoleon, who in Laconia’s landBeside the outfall of Eurotas dwelt,The stream deep-flowing, and to Troy he cameWith Menelaus. Under his right breastThe shaft of Paris smote him unto death,Driving his soul forth like a scattering breath.
Teucer slew Zechis, Medon’s war-famed son,Who dwelt in Phrygia, land of myriad flocks,Below that haunted cave of fair-haired NymphsWhere, as Endymion slept beside his kine,Divine Selene watched him from on high,And slid from heaven to earth; for passionate loveDrew down the immortal stainless Queen of Night.And a memorial of her couch abidesStill ’neath the oaks; for mid the copses roundWas poured out milk of kine; and still do menMarvelling behold its whiteness. Thou wouldst sayFar off that this was milk indeed, which isA well-spring of white water: if thou drawA little nigher, lo, the stream is fringedAs though with ice, for white stone rims it round.
Rushed on Alcaeus Meges, Phyleus’ son,And drave his spear beneath his fluttering heart.Loosed were the cords of sweet life suddenly,And his sad parents longed in vain to greetThat son returning from the woeful warTo Margasus and Phyllis lovely-girt,Dwellers by lucent streams of Harpasus,Who pours the full blood of his clamorous flowInto Maeander madly rushing aye.
With Glaucus’ warrior-comrade ScylaceusOdeus’ son closed in the fight, and stabbedOver the shield-rim, and the cruel spearPassed through his shoulder, and drenched his shield with blood.Howbeit he slew him not, whose day of doomAwaited him afar beside the wallOf his own city; for when Illium’s towersWere brought low by that swift avenging hostFleeing the war to Lycia then he cameAlone; and when he drew nigh to the town,The thronging women met and questioned himTouching their sons and husbands; and he toldHow all were dead. They compassed him about,And stoned the man with great stones, that he died.So had he no joy of his winning home,But the stones muffled up his dying groans,And of the same his ghastly tomb was rearedBeside Bellerophon’s grave and holy placeIn Tlos, nigh that far-famed Chimaera’s Crag.Yet, though he thus fulfilled his day of doom,As a God afterward men worshipped himBy Phoebus’ hest, and never his honour fades.
Now Poeas’ son the while slew DeioneusAnd Acamas, Antenor’s warrior son:Yea, a great host of strong men laid he low.On, like the War-god, through his foes he rushed,Or as a river roaring in full floodBreaks down long dykes, when, maddening round its rocks,Down from the mountains swelled by rain it poursAn ever-flowing mightily-rushing streamWhose foaming crests over its forelands sweep;So none who saw him even from afarDared meet renowned Poeas’ valiant son,Whose breast with battle-fury was fulfilled,Whose limbs were clad in mighty Hercules’ armsOf cunning workmanship; for on the beltGleamed bears most grim and savage, jackals fell,And panthers, in whose eyes there seems to lurkA deadly smile. There were fierce-hearted wolves,And boars with flashing tusks, and mighty lionsAll seeming strangely alive; and, there portrayedThrough all its breadth, were battles murder-rife.With all these marvels covered was the belt;And with yet more the quiver was adorned.There Hermes was, storm-footed Son of Zeus,Slaying huge Argus nigh to Inachus’ streams,Argus, whose sentinel eyes in turn took sleep.And there was Phaethon from the Sun-car hurledInto Eridanus. Earth verily seemedAblaze, and black smoke hovered on the air.There Perseus slew Medusa gorgon-eyedBy the stars’ baths and utmost bounds of earthAnd fountains of deep-flowing Ocean, whereNight in the far west meets the setting sun.There was the Titan Iapetus’ great sonHung from the beetling crag of CaucasusIn bonds of adamant, and the eagle tareHis liver unconsumed—he seemed to groan!All these Hephaestus’ cunning hands had wroughtFor Hercules; and these to Poeas’ son,Most near of friends and dear, he gave to bear.
So glorying in those arms he smote the foe.But Paris at the last to meet him sprangFearlessly, bearing in his hands his bowAnd deadly arrows—but his latest dayNow met himself. A flying shaft he spedForth from the string, which sang as leapt the dart,Which flew not vainly: yet the very markIt missed, for Philoctetes swerved asideA hair-breadth, and it smote above the breastCleodorus war-renowned, and cleft a pathClear through his shoulder; for he had not nowThe buckler broad which wont to fence from deathIts bearer, but was falling back from fight,Being shieldless; for Polydamas’ massy lanceHad cleft the shoulder-belt whereby his targeHung, and he gave back therefore, fighting stillWith stubborn spear. But now the arrow of deathFell on him, as from ambush leaping forth.For so Fate willed, I trow, to bring dread doomOn noble-hearted Lernus’ scion, bornOf Amphiale, in Rhodes the fertile land.
But soon as Poeas’ battle-eager sonMarked him by Paris’ deadly arrow slain,Swiftly he strained his bow, shouting aloud:“Dog! I will give thee death, will speed thee downTo the Unseen Land, who darest to brave me!And so shall they have rest, who travail nowFor thy vile sake. Destruction shall have endWhen thou art dead, the author of our bane.”
Then to his breast he drew the plaited cord.The great bow arched, the merciless shaft was aimedStraight, and the terrible point a little peeredAbove the bow, in that constraining grip.Loud sang the string, as the death-hissing shaftLeapt, and missed not: yet was not Paris’ heartStilled, but his spirit yet was strong in him;For that first arrow was not winged with death:It did but graze the fair flesh by his wrist.Then once again the avenger drew the bow,And the barbed shaft of Poeas’ son had plunged,Ere he could swerve, ‘twixt flank and groin. No moreHe abode the fight, but swiftly hasted backAs hastes a dog which on a lion rushedAt first, then fleeth terror-stricken back.So he, his very heart with agony thrilled,Fled from the war. Still clashed the grappling hosts,Man slaying man: aye bloodier waxed the frayAs rained the blows: corpse upon corpse was flungConfusedly, like thunder-drops, or flakesOf snow, or hailstones, by the wintry blastAt Zeus’ behest strewn over the long hillsAnd forest-boughs; so by a pitiless doomSlain, friends with foes in heaps on heaps were strown.
Sorely groaned Paris; with the torturing woundFainted his spirit. Leeches sought to allayHis frenzy of pain. But now drew back to TroyThe Trojans, and the Danaans to their shipsSwiftly returned, for dark night put an endTo strife, and stole from men’s limbs weariness,Pouring upon their eyes pain-healing sleep.
But through the livelong night no sleep laid holdOn Paris: for his help no leech availed,Though ne’er so willing, with his salves. His weirdWas only by Oenone’s hands to escapeDeath’s doom, if so she willed. Now he obeyedThe prophecy, and he went—exceeding loth,But grim necessity forced him thence, to faceThe wife forsaken. Evil-boding fowlShrieked o’er his head, or darted past to left,Still as he went. Now, as he looked at them,His heart sank; now hope whispered, “Haply vainTheir bodings are!” but on their wings were borneVisions of doom that blended with his pain.Into Oenone’s presence thus he came.Amazed her thronging handmaids looked on himAs at the Nymph’s feet that pale suppliant fellFaint with the anguish of his wound, whose pangsStabbed him through brain and heart, yea, quivered throughHis very bones, for that fierce venom crawledThrough all his inwards with corrupting fangs;And his life fainted in him agony-thrilled.As one with sickness and tormenting thirstConsumed, lies parched, with heart quick-shuddering,With liver seething as in flame, the soul,Scarce conscious, fluttering at his burning lips,Longing for life, for water longing sore;So was his breast one fire of torturing pain.Then in exceeding feebleness he spake:“O reverenced wife, turn not from me in hateFor that I left thee widowed long ago!Not of my will I did it: the strong FatesDragged me to Helen—oh that I had diedEre I embraced her—in thine arms had died!All, by the Gods I pray, the Lords of Heaven,By all the memories of our wedded love,Be merciful! Banish my bitter pain:Lay on my deadly wound those healing salvesWhich only can, by Fate’s decree, removeThis torment, if thou wilt. Thine heart must speakMy sentence, to be saved from death or no.Pity me—oh, make haste to pity me!This venom’s might is swiftly bringing death!Heal me, while life yet lingers in my limbs!Remember not those pangs of jealousy,Nor leave me by a cruel doom to dieLow fallen at thy feet! This should offendThe Prayers, the Daughters of the Thunderer Zeus,Whose anger followeth unrelenting prideWith vengeance, and the Erinnys executesTheir wrath. My queen, I sinned, in folly sinned;Yet from death save me—oh, make haste to save!”
So prayed he; but her darkly-brooding heartWas steeled, and her words mocked his agony:“Thou comest unto me!—thou, who didst leaveErewhile a wailing wife in a desolate home!—Didst leave her for thy Tyndarid darling! Go,Lie laughing in her arms for bliss! She is betterThan thy true wife—is, rumour saith, immortal!Make haste to kneel to her but not to me!Weep not to me, nor whimper pitiful prayers!Oh that mine heart beat with a tigress’ strength,That I might tear thy flesh and lap thy bloodFor all the pain thy folly brought on me!Vile wretch! where now is Love’s Queen glory-crowned?Hath Zeus forgotten his daughter’s paramour?Have them for thy deliverers! Get thee henceFar from my dwelling, curse of Gods and men!Yea, for through thee, thou miscreant, sorrow cameOn deathless Gods, for sons and sons’ sons slain.Hence from my threshold!—to thine Helen go!Agonize day and night beside her bed:There whimper, pierced to the heart with cruel pangs,Until she heal thee of thy grievous pain.”
So from her doors she drave that groaning man—Ah fool! not knowing her own doom, whose weirdWas straightway after him to tread the pathOf death! So Fate had spun her destiny-thread.
Then, as he stumbled down through Ida’s brakes,Where Doom on his death-path was leading himPainfully halting, racked with heart-sick pain,Hera beheld him, with rejoicing soulThroned in the Olympian palace-court of Zeus.And seated at her side were handmaids fourWhom radiant-faced Selene bare to the SunTo be unwearying ministers in Heaven,In form and office diverse each from each;For of these Seasons one was summer’s queen,And one of winter and his stormy star,Of spring the third, of autumn-tide the fourth.So in four portions parted is man’s yearRuled by these Queens in turn—but of all thisBe Zeus himself the Overseer in heaven.And of those issues now these spake with herWhich baleful Fate in her all-ruining heartWas shaping to the birth the new espousalsOf Helen, fatal to Deiphobus—The wrath of Helenus, who hoped in vainFor that fair bride, and how, when he had fled,Wroth with the Trojans, to the mountain-height,Achaea’s sons would seize him and would haleUnto their ships—how, by his counsellingStrong Tydeus’ son should with Odysseus scaleThe great wall, and should slay AlcathousThe temple-warder, and should bear awayPallas the Gracious, with her free consent,Whose image was the sure defence of Troy;—Yea, for not even a God, how wroth soe’er,Had power to lay the City of Priam wasteWhile that immortal shape stood warder there.No man had carven that celestial form,But Cronos’ Son himself had cast it downFrom heaven to Priam’s gold-abounding burg.
Of these things with her handmaids did the QueenOf Heaven hold converse, and of many such,But Paris, while they talked, gave up the ghostOn Ida: never Helen saw him more.Loud wailed the Nymphs around him; for they stillRemembered how their nursling wont to lispHis childish prattle, compassed with their smiles.And with them mourned the neatherds light of foot,Sorrowful-hearted; moaned the mountain-glens.
Then unto travail-burdened Priam’s queenA herdman told the dread doom of her son.Wildly her trembling heart leapt when she heard;With failing limbs she sank to earth and wailed:“Dead! thou dead, O dear child! Grief heaped on griefHast thou bequeathed me, grief eternal! BestOf all my sons, save Hector alone, wast thou!While beats my heart, my grief shall weep for thee.The hand of Heaven is in our sufferings:Some Fate devised our ruin—oh that IHad lived not to endure it, but had diedIn days of wealthy peace! But now I seeWoes upon woes, and ever look to seeWorse things—my children slain, my city sackedAnd burned with fire by stony-hearted foes,Daughters, sons’ wives, all Trojan women, haledInto captivity with our little ones!”
So wailed she; but the King heard naught thereof,But weeping ever sat by Hector’s grave,For most of all his sons he honoured him,His mightiest, the defender of his land.Nothing of Paris knew that pierced heart;But long and loud lamented Helen; yetThose wails were but for Trojan ears; her soulWith other thoughts was busy, as she cried:“Husband, to me, to Troy, and to thyselfA bitter blow is this thy woeful death!In misery hast thou left me, and I lookTo see calamities more deadly yet.Oh that the Spirits of the Storm had snatchedMe from the earth when first I fared with theeDrawn by a baleful Fate! It might not be;The Gods have meted ruin to thee and me.With shuddering horror all men look on me,All hate me! Place of refuge is there noneFor me; for if to the Danaan host I fly,With torments will they greet me. If I stay,Troy’s sons and daughters here will compass meAnd rend me. Earth shall cover not my corpse,But dogs and fowl of ravin shall devour.Oh had Fate slain me ere I saw these woes!”
So cried she: but for him far less she mournedThan for herself, remembering her own sin.Yea, and Troy’s daughters but in semblance wailedFor him: of other woes their hearts were full.Some thought on parents, some on husbands slain,These on their sons, on honoured kinsmen those.
One only heart was pierced with grief unfeigned,Oenone. Not with them of Troy she wailed,But far away within that desolate homeMoaning she lay on her lost husband’s bed.As when the copses on high mountains standWhite-veiled with frozen snow, which o’er the glensThe west-wind blasts have strown, but now the sunAnd east-wind melt it fast, and the long heightsWith water-courses stream, and down the gladesSlide, as they thaw, the heavy sheets, to swellThe rushing waters of an ice-cold spring,So melted she in tears of anguished pain,And for her own, her husband, agonised,And cried to her heart with miserable moans:“Woe for my wickedness! O hateful life!I loved mine hapless husband—dreamed with himTo pace to eld’s bright threshold hand in hand,And heart in heart! The gods ordained not so.Oh had the black Fates snatched me from the earthEre I from Paris turned away in hate!My living love hath left me!—yet will IDare to die with him, for I loathe the light.”
So cried she, weeping, weeping piteously,Remembering him whom death had swallowed up,Wasting, as melteth wax before the flameYet secretly, being fearful lest her sireShould mark it, or her handmaids till the nightRose from broad Ocean, flooding all the earthWith darkness bringing men release from toil.Then, while her father and her maidens slept,She slid the bolts back of the outer doors,And rushed forth like a storm-blast. Fast she ran,As when a heifer ‘mid the mountains speeds,Her heart with passion stung, to meet her mate,And madly races on with flying feet,And fears not, in her frenzy of desire,The herdman, as her wild rush bears her on,So she but find her mate amid the woods;So down the long tracks flew Oenone’s feet;Seeking the awful pyre, to leap thereon.No weariness she knew: as upon wingsHer feet flew faster ever, onward spurredBy fell Fate, and the Cyprian Queen. She fearedNo shaggy beast that met her in the darkWho erst had feared them sorely—rugged rockAnd precipice of tangled mountain-slope,She trod them all unstumbling; torrent-bedsShe leapt. The white Moon-goddess from on highLooked on her, and remembered her own love,Princely Endymion, and she pitied herIn that wild race, and, shining overheadIn her full brightness, made the long tracks plain.
Through mountain-gorges so she won to whereWailed other Nymphs round Alexander’s corpse.Roared up about him a great wall of fire;For from the mountains far and near had comeShepherds, and heaped the death-bale broad and highFor love’s and sorrow’s latest service doneTo one of old their comrade and their king.Sore weeping stood they round. She raised no wail,The broken-hearted, when she saw him there,But, in her mantle muffling up her face,Leapt on the pyre: loud wailed that multitude.There burned she, clasping Paris. All the NymphsMarvelled, beholding her beside her lordFlung down, and heart to heart spake whispering:“Verily evil-hearted Paris was,Who left a leal true wife, and took for brideA wanton, to himself and Troy a curse.Ah fool, who recked not of the broken heartOf a most virtuous wife, who more than lifeLoved him who turned from her and loved her not!”
So in their hearts the Nymphs spake: but they twainBurned on the pyre, never to hail againThe dayspring. Wondering herdmen stood around,As once the thronging Argives marvelling sawEvadne clasping mid the fire her lordCapaneus, slain by Zeus’ dread thunderbolt.But when the blast of the devouring fireHad made twain one, Oenone and Paris, nowOne little heap of ashes, then with wineQuenched they the embers, and they laid their bonesIn a wide golden vase, and round them piledThe earth-mound; and they set two pillars thereThat each from other ever turn away;For the old jealousy in the marble lives.