Book XVI: The Sixth Battle—Death of Patroclus

Such was the struggle for that gallant barque.Meanwhile Patroclus stood beside his friendThe shepherd of the people, Peleus’ son,And shed hot tears, as when a fountain shedsDark waters streaming down a precipice.The great Achilles, swift of foot, beheldAnd pitied him, and spake these wingèd words:—

“Why weepest thou, Patroclus, like a girl—A little girl that by her mother’s sideRuns, importuning to be taken up,And plucks her by the robe, and stops her way,And looks at her, and cries, until at lastShe rests within her arms? Thou art like her,Patroclus, with thy tears. Dost thou then bringSad tidings to the Myrmidons or me?Or hast thou news from Phthia? It is saidThat still Menoetius, son of Actor, lives,And Peleus also, son of Aeacus,Among the Myrmidons. Full bitterlyShould we lament to hear that either died.Or mournest thou because the Achaians fallThrough their own folly by the roomy ships?Speak, and hide nothing, for I too would know.”

And thou, O knight Patroclus, with a sighDeep drawn, didst answer thus: “Be not displeased,Achilles, son of Peleus, bravest farOf all the Achaian army! For the GreeksEndure a bitter lot. The chiefs who lateWere deemed their mightiest are within the ships,Wounded or stricken down. There Diomed,The gallant son of Tydeus, lies, and thereUlysses, the great spearman, wounded both;And Agamemnon; and Eurypylus,Driven from the field, an arrow in his thigh.Round them the healers, skilled in remedies,Attend and dress their painful wounds, while thou,Achilles, sittest here implacable.O, never be such fierce resentments mineAs thou dost cherish, who art only braveFor mischief! Whom wilt thou hereafter aid,If now thou rescue not the perishing Greeks?O merciless! It cannot surely beThat Peleus was thy father, or the queenThetis thy mother; the green sea insteadAnd rugged precipices brought thee forth,For savage is thy heart. But if thou heedThe warning of some god, if thou hast heardAught which thy goddess-mother has receivedFrom Jove, send me at least into the war,And let me lead thy Myrmidons, that thusThe Greeks may have some gleam of hope. And giveThe armor from thy shoulders. I will wearThy mail, and then the Trojans, at the sight,May think I am Achilles, and may pauseFrom fighting, and the warlike sons of Greece,Tired as they are, may breathe once more, and gainA respite from the conflict. Our fresh troopsMay easily drive back upon their townThe weary Trojans from our tents and fleet.”

So spake he, sighing; rash and blind, he askedDeath for himself and evil destiny.Achilles the swift-footed also drewA heavy sigh, and thus in turn he spake:—

“What, O divine Patroclus, hast thou said?I fear no omen yet revealed to me;Nor has my goddess-mother told me aughtFrom Jove; but ever in my heart and soulRankles the painful sense of injury doneBy one who, having greater power, deprivesAn equal of his right, and takes awayThe prize he won. This is my wrong, and thisThe cause of all my bitterness of heart.Her whom the sons of Greece bestowed on meAs my reward, a trophy of my spear,After the sack of a fenced city—herDid Agamemnon, son of Atreus, takeOut of my hands, as if I were a wretch,A worthless outcast. But let that affrontBe with the things that were. It is not wellTo bear a grudge forever. I have saidMy anger should not cease to burn untilThe clamor of the battle and the assaultShould reach the fleet. But go thou and put onMy well-known armor; lead into the fieldMy Myrmidons, men that rejoice in war,Since like a lowering cloud the men of TroySurround the fleet, and the Achaians standIn narrow space close pressed beside the sea,And all the city of Ilium flings itselfAgainst them, confident of victory,Now that the glitter of my helm no moreFlashes upon their eyes. Yet very soonTheir flying host would fill the trenches hereWith corpses, had but Agamemnon dealtGently with me; and now their squadrons closeAround our army. Now no more the spearIs wielded by Tydides DiomedIn rescue of the Greeks; no more the shoutOf Agamemnon’s hated throat is heard;But the man-queller Hector, lifting upHis voice, exhorts the Trojans, who, in throngs,Raising the war-cry, fill the plain, and driveThe Greeks before them. Gallantly lead onThe charge, Patroclus; rescue our good ships;Let not the enemy give them to the flames,And cut us off from our desired return.Follow my counsel; bear my words in mind;So shalt thou win for me among the GreeksGreat honor and renown, and they shall bringThe beautiful maiden back with princely gifts.When thou hast driven the assailants from the fleet,Return thou hither. If the Thunderer,Husband of Juno, suffer thee to gainThat victory, seek no further to prolongThe combat with the warlike sons of Troy,Apart from me, lest I be brought to shame,Nor, glorying in the battle and pursuit,Slaying the Trojans as thou goest, leadThy men to Troy, lest from the Olympian mountOne of the ever-living gods descendAgainst thee: Phoebus loves the Trojans well.But come as soon as thou shalt see the shipsIn safety; leave the foes upon the plainContending with each other. Would to JoveThe All-Father, and to Pallas, and the godWho bears the bow, Apollo, that of allThe Trojans, many as they are, and allThe Greeks, not one might be reprieved from death,While thou and I alone were left aliveTo overthrow the sacred walls of Troy.”

So talked they with each other. Ajax, whelmedBeneath a storm of darts, meantime but illEndured the struggle, for the will of JoveAnd the fierce foe prevailed. His shining helmRang fearfully, as on his temples fell,Stroke following after stroke, the weapons hurledAgainst its polished studs. The buckler borneFirmly on his left arm, and shifted oftFrom side to side, had wearied it, and yetThe Trojans, pressing round him, could not drive,With all their darts, the hero from his place.Heavily heaved his panting chest; his limbsStreamed with warm sweat; there was no breathing time;On danger danger followed, toil on toil.

Now, Muses, dwellers of Olympus, tellHow first the galleys of the Greeks were fired.

Hector drew near, and smote with his huge swordThe ashen spear of Ajax just belowThe socket of the blade, and cut the stemIn two. The son of Telamon in vainBrandished the severed weapon, while afarThe brazen blade flew off, and ringing fellTo earth. Then Ajax in his mighty mindAcknowledged that the gods were in the war,And shuddered, knowing that the ThundererWas thwarting all his warlike purposes,And willed the victory to Troy. The chiefWithdrew beyond the reach of spears, while fastThe eager enemy hurled the blazing brandsAt the swift ship, and wrapped the stern in flamesUnquenchable. Achilles saw, and smoteHis thigh, and spake: “Patroclus, noble friendAnd knight, make haste: already I beholdThe flames that rage with fury at the fleet.Now, lest the enemy seize our ships and weBe barred of our return, put quickly onThy armor; be my task to call the troops.”

He spake: Patroclus then in glittering brassArrayed himself; and first around his thighsHe put the beautiful greaves, and fastened themWith silver clasps; around his chest he boundThe breastplate of the swift Aeacides,With star-like points, and richly chased; he hungThe sword with silver studs and blade of brassUpon his shoulders, and with it the shieldSolid and vast; upon his gallant headHe placed the glorious helm with horse-hair plume,That grandly waved on high. Two massive spearsHe took, that fitted well his grasp, but leftThe spear which great Achilles only bore,Heavy and huge and strong, and which no armAmong the Greeks save his could poise; his strengthAlone sufficed to wield it. ’Twas an ashWhich Chiron felled in Pelion’s top, and gaveTo Peleus, that it yet might be the deathOf heroes. Then he called, to yoke with speedThe steeds, Automedon, whom he esteemedNext to Achilles, that great scattererOf armies; for he found him ever firmIn battle, breasting faithfully its shock.Automedon led forth to take the yokeXanthus and Balius, coursers that in speedWere like the wind. Podargè brought them forthTo Zephyrus, while she, the Harpy, grazedBy ocean’s streams. Upon the outer sideHe joined to them the noble Pedasus,Brought by Achilles from the captured townWhere ruled Eëtion. Though of mortal stock,Well might he match with those immortal steeds.

Meanwhile Achilles armed the Myrmidons,Passing from tent to tent. Like ravening wolves,Terribly strong, that, having slain amongThe hills an antlered stag of mighty size,Tear and devour it, while their jaws are stainedWith its red blood, then gather in a herdAbout some darkly flowing stream, and lapThe sullen water with their slender tongues,And drop the clots of blood from their grim mouthsAnd, although gorged, are fierce and fearless still—So came the leaders of the Myrmidons,In rushing crowds, about the valiant friendOf swift Aeacides. Among them stoodAchilles, great in war, encouragingThe charioteers and warriors armed with shields.

Achilles, dear to Jupiter, had ledFifty swift barques to Ilium, and in eachWere fifty men, companions at the oar.O’er these he gave command to five; himself,Supreme in power, was ruler over all.One band the nobly armed Menestheus led,Son of Spercheius. To that river-god,Beautiful Polydora brought him forth,Daughter of Peleus; she, a mortal maid,Met an immortal’s love. Yet Borus, sonOf Periëres, owned the boy and tookThe mother for his bride, with princely dowerEudorus led the second band, a youthOf warlike mould, whom Polymela bore,Daughter of Phylas, graceful in the dance.In secrecy she brought him forth, for onceThe mighty Argus-queller saw the maidAmong the choir of those who danced and sangAt Dian’s festival, the huntress-queen,Who bears the golden shafts; he saw and lovedAnd, climbing to her chamber, met by stealthThe damsel, and she bore a gallant son,Eudorus, swift of foot and brave in war.When Ilithyia, midwife goddess, gaveThe boy to see the pleasant light of day,The stout Echecleus, son of Actor, broughtThe mother to his house, with liberal dower.The aged Phylas reared the child she leftTenderly as a son, and loved him well.Pisander, warlike son of Msemalus,Commanded the third squadron; none like himAmong the Myrmidons could wield the spearExcept Pelides. Phoenix, aged knight,Led the fourth squadron. With the fifth and lastThere came Alcimedon, Laerceus’ son,As leader. When their ranks were duly formed,Achilles spake to them in earnest words:—

“Now, Myrmidons, forget no single wordOf all the threats ye uttered against TroySince first my wrath began. Ye blame me much,And say: ‘Hard-hearted son of Peleus, sureThy mother must have suckled thee on gall;For sternly thou dost keep us in the ships,Unwilling as we are. We might, at least,Crossing the sea, return in our good ships,If thus thine anger is to last.’ These wordsYe utter oft when our assemblies meet,And now the great occasion is at handWhich ye have longed for; now let him whose heartIs fearless meet the Trojans valiantly.”

He spake, and roused their courage and their might,And as they heard their king they brought their rankTo closer order. As an architectBuilds up, with closely fitting stones, the wallOf some tall mansion, proof against the blast,So close were now the helms and bossy shields,Shield leaned on shield, and helm on helm, and manOn man, and on the glittering helmet-conesThe horse-hair plumes with every motion touchedEach other, so compact the squadrons stood.Two heroes, nobly armed, were at their head, toPatroclus and Automedon, and bothHad but one thought—to combat in the van.

Entering his tent, Achilles raised the lidOf a fair coffer, beautifully wrought,Which silver-footed Thetis placed on boardHis barque, and filled with tunics, cloaks well lined,And fleecy carpets. There he also keptA goblet richly chased, from which no lipOf man, save his, might drink the dark red wine,Nor wine be poured to any god save Jove,The mighty Father. This he took in handAnd purified with sulphur first, and thenRinsed with clear water. Next, with washen hands,He drew the dark red wine, and stood without,In the open space, and, pouring out the wine,Prayed with his eyes turned heavenward, not unheardBy Jupiter, who wields the thunderbolt.

“Dodonian Jove, Pelasgian, sovereign King,Whose dwelling is afar, and who dost ruleDodona winter-bound, where dwell thy priests,The Selli, with unwashen feet, who sleepUpon the ground! Thou once hast heard my prayer,And thou hast honored me, and terriblyAvenged me on the Greeks. Accomplish yetThis one request of mine. I shall remainAmong the rows of ships, but in my steadI send my comrade, who will lead to warMy vast array of Myrmidons. With him,O God of Thunders, send the victory.Make his heart bold; let even Hector learnWhether my follower, though alone, can wageSuccessful war, or conquer only thenWhen I go forth with him into the fieldOf slaughter. When he shall have beaten backThe assailants from the fleet, let him returnUnharmed to my good galleys and to me.With all his arms and all his valiant men.”

So spake he, offering prayer, and Jupiter,The Great Disposer, hearkened. Half the prayerThe All-Father granted him, and half denied:To drive the storm of battle from the fleetHe granted, but denied his friend’s returnIn safety. When the warrior thus had prayed,And poured the wine to Father Jove, he wentInto his tent again, and there replacedThe goblet in the coffer. Coming forth,He stood before the entrance to beholdThe terrible encounter of the hosts.

The newly armed, led by their gallant chief,Patroclus, marched in warlike order forth,And in high hope, to fall upon the foe.As wasps, that by the wayside build their cells,Angered from time to time by thoughtless boys—Whence mischief comes to many—if by chanceSome passing traveller should unwittinglyDisturb them, all at once are on the wing,And all attack him, to defend their youngSo fearless and so fierce the MyrmidonsPoured from their fleet, and mighty was the din.Patroclus with loud voice exhorted them:—

“O Myrmidons, companions of the sonOf Peleus, bear in mind, my friends, your fameFor valor, and be men, that we who serveAchilles, we who combat hand to hand,May honor him by our exploits, and teachWide-ruling Agamemnon how he erredSlighting the bravest warrior of the Greeks.”

These words awoke the courage and the mightOf all who heard them, and in close arrayThey fell upon the Trojans. FearfullyThe fleet around them echoed to the soundOf Argives shouting. When the Trojans saw,In glittering arms, Menoetius’ gallant sonAnd his attendant, every heart grew faintWith fear; the close ranks wavered; for they thoughtThat the swift son of Peleus at the fleetHad laid aside his wrath, and was againThe friend of Agamemnon. EagerlyThey looked around for an escape from death.

Then first Patroclus cast his shining displeasureInto the crowd before him, where they foughtMost fiercely round the stern of the good shipOf brave Protesilaüs. There it smotePyraechmes, who had led from Amydon,On the broad Axius, his Paeonian knights.Through his right shoulder went the blade; he fell,Heavily groaning, to the earth. His bandOf warriors from Paeonia, panic-struck,Fled from Patroclus as they saw their chiefCut off, their bravest in the battle-field.So from the ship he drave the foe, and quenchedThe blazing fire. There lay the half-burnt barque,While with a mighty uproar fled the hostOf Troy, and from between the beaked shipsPoured after them with tumult infiniteThe Greeks. As when from some high mountaintopThe God of Lightnings, Jupiter, sweeps offThe overshadowing cloud, at once appearThe watch-lowers and the headland heights and lawnsAll in full light, and all the unmeasured depthOf ether opens, so the Greeks, when thusTheir fleet was rescued from the hostile flame,Breathed for a space; and yet they might not ceaseFrom battle, for not everywhere alikeWere chased the Trojans from the dark-hulled shipsBefore the Greeks, but struggled still to keepThe mastery, and yielded but to force.

Then in that scattered conflict of the chiefsEach Argive slew a warrior. With his spearThe brave son of Menoetius made a thrustAt Areilochus, and pierced his thigh,Just as he turned away, and through the partForced the keen weapon, splintering as it wentThe bone, and brought the Trojan to the ground;And warlike Menelaus pierced the breastOf Thoas where the buckler left it bare,And took his life. The son of Phyleus sawAmphiclus rushing on, and with his spearMet him and pierced his leg below the knee,Where brawniest is the limb. The blade cut throughThe sinews, and his eyes were closed in night.There fought the sons of Nestor. One of these,Antilochus, transfixed with his good spearAtymnius through the flank, and brought him downAt his own feet. With sorrow Maris sawHis brother fall, and toward AntilochusFlew to defend the corpse; but ere he strook,The godlike Thrasymedes, with a blowThat missed not, smote his shoulder, tearing offWith the spear’s blade upon the upper armThe muscles from the bone. With ringing armsHe fell, and darkness gathered o’er his eyes.Thus were two brothers by two brothers slain,And sent to Erebus; two valiant friendsWere they of King Sarpedon, and the sonsOf Amisodarus, who reared and fedChimera, the destroyer of mankind.

Oilean Ajax, springing forward, seizedOn Cleobulus, for the struggling crowdHindered his flight. He took the Trojan’s life,Smiting the neck with his huge-handled sword;The blade grew warm with blood, and cruel fateBrought darkness o’er the dying warrior’s eyes.Peneleus fought with Lycon; each had castHis spear and missed his aim, and now with swordsThe twain encountered. Lycon dealt a strokeUpon the crested helmet of his foe,And the blade failed him, breaking at the hilt.Meantime Peneleus smote beneath the earThe neck of Lycon: deep the weapon went;The severed head, held only by the skin,Dropped to one side, and life forsook the limbs.Meriones, o’ertaking Acamas,In rapid flight, discharged a mighty blowOn his left shoulder as he climbed his car;He fell, and darkness gathered o’er his eyes.Then plunged Idomeneus the cruel spearInto the mouth of Erymas. The bladePassed on beneath the brain, and pierced the neck,And there divided the white bones. It dashedThe teeth out; both the eyes were filled with blood,Which gushed from mouth and nostrils as he breathed;And the black cloud of death came over him.Thus every Grecian leader slew his man.

As ravening wolves that spring on lambs and kids,And seize them, wandering wide among the hillsBeyond the keeper’s care, and bear them off,And rend with cruel fangs their helpless prey,So fiercely did the Achaians fling themselvesUpon the men of Troy, who only thoughtOf flight from that tumultuous strife, and quiteForgot their wonted valor. All the whileThe greater Ajax sought to hurl his spearAt Hector, clad in brazen mail, who yet,Expert in battle, kept his ample chestHid by his bull’s-hide shield, and, though he heardThe hiss of darts and clash of spears, and sawThe fortune of the field deserting him,Lingered to rescue his beloved friends.

As from the summit of Olympus spreadsA cloud into the sky that late was clear,When Jove brings on the tempest, with such speedIn clamorous flight the Trojans left the fleet,Yet passed they not the trench in seemly plight.The rapid steeds of Hector bore him safeAcross with all his arms, while, left betweenThe high banks of the trench, the Trojan hostStruggled despairingly. The fiery steeds,Harnessed to many a chariot, left it thereWith broken pole. Patroclus followed close,With mighty voice encouraging the Greeks,And meditating vengeance on the foe,That noisily ran on, and right and leftWere scattered, filling all the ways. The dustRose thick and high, and spread, and reached the clouds,As with swift feet the Trojan coursers heldTheir way to Ilium from the tents and ships.Patroclus where he saw the wildest routDrave thither, shouting threats. Full many a chiefFell under his own axle from his car,And chariots with a crash were overthrown.The swift, immortal horses which the godsBestowed on Peleus leaped the trench at once,Eager to reach the plain. As eagerlyPatroclus longed to overtake and smiteHector, whose steeds were hurrying him away.

As when, in autumn time, the dark-brown earthIs whelmed with water from the stormy clouds,When Jupiter pours down his heaviest rains,Offended at men’s crimes who overrideThe laws by violence, and drive justice forthFrom the tribunals, heedless of the godsAnd their displeasure—all the running streamsAre swelled to floods—the furious torrents tearThe mountain slopes, and, plunging from the heightsWith mighty roar, lay waste the works of men,And fling themselves into the dark-blue sea—Thus with loud tumult fled the Trojan horse.

Patroclus, having cut the nearest bandsOf Troy in pieces, made his warriors turnBack to the fleet, and, eager as they were,Stopped the pursuit that led them toward the town.Then, in the area bounded by the sea,River, and lofty wall, he chased and smoteAnd took full vengeance. With his glittering spearHe wounded Pronoüs where the buckler leftThe breast exposed; the Trojan with a clashFell to the earth, and life forsook his limbs.Advancing in his might, Patroclus smoteThestor, the son of Enops, as he satCowering upon his sumptuous seat, o’ercomeWith fear, and dropped the reins. Through his right cheekAmong the teeth Patroclus thrust his spear,And o’er the chariot’s border drew him forthWith the spear’s stem. As when an angler sitsUpon a jutting rock, and from the seaDraws a huge fish with line and gleaming hook,So did Patroclus, with his shining spear,Draw forth the panting Trojan from his car,And shook him clear: he fell to earth and died.

As Eryalus then came swiftly on,Patroclus flung a stone, and on the browSmote him; the Trojan’s head, beneath the blow,Parted in two within the helm; he fellHeadlong to earth, a prey to ghastly death.Then slew he Erymas, Amphoterus,Epaltes, Pyris, Ipheus, Echius,Tlepolemus, Damastor’s son, and nextEuippus; nor was Polymelus spared,The son of Argias—smitten all, and thrown,Slain upon slain, along their mother earth.

And now Sarpedon, as he saw his friends,The unbelted Lycians, falling by the handOf Menoetiades, exhorted thusThe gallant Lycians: “Shame upon you all,My Lycians! Whither do you flee? Be bold!For I myself will meet this man, and learnWho walks the field in triumph thus, and makesSuch havoc in our squadrons; for his handHas laid full many a gallant warrior low.”

He spake, and from his car with all his armsSprang to the ground, while on the other sidePatroclus, as he saw him come, leaped downAnd left his chariot. As on some tall rockTwo vultures, with curved talons and hooked beaks,Fight screaming, so these two with furious criesAdvanced against each other. When the sonOf crafty Saturn saw them meet, his heartWas touched with pity, and he thus bespakeHis spouse and sister Juno: “Woe is me!Sarpedon, most beloved of men, is doomedTo die, o’ercome by Menoetiades.And now I halt between two purposes—Whether to bear him from this fatal fight,Alive and safe, to Lycia’s fertile fields,Or let him perish by his enemy’s hand.”

Imperial, large-eyed Juno answered thus:—“What words, dread son of Saturn, hast thou said!Wouldst thou deliver from the common lotOf death a mortal doomed long since by fate?Do as thou wilt, but be thou sure of this—The other gods will not approve. And bearIn mind these words of mine. If thou shouldst sendSarpedon home to Lycia safe, reflectSome other god may claim the right, like thee,To rescue his beloved son from deathIn battle; for we know that in the warRound Priam’s noble city are many sonsOf gods, who will with vehement anger seeThy interposing hand. Yet if he beSo dear to thee, and thou dost pity him,Let him in mortal combat be o’ercomeBy Menoetiades, and when the breathOf life has left his frame, give thou commandTo Death and gentle Sleep to bear him henceTo the broad realm of Lycia. There his friendsAnd brethren shall perform the funeral rites;There shall they build him up a tomb, and rearA column—honors that become the dead.”

She ceased, nor did the All-Father disregardHer words. He caused a bloody dew to fallUpon the earth in sorrow for the sonWhom well he loved, and whom Patroclus soonShould slay upon the fertile plain of Troy,Far from the pleasant land that saw his birth.

The warriors now drew near. Patroclus slewThe noble Thrasymelus, who had beenSarpedon’s valiant comrade in the war.Below the belt he smote him, and he fellLifeless. Sarpedon threw his shining lance;It missed, but struck the courser PedasusIn the right shoulder. With a groan he fellIn dust, and, moaning, breathed his life away.Then the two living horses sprang apart,And the yoke creaked, and the entangled reinsWere useless, fastened to the fallen horse.Automedon, the mighty spearman, sawThe remedy, and from his brawny thighHe drew his sword, and cut the outside horseLoose from his fellows. They again were broughtTogether, and obeyed the reins once more;And the two chiefs renewed the mortal fight.

And now, again, Sarpedon’s shining spearWas vainly flung; the point, in passing o’erPatroclus’s left shoulder, gave no wound.In turn, Patroclus, hurling not in vainHis weapon, smote him where the midriff’s webHolds the tough heart. He fell as falls an oakOr poplar or tall pine, which workmen hewAmong the mountains with their sharpened steelTo frame a ship. So he before his steedsAnd chariot fell upon the bloody dust,And grasped it with his hands, and gnashed his teeth.As when a lion coming on a herdSeizes, amid the crowd of stamping beeves,A tawny and high-mettled bull, that diesBellowing in fury in the lion’s jaws—Like him, indignant to be overcome,The leader of the bucklered Lycian host,Laid prostrate by Patroclus, called by nameHis dear companion, and addressed him thus:—

“Beloved Glaucus, mighty among men!Now prove thyself a hero, now be bold.Now, if thou have a warrior’s spirit, thinkOf nought but battle. Go from rank to rank,Exhorting all the Lycian chiefs to fightAround Sarpedon. Combat thou for meWith thy good spear, for I shall be to theeA shame and a reproach through all thy days,If here the Greeks, beside whose ships I fall,Bear off my armor. Stand thou firm, and stirThy people up to combat valiantly.”

While he was speaking, death crept o’er his sightAnd stopped his breath. Patroclus set his heelAgainst his bosom, and plucked out the spear;The midriff followed it, and thus he drewThe life and weapon forth at once. MeantimeThe Myrmidons held fast the snorting steeds,That, loosened from the Lycian’s car, were bentOn flight. The grief of Glaucus as he heardHis comrade’s voice was bitter, and his heartAched at the thought that he could bring no aid.He seized his arm and pressed it in his grasp,For there the wound which Teucer’s arrow left,When Glaucus stormed the wall and Teucer’s shaftsDefended it, still pained him grievously,And thus he prayed to Phoebus, archer-god:—

“Give ear, O king! wherever thou abide,In the opulent realm of Lycia, or in Troy;For everywhere thou nearest those who cryTo thee in sorrow, and great sorrow nowIs on me. Grievous is the wound I bear;Sharp are the pains that pierce my hand; the bloodCannot be stanched; my very arm becomesA burden; I can wield the spear no moreWith a firm grasp, nor combat with the foe.A mighty chief—Sarpedon, son of Jove—Has perished, and the father came not nighTo aid his son. Yet come thou to my aid,O monarch-god! and heal this painful wound,And give me strength to rally to the fightThe Lycian warriors, and myself contendValiantly for the rescue of the dead.”

So prayed he: Phoebus hearkened, and at onceAssuaged the pain, and stanched the purple bloodIn the deep wound, and filled his frame with strength.The warrior felt the change, rejoiced to knowThat with such friendly speed the mighty godGranted his prayer. And first he went amongThe Lycian chiefs, exhorting them to wageFierce battle for Sarpedon. Then he sought,Walking with rapid strides, the Trojan chiefs,Agenor, nobly born, Polydamas,The son of Panthoüs, Aeneas next,And Hector mailed in brass. By him he stood,And thus accosted him with wingèd words:—

“O Hector, thou art careless of the fateOf thine allies, who for thy sake, afarFrom those they love, and from their native land,Pour out their lives; thou bringest them no aid.Sarpedon lies in death, the chief who ledThe bucklered Lycians, who with justice swayedThe realm of Lycia, and defended itWith valor. Him hath brazen Mars beneathThe weapon of Patroclus smitten down.Come then, my friends, repulse we gallantlyThese Myrmidons; else will they bear awayHis armor and insult his corpse, to avengeThe havoc we have made among the GreeksWho perished by our weapons at the fleet.”

He spake, and grief immitigable seizedThe Trojans; for the slain, though stranger-born,Had been a pillar of the realm of Troy,And many were the troops that followed him,And he was bravest of them all in war.

Then rushed the Trojans fiercely on the Greeks,With Hector, sorrowing for Sarpedon’s fall,Leading them on, while the bold-hearted chief,Patroclus Menoetiades, arousedThe courage of the Greeks. He thus addressedThe warriors Ajax, eager like himselfFor combat: “Be it now your welcome task,O warriors Ajax, to drive back the foe;He who first sprang across the Grecian wall,Sarpedon, lies a corpse, and we must nowDishonor the dead chief, and strip from himHis armor, and strike down with our good spearsWhoever of his comrades shall resist.”

He spake, and all were resolute to beatThe enemy back; and when, on either side,Trojans and Lycians, Myrmidons and Greeks,Had put their phalanxes in firm array,They closed, with dreadful shouts and horrid clashOf arms, in fight around the dead, while JoveDrew o’er that deadly fray an awful veilOf darkness, that the struggle for the corpseOf his dear son might rage more furiously.The Trojans first drave back the dark-eyed Greeks,For one was in the onset smitten down,Not the least valiant of the Myrmidons—The son of brave Agacles, nobly bornEpeigeus, who aforetime, when he ruledThe populous Budeium, having slainA noble kinsman, fled a suppliantTo Peleus and the silver-footed queen,Thetis, his consort, and by them was sent,With terrible Achilles, to the coastOf courser-breeding Ilium and the siegeOf Troy. As now he stooped to seize the dead,Illustrious Hector smote him with a stoneUpon the forehead, cleaving it in twoIn the strong helmet; headlong on the corseHe fell, and cruel death crept over him.With grief Patroclus saw his comrade slain,And broke his way among the foremost ranks.As a swift hawk that chases through the airStarlings and daws, so didst thou dart amongTrojans and Lycians, for thy wrath was roused,O knight Patroclus! by thy comrade’s death.And now his hand struck Sthenelaüs down,The dear son of Ithaemenes; he flungA stone that crushed the sinews of the neck.Back drew illustrious Hector, and with himThe warriors who were fighting in the van.As far as one can send a javelin,When men contend in martial games, or meetTheir deadly enemies in war, so farWithdrew the Trojans, and the Greeks pursued.The leader of the bucklered Lycian host,Glaucus, was first to turn against his foes.He slew the brave Bathycles, the dear sonOf Chalcon, who in Hellas had his home,And was the richest of the Myrmidons.The Lycian, turning on him suddenlyAs he drew near pursuing, sent his spearRight through his breast, and with a clash he fell.Great was the sorrow of the Greeks to seeThat valiant warrior fall; the men of TroyExulted, and pressed round him in a crowd.Nor lacking was the valor of the Greeks,Who met them manfully. MerionesStruck down a Trojan chief, Laogonus,Onetor’s valiant son. His father stoodPriest at the altar of Idaean Jove,And like a god was honored by the realm.Below the jaw and ear MerionesSmote him, and instantly the life forsookHis limbs, and fearful darkness shrouded him.Straight at Meriones Aeneas aimedHis brazen spear to smite him, as he came,Beneath his buckler; but the Greek beheldThe weapon in the air, and, stooping low,Escaped it; over him it passed, and stoodFixed in the earth behind him, where its stemTrembled, for now the rapid steel had spentIts force. As thus it quivered in the ground,Aeneas, who perceived that it had leftHis powerful hand in vain, was vexed, and said:“Had I but struck thee, dancer as thou art,Meriones, my spear had suddenlyEnded thy dancing.” Then Meriones,The skilful spearman, answered: “Thou art brave,But thou wilt find it hard to overcomeThe might of all who gather to repulseThy onset. Thou art mortal, and if I,Aiming at thee with my good spear, should pierceThy bosom, valiant as thou art and proudOf thy strong arm, thy death would bring me praise,And send thy soul where gloomy Pluto dwells.”

He spake; the brave Patroclus heard, and thusRebuked him: “Why wilt thou, Meriones,With all thy valor, stand to make a speech?The foe, my friend, will not be forced to leaveThe corpse by insults; some of them must die.In deeds the issue of a battle lies;Words are for counsel. Now is not the timeTo utter swelling phrases, but to fight.”

He ended, and went on; the godlike manFollowed his steps. As when from mountain dellsRises, and far is heard, a crashing soundWhere woodmen fell the trees, such was the noiseFrom those who fought on that wide plain—the dinOf brass, of leather, and of tough bull’s-hideSmitten with swords and two-edged spears. No eye,Although of keenest sight, would then have knownNoble Sarpedon, covered as he lay,From head to foot, with weapons, blood, and dust;And still the warriors thronged around the dead.As when in spring-time at the cattle-stallsFlies gather, humming, when the milk is drawn,Round the full pails, so swarmed around the corpseThe combatants; nor once did Jove withdrawHis bright eyes from the stubborn fray, but stillGazed, planning how Patroclus should be slain.Uncertain whether, in the desperate strifeOver the great Sarpedon, to permitIllustrious Hector with his spear to layThe hero dead, and make his arms a spoil,Or spare him yet a while, to make the warMore bloody. As he pondered, this seemed best:That the brave comrade of Achilles firstShould put to flight the Trojans and their chief,Hector the brazen-mailed, pursuing themToward Troy with slaughter. To this end he sentInto the heart of Hector panic fear,Who climbed his car and fled, and bade the restFlee also, for he saw how Jove had weighedThe fortunes of the day. Now none remained,Not even the gallant Lycians, when they sawTheir monarch lying wounded to the heartAmong a heap of slain; for Saturn’s sonIn that day’s strife had caused a multitudeTo fall in death. Now when the Greeks had strippedSarpedon of the glittering brazen mail,The brave son of Menoetius bade his friendsConvey it to the hollow ships. MeanwhileThe Cloud-compeller spake to Phoebus thus:—

“Go now, beloved Phoebus, and withdrawSarpedon from the weapons of the foe;Cleanse him from the dark blood, and bear him thence,And lave him in the river-stream, and shedAmbrosia o’er him. Clothe him then in robesOf heaven, consigning him to Sleep and Death,Twin brothers, and swift bearers of the dead,And they shall lay him down in Lycia’s fields,That broad and opulent realm. There shall his friendsAnd kinsmen give him burial, and shall rearHis tomb and column—honors due the dead.”

He spake: Apollo instantly obeyedHis father, leaving Ida’s mountain height,And sought the field of battle, and bore offNoble Sarpedon from the enemy’s spears,And laved him in the river-stream, and shedAmbrosia o’er him. Then in robes of heavenHe clothed him, giving him to Sleep and Death,Twin brothers, and swift bearers of the dead,And they, with speed conveying it, laid downThe corpse in Lycia’s broad and opulent realm.

Meantime Patroclus, urging on his steedsAnd charioteer, pursued, to his own hurt,Trojans and Lycians. Madman! Had he thenObeyed the counsel which Pelides gave,The bitter doom of death had not been his.But stronger than the purposes of menAre those of Jove, who puts to flight the brave,And takes from them the victory, though heImpelled them to the battle; and he nowUrged on Patroclus to prolong the fight.

Who first, when thus the gods decreed thy death,Fell by thy hand, Patroclus, and who last?Adrastus first, Autonoüs next, and thenEcheclus; then died Perimus, the sonOf Meges; then with Melanippus fellEpistor; next was Elasus o’ercome,And Mulius, and Pylartes. These he slew,While all the rest betook themselves to flight.

Then had the Greeks possessed themselves of Troy,With all its lofty portals, by the handAnd valor of Patroclus, for his rageWas terrible beyond the rage of allWho bore the spear, had not Apollo stoodOn a strong tower to menace him with ill,And aid the Trojans. Thrice Patroclus climbedA shoulder of the lofty wall, and thriceApollo, striking his immortal handsAgainst the glittering buckler, thrust him down;And when, for the fourth time, the godlike manEssayed to mount the wall, the archer-god,Phoebus, encountered him with fearful threats:“Noble Patroclus, hold thy hand, nor deemThe city of the warlike Trojans doomedTo fall beneath thy spear, nor by the armOf Peleus’ son, though mightier far than thou.”

He spake; Patroclus, fearful of the wrathOf the archer-god, withdrew, and stood afar,While Hector, at the Scaean gates, restrainedHis coursers, doubtful whether to renewThe fight by mingling with the crowd again,Or gather all his host within the wallsBy a loud summons. As he pondered thus,Apollo stood beside him in the formOf Asius, a young warrior and a brave,Uncle of Hector, the great horse-tamer,And brother of Queen Hecuba, and sonOf Dymas, who in Phrygia dwelt besideThe streams of the Sangarius. Putting onHis shape and aspect, thus Apollo said:—

“Why, Hector, dost thou pause from battle thus?Nay, it becomes thee not. Were I in mightGreater than thou, as I am less, full soonWouldst thou repent this shrinking from the war.Come boldly on, and urge thy firm-paced steedsAgainst Patroclus; slay him on the field,And Phoebus will requite thee with renown.”

He spake, and mingled in the hard-fought fray,While noble Hector bade his charioteer,The brave Cebriones, ply well the lash,And join the battle. Phoebus went before,Entering the crowd, and spread dismay amongThe Greeks, and gave the glory of the hourTo Hector and the Trojans. Little heedPaid Hector to the rest, nor raised his armTo slay them, but urged on his firm-paced steedsTo meet Patroclus, who, beholding him,Leaped from his car. In his left hand he heldA spear, and with the other lifting upA white, rough stone, the largest he could grasp,Flung it with all its force. It flew not wide,Nor flew in vain, but smote Cebriones,The warlike chief who guided Hector’s steeds,A spurious son of Priam the renowned.The sharp stone smote his forehead as he heldThe reins, and crushed both eyebrows in; the boneResisted not the blow; the warrior’s eyesFell in the dust before his very feet.Down from the sumptuous seat he plunged, as divesA swimmer, and the life forsook his limbs.And this, Patroclus, was thy cruel jest:—

“Truly a nimble man is this who divesWith such expertness. Were this, now, the sea,Where fish are bred, and he were searching itFor oysters, he might get an ample storeFor many men, in leaping from a ship,Though in a storm, so skilfully he divesEven from the chariot to the plain. No doubtThere must be divers in the town of Troy.”

He spake, and sprang upon Cebriones.With all a lion’s fury, which attacksThe stables and is wounded in the breast,And perishes through his own daring; thus,Patroclus, didst thou fall upon the slain,While Hector, hastening also, left his steeds,And both contended for Cebriones.As lions for the carcass of a deerFight on a mountain summit, hungry both,And both unyielding, thus two mighty menOf war, Patroclus MenoetiadesAnd glorious Hector, eager each to smiteHis adversary with the cruel spear,Fought for Cebriones. The slain man’s headWas seized by Hector’s powerful hand, whose graspRelaxed not, while Patroclus held the foot;And, thronging to the spot, the other GreeksAnd Trojans mingled in the desperate strife.

As when the east wind and the south contendIn the open mountain grounds, and furiouslyAssail the deep old woods of beech and ashAnd barky cornel, flinging their long boughsAgainst each other with a mighty roar,And crash of those that break, so did the GreeksAnd Trojans meet with mutual blows, and slayEach other; nor had either host a thoughtOf shameful flight. Full many a trenchant spearWent to its mark beside Cebriones,And many a wingèd arrow that had leftThe bowstring; many a massive stone was hurledAgainst the ringing bucklers, as they foughtAround the dead, while he, the mighty, layStretched on the ground amid the eddying dust,Forgetful of his art of horsemanship.

While yet the sun was climbing to his placeIn middle heaven, the men of either hostWere smitten by the weapons, and in bothThe people fell; but when he stooped to the westThe Greeks prevailed, and from that storm of dartsAnd tumult of the Trojans they drew forthCebriones, and stripped him of his arms.Still rushed Patroclus onward, bent to wreakHis fury on the Trojans. Fierce as Mars,He charged their squadrons thrice with fearful shouts,And thrice he laid nine warriors in the dust.But as with godlike energy he madeThe fourth assault, then clearly was it seen,Patroclus, that thy life was near its end,For Phoebus terribly in that fierce strifeEncountered thee. Patroclus saw him notAdvancing in the tumult, for he movedUnseen in darkness. Coming close behind,He smote, with open palm, the hero’s backBetween the ample shoulders, and his eyesReeled with the blow, while Phoebus from his headStruck the tall helm, that, clanking, rolled awayUnder the horses’ feet; its crest was soiledWith blood and dust, though never till that hourHad dust defiled its horse-hair plume; for onceThat helmet guarded an illustrious head,The glorious brows of Peleus’ son, and nowJove destined it for Hector, to be wornIn battle; and his death was also near.The spear Patroclus wielded, edged with brass,Long, tough, and huge, was broken in his hands,And his broad buckler, dropping with its band,Lay on the ground, while Phoebus, son of Jove,Undid the fastenings of his mail. With mindBewildered, and with powerless limbs, he stoodAs thunderstruck. Then a Dardanian namedEuphorbus, son of Panthoüs, who excelledHis comrades in the wielding of the spear,The race, and horsemanship, approaching, smotePatroclus in the back with his keen spear,Between the shoulder-blades. Already heHad dashed down twenty warriors from their cars,Guiding his own, a learner in the artOf war. The first was he who threw a lanceAt thee, Patroclus, yet o’ercome thee not;For, plucking from thy back its ashen stem,He fled, and mingled with the crowd, nor daredAwait thy coming, though thou wert unarmed,While, weakened by that wound and by the blowGiven by the god, Patroclus turned and soughtShelter from danger in the Grecian ranks;But Hector, when he saw the gallant GreekThus wounded and retreating, left his placeAmong the squadrons, and, advancing, piercedPatroclus with his spear, below the belt,Driving the weapon deep. The hero fellWith clashing mail, and all the Greeks beheldHis fall with grief. As when a lion bearsA stubborn boar to earth, what time the twainFight on the mountains for a slender spring,Both thirsty and both fierce, the lion’s strengthLays prone his panting foe, so Priam’s sonSlew, fighting hand to hand, the valiant Greek,Son of Menoetius, who himself had slainSo many. Hector gloried over himWith wingèd words: “Patroclus, thou didst thinkTo lay our city waste, and carry offOur women captive in thy ships to Greece.Madman! In their defence the fiery steedsOf Hector sweep the battle-field, and I,Mightiest of all the Trojans, with the spearWill guard them from the doom of slavery.Now vultures shall devour thee, wretched youth!Achilles, mighty though he be, has broughtNo help to thee, though doubtless when he sentThee forth to battle, and remained within,He charged thee thus: ‘Patroclus, flower of knights,Return not to the fleet until thy handHath torn the bloody armor from the corpseOf the man-queller Hector.’ So he spake,And filled with idle hopes thy foolish heart.”

Then thou, Patroclus, with a faltering voice,Didst answer thus: “Now, Hector, while thou mayst,Utter thy boast in swelling words, since JoveAnd Phoebus gave the victory to thee.Easily have they vanquished me; ’twas theyWho stripped the armor from my limbs, for else,If twenty such as thou had met me, allHad perished by my spear. A cruel fateO’ertakes me, aided by Latona’s son,The god, and by Euphorbus among men.Thou who shalt take my spoil art but the third;Yet hear my words, and keep them in thy thought.Not long shalt thou remain alive; thy deathBy violence is at hand, and thou must fall,Slain by the hand of great Aeacides.”

While he was speaking, death stole over himAnd veiled his senses, while the soul forsookHis limbs and flew to Hades, sorrowingFor its sad lot, to part from life in youthAnd prime of strength. Illustrious Hector thusAnswered the dying man: “Why threaten me,Patroclus, with an early death? Who knowsThat he, thy friend, whom fair-haired Thetis bore,Achilles, may not sooner lose his life,Slain by my spear?” He spake, and set his heelUpon the slain, and from the wound drew forthHis brazen spear and pushed the corpse aside,And with the weapon hurried on to smiteGodlike Automedon, the charioteerOf swift Aeacides; but him the steedsFleet-footed and immortal, which the godsBestowed on Peleus, swiftly bore away.