Book XVIII: The Grief of Achilles for the Death of Patroclus

As thus they fought with all the rage of fire,Antilochus, the nimble-footed, cameWith tidings to Achilles. Him he foundBefore his lofty galleys, deep in thoughtOf what he knew had happened. With a sighThe hero to his mighty spirit said:—

“Ah me! Why should the Grecians thus be drivenIn utter disarray across the plain?I tremble lest the gods should bring to passWhat most I dread. My mother told me onceThat the most valiant of the Myrmidons,While yet I live, cut off by Trojan hands,Shall see the sun no more. It must be so:The brave son of Menoetius has been slain.Unhappy! ’Twas my bidding that, when onceThe enemy with his firebrands was repulsed,He should not think to combat gallantlyWith Hector, but should hasten to the fleet.”

As thus he mused, illustrious Nestor’s sonDrew near Achilles, and with eyes that shedWarm tears he gave his sorrowful message thus:—

“Son of the warlike Peleus, woe is me!For bitter are the tidings thou must hearOf what should not have been. Patroclus liesA naked corpse, and over it the hostsAre fighting; crested Hector hath his arms.”

He spake, and a black cloud of sorrow cameOver the chieftain. Grasping in both handsThe ashes of the hearth, he showered them o’erHis head, and soiled with them his noble face.They clung in dark lumps to his comely vest.Prone in the dust of earth, at his full length,And tearing his disordered hair, he lay.Then wailed aloud the maidens whom in warHe and Patroclus captured. Forth they came,And, thronging round him, smote their breasts and swooned.Antilochus mourned also, and shed tears,Holding Achilles by the hand, for muchHis generous nature dreaded that the chiefMight aim at his own throat the sword he wore.

Loud were the hero’s cries, and in the deepHis gracious mother, where she sat besideHer aged father, heard them. She too raisedA wail of sorrow. All the goddesses,Daughters of Nereus, dwelling in the depthsOf ocean, gathered to her side. There cameGlaucè, Thaleia, and Cymodocè,Nesaea, Speio, Halia with large eyes,And Thoa, and Cymothoë; nor stayedActaea, Limnoreia, Melita,Amphithoë, Iaera, Agavè,Doto, and Proto, and Dynamenè.There came Dexamene, Amphinomè,Pherusa, Callianira, Panopè,Doris, and Galateia, the renowned.With these Nemertes and Apseudes came,And Callianassa. Clymenè was there,Janeira and Janassa, and with themMaera, and Amatheia with bright hair,And Orithya, and whoever else,Children of Nereus, bide within the deep.The concourse filled the glimmering cave; they beatTheir bosoms, while the sorrowing Thetis spake:—

“Hear, sister Nereids, that ye all may knowThe sharpness of my sorrows. Woe is me,Unhappy! Woe is me! In evil hour,The mother of a hero—me who gaveBirth to so noble and so brave a son,The first among the warriors, saw him growLike a green sapling, reared him like a plantWithin a fruitful field, and sent him forthWith his beaked ships to Ilium and the warAgainst the Trojans. Never shall I seeThat son returning to his home, the hallsOf Peleus. While he lives and sees the lightOf day his lot is sorrow, nor can IHelp him in aught, though at his side; and yetI go to look on my beloved son,And learn from him what grief, while he remainsAloof from war, o’ertakes him in his tent.”

She spake, and left the cavern. All the nymphsWent with her weeping. Round their way the wavesOf ocean parted. When they reached the fieldsOf fertile Troas, up the shore they wentIn ordered files to where, a numerous fleet,Drawn from the water, round Achilles layThe swift ships of the Myrmidons. To himHis goddess mother came, and with a cryOf grief embraced the head of her dear son,And, mourning o’er him, spake these wingèd words:—

“Why weepest thou, my son? What sorrow nowO’ercomes thy spirit? Speak, and hide it not.All thou didst pray for once, with lifted hands,Has been fulfilled by Jove; the sons of Greece,Driven to their galleys, and with thy good helpWithdrawn from them, are routed and disgraced.”

The swift Achilles, sighing deeply, madeThis answer: “O my mother! True it isOlympian Jove hath done all this for me;But how can that delight me, since my friend,My well-beloved Patroclus, is no more?He whom, of all my fellows in the war,I prized the most, and loved as my own self,Is lost to me, and Hector, by whose handHe was cut off, has spoiled him of his arms—His dreaded arms, a wonder to the sightAnd glorious, which the gods of heaven bestowedOn Peleus, sumptuous bridal gifts, when thouWert led by them to share a mortal’s bed.Yet would that thou hadst evermore remainedAmong the immortal dwellers of the deep,And Peleus had espoused a mortal maid,Since now thy heart must ache with infinite griefFor thy slain son, whom thou shalt never moreWelcome returning to his home. No wishHave I to live or to concern myselfIn men’s affairs, save this: that Hector first,Pierced by my spear, shall yield his life, and payThe debt of vengeance for Patroclus slain.”

And Thetis, weeping, answered: “O my son!Soon must thou die; thou sayest true; that fateHangs over thee as soon as Hector dies.”

Again the swift Achilles, sighing, spake:“Then quickly let me die, since fate deniedThat I should aid my friend against the foesThat slew him. Far from his own land he fell,And longed for me to rescue him. And now,Since I am never more to see the landI love, and since I went not to defendPatroclus, nor the other Greeks, my friends,Of whom so many have fallen by the handOf noble Hector, but beside the fleetAm sitting here, a useless weight on earth,Mighty in battle as I am beyondThe other Grecian warriors, though excelledBy other men in council—would that StrifeMight perish among gods and men, with Wrath,Which makes even wise men cruel, and, though sweetAt first as dropping honey, growing, fillsThe heart with its foul smoke. Such was my rage,Aroused by Agamemnon, king of men.Yet now, though great my wrong, let things like theseRest with the past, and, as the time requires,Let us subdue the spirit in our breasts.I go in quest of Hector, by whose handMy friend was slain. My death will I acceptWhene’er to Jove and to the other godsIt shall seem good to send it. Hercules,Though mighty and beloved of Jupiter,The son of Saturn, could not shun his death,For fate and Juno’s cruel wrath prevailedAgainst him. I shall lie in death like him,If a like fate be measured out for me.Yet now shall I have glory; I shall doWhat many a Trojan and Dardanian dame,Deep-bosomed, wiping with both hands the tearsFrom their fair cheeks, shall bitterly lament;And well shall they perceive that, till this hour,I paused from war. Thou lov’st me; but seek notTo keep me from the field, for that were vain.”

The silver-footed Thetis thus rejoined:“Truly, my son, thy purpose is not ill,To rescue thy endangered friends from death.But with the Trojans are thy beautiful arms,Brazen and dazzling bright; their crested chief,Hector, exults to wear them: no long space,I think, will he exult; his death is near.Yet go not to the battle-field untilThine eyes shall look upon me yet again.I come tomorrow with the sun, and bringBright arms, the work of Vulcan’s royal hand.”

So having said, and turning from her son,She thus bespake her sisters of the sea:“Return to the broad bosom of the deep,To its gray Ancient and my father’s halls,And tell him all. I hasten to ascendThe summits of Olympus, there to askOf Vulcan, the renowned artificer,Armor of glorious beauty for my son.”

She spake: at once they plunged into the deep,While Thetis, silver-footed goddess, soughtOlympus, whence it was her hope to bringNew armor for her son. As thus her feetBore her toward heaven, the Achaians, fleeing fast,With infinite clamor, driven before the armOf the man-queller Hector, reached the shipsAnd Hellespont. Nor could the well-armed GreeksBear off Patroclus from the shower of darts;For rushing on them came both foot and horse,And Hector, son of Priam, like a flameIn fury. Thrice illustrious Hector seizedThe body by the heels to drag it off,And called his Trojans with a mighty shout.Thrice did the chieftains Ajax, terribleIn resolute valor, drive him from the dead.Yet kept he to his purpose, confidentIn his own might, now charging through the crowd,Now standing firm and shouting to his men,And never losing ground. As when, at night,Herdsmen that watch their cattle strive in vainTo drive a lion, fierce and famine-pinched,From some slain beast, so the two Ajaxes,With all their valor, vainly strove to keepHector, the son of Priam, from the corpse.And now would he have dragged it thence, and wonInfinite glory, had not Iris come—The goddess whose swift feet are like the wind—To Peleus’ son, a messenger from heaven,In haste, unknown to Jupiter and allThe other gods—for Juno sent her down—To bid the hero arm. She came and stoodBeside him, speaking thus with wingèd words:—

“Pelides, rise, most terrible of men,In rescue of Patroclus, over whomThey struggle fiercely at the fleet; for thereThey slay each other—these who fight to keepThe dead, and those, the men of Troy, who chargeTo drag him off to Ilium’s airy heights;And chief, illustrious Hector longs to seizeThe corpse, and from the delicate neck to hewThe head, and fix it on a stake. Arise,Loiter no longer;—rise, ashamed to leavePatroclus to be torn by Trojan dogs.For thine will be the infamy, if yetThe corpse be brought dishonored to thy tent.”

The swift Achilles listened and inquired:“Which of the gods, O Iris, speaks by thee?”And Iris, whose swift feet are like the wind,Answered: “The glorious spouse of Jupiter,Juno, hath sent me. Even Saturn’s son,On his high throne, knows not that I am sent,Nor any other of the gods who dwellUpon Olympus overspread with snow.”

“But how,” the swift Achilles asked again,“Shall I go forth to war? They have my arms,And my beloved mother strictly badeThat I should put no armor on untilI saw her face again. She promised meA suit of glorious mail from Vulcan’s hand.Nor know I any warrior here whose armsMight serve me, save, perhaps, it were the shieldOf Telamonian Ajax, who, I hope,Is in the van, and dealing death amongThe foe, in vengeance for Patroclus slain.”

Then the swift-footed Iris spake again:“They have thy glorious armor; that we knowBut go thou to the trench, and show thyselfTo them of Troy, that, haply smit with fear,They may desist from battle, and the hostOf Grecian warriors, overtoiled, may breatheIn a brief respite from the stress of war.”

So the fleet Iris spake, and passed away,And then arose Achilles, dear to Jove,While o’er his ample shoulders Pallas heldHer fringèd aegis. The great goddess causedA golden cloud to gather round his headAnd kindled in the cloud a dazzling flame.And as when smoke, ascending to the sky,Hangs o’er some city in a distant isle,Which enemies beleaguer, swarming forthFrom their own city, and in hateful strifeContend all day, but when the sun goes downForthwith blaze many bale-fires, sending upA brightness which the neighboring realms may see,That haply they may send their ships and driveThe war away—so from the hero’s headThat flame streamed upward to the sky. He cameWithout the wall and stood beside the trench,Nor mingled with the Greeks, for he reveredHis mother’s words. He stood and called aloud,And Pallas, from the host, returned his shout—A shout that carried infinite dismayInto the Trojan squadrons. As the soundOf trumpet rises clear when deadly foesLay siege to a walled city, such was heardThe clear shout uttered by Aeacides.The hearts of all who heard that brazen voiceWere troubled, and their steeds with flowing manesTurned backward with the chariots—such the dreadOf coming slaughter. When the charioteersBeheld the terrible flame that played unquenchedUpon the brow of the magnanimous sonOf Peleus, lighted by the blue-eyed maidMinerva, they were struck with panic fear.Thrice o’er the trench Achilles shouted; thriceThe men of Troy and their renowned alliesFell into wild disorder. Then there died,Entangled midst their chariots, and transfixedBy their own spears, twelve of their bravest chiefs.The Greeks bore off Patroclus from the fieldWith eager haste, and placed him on a bier,And there the friends that loved him gathered roundLamenting. With them swift Achilles came,The hot tears on his cheeks, as he beheldHis faithful comrade lying on his bier,Mangled with many wounds, whom he had sentWith steeds and car to battle, never moreTo welcome him alive on his return.

Now Juno, large-eyed and august, bade setThe never-wearied sun; unwillinglyHe sank into the ocean streams. Then pausedThe noble Greeks from that ferocious strife,Deadly in equal measure to both hosts.The Trojans also paused, and from their carsUnharnessed the fleet steeds, and ere they tookTheir evening meal assembled to consult.Standing they held the council; no man caredTo sit, for all were trembling from the hourWhen, long a stranger to the bloody field,Achilles showed himself again. And nowThe son of Panthoüs, wise Polydamas,Began to speak. Beyond the rest he sawThings past and things to come, and he had beenHector’s companion, born in the same night,Mighty in speech as Hector with the spear.With prudent admonitions thus he spake:—

“Consider well, my friends. My counsel isThat we return, nor wait the holy mornHere, by the fleet and in the open plain,Far from our city ramparts. While this manWas wroth with Agamemnon, we maintainedA strife of far less peril with the Greeks,And I was ever ready to encampBy night beside the galleys, which we hopedTo make our prize; but now I fear the mightOf swift Pelides. He will not remainContent upon the space between the fleetAnd town, where Greeks and Trojans wage a warOf changeful fortune, but will strive to takeThe city, and to carry off our wives.March we then homeward. Let my words prevail—It must be so. The gentle Night now keepsThe nimble-footed hero from the war.But if tomorrow, issuing forth in arms,He find us here, there are among us thoseWho will have cause to know him. Gladly thenWill he find refuge who escapes his armIn sacred Troy, and many a Trojan corpseWill feed the dogs and vultures. May mine earHear of it never. But if ye will heedMy words, though sorrowful, ye shall be safeAssembled in the city squares at night.The lofty towers and gates, with massive beamsPolished and strongly fitted each to each,Will keep the town. Tomorrow we shall take,At dawn, our station on the towers, arrayedIn armor, and his difficult task will be,Far from his ships, to fight us from below;And after he has tired his high-necked steedsWith coursing round the ramparts to and fro,Back to his galleys he must go; nor yetWith all his valor can he force his wayInto the town to lay its dwellings waste—The dogs will feed upon his carcass first.”

And crested Hector answered with a frown:“The counsel thou hast given, Polydamas,Pleases me not—that we return to bePent up in Troy. Are ye not weary yetOf lying long imprisoned within wallsAnd towers? The time has been that in all lands,Wherever human speech is heard, the fameOf Priam’s city, for its treasured goldAnd brass, was in all mouths. Those treasures nowHave passed away; our dwellings have them not.Much that we had was sold on Phrygia’s coast,And in Maeonia’s pleasant land, for JoveThe mighty was displeased with us. But now,When politic Saturn’s son hath granted meTo win great glory at the fleet, and holdThe Greeks imprisoned by the sea, refrain,Idler, from laying counsels such as theseBefore the people. Not a Trojan hereWill follow them, nor would I suffer it.Now hearken all, and act as I advise:First banquet, rank by rank, throughout the host,And set your guards, and each of you keep watch;And then, if any Trojan stands in fearFor his possessions, let him bring them allInto the common stock, to be consumed;Better that we enjoy them than the Greeks.Tomorrow, with the dawn and all in arms,We will do battle at the roomy shipsValiantly. If in truth the noble sonOf Peleus choose to rise and to defendThe ships, so much the worse for him, since IShall not for him desert the field, but standFirmly against him, whether he obtainThe victory or I. The chance of warIs equal, and the slayer oft is slain.”

So Hector spake: the Trojans shouted forthApplause, the madmen! Pallas took awayTheir reason; all approved the fatal planOf Hector; no one ventured to commendThe sober counsel of Polydamas.And then they banqueted throughout the host;But all night long the Achaians mourned with tearsPatroclus, while Pelides in the midst,Leading the ceaseless lamentation, placedHis slaughter-dealing hands upon the breastOf his companion with continual sighs.As a maned lion, from whose haunt withinThe thick, dark wood a hunter has borne offThe whelps, returning finds them gone, and grieves,And roams the valleys, tracking as he goesThe robber, bent to find him, for his rageIs fierce—with such fierce sorrow Peleus’ sonSpake, deeply sighing, to his Myrmidons:—

“O, idle were the words which once I spake,When in our palace-halls I bade the chiefMenoetius bear a cheerful heart. I saidThat I would bring to Opus yet again,Laden with spoil from Ilium overthrown,His valiant son. But Jove doth not fulfilThe plans of men. That both of us should stainEarth with our blood in Troy was the decreeOf fate, and never will the aged knightPeleus receive me in his palace-halls,Returning from the war, nor Thetis, sheWho gave me birth; the earth will hold me here.And now, since after thee I take my placeIn earth, Patroclus, I will not performThy funeral rites before I bring to theeThe arms and head of the magnanimous chiefHector, who slew thee. By thy funeral pileI will strike off in vengeance for thy deathThe heads of twelve illustrious Trojan youths.Thou meanwhile, lying at the beaked ships,Shalt be lamented night and day, with tears,By many a Trojan and Dardanian maid,Deep-bosomed, won by our victorious spearsAfter hard wars and opulent cities sacked.”

Thus having said, the great Achilles badePlace a huge tripod on the fire in haste,To cleanse Patroclus from the clotted blood.They brought and set upon the glowing hearthA tripod for the bath, and in it pouredWater, and piled the wood beneath. The flameCrept up the vessel’s rounded sides and warmedThe water. When within the murmuring brassIt boiled, they washed the dead, and with rich oilAnointed him, and filled the open woundsWith ointment nine years old; and laying himUpon a couch, they spread from head to footFine linen over him, and covered allWith a white mantle. Through the hours of nightThe Myrmidons, lamenting their dead chief,Wept round the swift Achilles. Then did JoveThus to his wife and sister Juno speak:—

“Large-eyed, imperial Juno, thou hast nowAccomplished thy desire, for thou hast rousedThe swift Achilles. There is not a doubtThe long-haired Argives owe their birth to thee.”

And large-eyed Juno answered: “What strange words,Austere Saturnius, hast thou said? A man,A mortal far less skilled in shaping meansTo compass ends, might do what I have doneAgainst his fellow-man. Then should not I—Who boast to be the chief of goddessesBy birthright, and because I bear the nameOf wife to thee who rulest o’er the gods—Plan evil to the Trojans, whom I hate?”

So talked they. Silver-footed Thetis cameMeanwhile to Vulcan’s halls, eternal, gemmedWith stars, a wonder to the immortals, wroughtOf brass by the lame god. She found him thereSweating and toiling, and with busy handPlying the bellows. He was fashioningTripods, a score, to stand beside the wallOf his fair palace. All of these he placedOn wheels of gold, that, of their own accord,They might roll in among the assembled gods,And then roll back, a marvel to behold.So far they all were finished; but not yetWere added the neat handles, and for theseThe god was forging rivets busily.While thus he labored, with a mind intentUpon his skilful task, on silver feetCame Thetis. Charis, of the snowy veil,The beautiful, whom the great god of fire,Vulcan, had made his wife, beheld, and cameForward to meet her, seized her hand, and said:—

“O Thetis of the flowing robe, belovedAnd honored, what has brought thee to our homeThou dost not often visit us. Come in,That I may pay the honors due a guest.”

So the bright goddess spake, and led the way,And seated Thetis on a sumptuous throne,With silver studs divinely wrought, and placedA footstool, and called out to Vulcan thus:“Come, Vulcan; Thetis here hath need of thee.”

And the great artist, Vulcan, thus replied:“Then of a truth a goddess is withinWhom I must ever honor and revere;Who from the danger of my terrible fallSaved me, what time my shameless mother soughtTo cast me from her sight, for I was lame.Then great had been my misery, had notEurynomè and Thetis in their lapsReceived me as I fell—Eurynomè,Daughter of billowy Ocean. There I dweltNine years, and many ornaments I wroughtOf brass—clasps, buckles, bracelets, necklaces—Within a vaulted cave, round which the tidesOf the vast ocean murmured and flung upTheir foam; nor any of the gods or menKnew of my hiding-place, save only theyWho saved me, Thetis and Eurynomè.And now, as she is with us, I must makeTo fair-haired Thetis some thank-offeringFor having rescued me. Haste, spread the boardAmply with generous fare, while I shall layAside my bellows and my implements.”

He spake, and from his anvil-block arose,A mighty bulk; his weak legs under him,Halting, moved painfully. He laid apartHis bellows from the fire, and gathered upThe scattered implements with which he wrought,And locked them in a silver chest, and wipedWith a moist sponge his face and both his hands,Stout neck and hairy chest. He then put onHis tunic, took his massive regal wandInto his hand, and, tottering, sallied forth.Two golden statues, like in form and lookTo living maidens, aided with firm gaitThe monarch’s steps. And mind was in their breasts,And they had speech and strength, and from the godsHad learned becoming arts. Beside their lordThey walked and tended him. As he drew near,Halting, to Thetis on the shining throne,He took the goddess by the hand and said:—

“What cause, O Thetis of the flowing robe,Honored and dear, has brought thee to our home?Not often com’st thou hither. Freely sayWhatever lies upon thy mind. My heartCommands me to obey, if it be aughtThat can be done and may be done by me.”

And Thetis answered, with a gush of tears:“O Vulcan! Of the goddesses who dwellUpon Olympus, is there one who bearsSuch bitter sorrows as Saturnian JoveInflicts on me, distressed above them all?Me, of the ocean deities, he forcedTo take a mortal husband—Peleus, sonOf Aeacus—and to his bed I cameUnwillingly. Within his palace-halls,Worn with a late old age, my husband lies.Now I have other woes; for when a sonWas granted me, and I had brought him forthAnd reared him, flourishing like a young plant,A sapling in a fertile field, and greatAmong the heroes—thus maturely trained,I sent him with his beaked ships to Troy,To combat with her sons; but never moreWill it be mine to welcome him returnedHome to the halls of Peleus. While to meHe lives, and sees the sunshine, he enduresAffliction, nor can I, though at his side,Aid him in aught. The maiden whom the GreeksDecreed him as his prize, the king of men,Atrides, took away, and grief for herConsumes his heart. The Trojans keep the GreeksBeleaguered by their ships, nor suffer themTo pass beyond their gates. The elder chiefsImplored him to relent, and offered himLarge presents; he refused to avert the doomThat threatened them himself, but sent insteadPatroclus to the war with his own arms,And with him sent much people. All the dayThey fought before the Scaean gates; and thenHad Ilium fallen, but that Apollo slewThe brave son of Menoetius, who had causedVast slaughter—slew him fighting in the vanOf war, and gave the glory of his deathTo Hector. Therefore I approach thy knees,And ask for him, my son, so soon to die,Buckler and helm, and beautiful greaves, shut closeWith clasps, and all the other arms complete,Which in the war my son’s companion lost.For now Achilles lies upon the groundBitterly grieving in his inmost soul.”

And Vulcan, the great artist, answered her:“Be comforted, and take no further thoughtOf this; for would I could as certainlyShield him from death’s dread summons when his hourIs come at last, as I shall have for himBeautiful armor ready to put on,And such as every man, of multitudesWho look on it hereafter, shall admire.”

So speaking he withdrew, and went where layThe bellows, turned them toward the fire, and badeThe work begin. From twenty bellows cameTheir breath into the furnaces—a blastVaried in strength as need might be; for nowThey blew with violence for a hasty task,And then with gentler breath, as Vulcan pleasedAnd as the work required. Upon the fireHe laid impenetrable brass, and tin,And precious gold and silver; on its blockPlaced the huge anvil, took the ponderous sledge,And held the pincers in the other hand.

And first he forged the huge and massive shield,Divinely wrought in every part—its edgeClasped with a triple border, white and bright.A silver belt hung from it, and its foldsWere five; a crowd of figures on its diskWere fashioned by the artist’s passing skill,For here he placed the earth and heaven, and hereThe great deep and the never-resting sunAnd the full moon, and here he set the starsThat shine in the round heaven—the Pleiades,The Hyades, Orion in his strength, and theBear near him, called by some the Wain,That, wheeling, keeps Orion still in sight,Yet bathes not in the waters of the sea.

There placed he two fair cities full of men.In one were marriages and feasts; they ledThe brides with flaming torches from their bowers,Along the streets, with many a nuptial song.There the young dancers whirled, and flutes and lyresGave forth their sounds, and women at the doorsStood and admired. Meanwhile a multitudeWas in the forum, where a strife went on—Two men contending for a fine, the priceOf one who had been slain. Before the crowdOne claimed that he had paid the fine, and oneDenied that aught had been received, and bothCalled for the sentence which should end the strife.The people clamored for both sides, for bothHad eager friends; the heralds held the crowdIn check; the elders, upon polished stones,Sat in a sacred circle. Each one took,In turn, a herald’s sceptre in his hand,And, rising, gave his sentence. In the midstTwo talents lay in gold, to be the meedOf him whose juster judgment should prevail.

Around the other city sat two hostsIn shining armor, bent to lay it waste,Unless the dwellers would divide their wealth—All that their pleasant homes contained—and yieldThe assailants half. As yet the citizensHad not complied, but secretly had plannedAn ambush. Their beloved wives meanwhile,And their young children, stood and watched the walls,With aged men among them, while the youthsMarched on, with Mars and Pallas at their head,Both wrought in gold, with golden garments on,Stately and large in form, and over allConspicuous, in bright armor, as becameThe gods; the rest were of an humbler size.And when they reached the spot where they should lieIn ambush, by a river’s side, a placeFor watering herds, they sat them down, all armedIn shining brass. Apart from all the restThey placed two sentries, on the watch to spyThe approach of sheep and horned kine. Soon cameThe herds in sight; two shepherds walked with them,Who, all unweeting of the evil nigh,Solaced their task with music from their reeds.The warriors saw and rushed on them, and tookAnd drave away large prey of beeves, and flocksOf fair white sheep, whose keepers they had slain.When the besiegers in their council heardThe sound of tumult at the watering-place,They sprang upon their nimble-footed steeds,And overtook the pillagers. Both bandsArrayed their ranks and fought beside the stream,And smote each other. There did Discord rage,And Tumult, and the great Destroyer, Fate.One wounded warrior she had seized alive,And one unbounded yet, and through the fieldDragged by the foot another, dead. Her robeWas reddened o’er the shoulders with the bloodFrom human veins. Like living men they rangedThe battle-field, and dragged by turns the slain.

There too he sculptured a broad fallow fieldOf soft rich mould, thrice ploughed, and over whichWalked many a ploughman, guiding to and froHis steers, and when on their return they reachedThe border of the field the master cameTo meet them, placing in the hands of eachA goblet of rich wine. Then turned they backAlong the furrows, diligent to reachTheir distant end. All dark behind the ploughThe ridges lay, a marvel to the sight,Like real furrows, though engraved in gold.

There, too, the artist placed a field which layDeep in ripe wheat. With sickles in their handsThe laborers reaped it. Here the handfuls fellUpon the ground; there binders tied them fastWith bands, and made them sheaves. Three binders wentClose to the reapers, and behind them boys,Bringing the gathered handfuls in their arms.Ministered to the binders. Staff in hand,The master stood among them by the sideOf the ranged sheaves and silently rejoiced.Meanwhile the servants underneath an oakPrepared a feast apart; they sacrificedA fatling ox and dressed it, while the maidsWere kneading for the reapers the white meal.

A vineyard also on the shield he graved,Beautiful, all of gold, and heavilyLaden with grapes. Black were the clusters all;The vines were stayed on rows of silver stakes.He drew a blue trench round it, and a hedgeOf tin. One only path there was by whichThe vintagers could go to gather grapes.Young maids and striplings of a tender ageBore the sweet fruit in baskets. Midst them all,A youth from his shrill harp drew pleasant sounds,And sang with soft voice to the murmuring strings.They danced around him, beating with quick feetThe ground, and sang and shouted joyously.

And there the artist wrought a herd of beeves,High-horned, and sculptured all in gold and tin.They issued lowing from their stalls to seekTheir pasture, by a murmuring stream, that ranRapidly through its reeds. Four herdsmen, gravedIn gold, were with the beeves, and nine fleet dogsFollowed. Two lions, seizing on a bullAmong the foremost cattle, dragged him offFearfully bellowing; hounds and herdsmen rushedTo rescue him. The lions tore their prey,And lapped the entrails and the crimson blood.Vainly the shepherds pressed around and urgedTheir dogs, that shrank from fastening with their teethUpon the lions, but stood near and bayed.

There also did illustrious Vulcan graveA fair, broad pasture, in a pleasant glade,Full of white sheep, and stalls, and cottages,And many a shepherd’s fold with sheltering roof.

And there illustrious Vulcan also wroughtA dance—a maze like that which Daedalus,In the broad realm of Gnossus once contrivedFor fair-haired Ariadne. Blooming youthsAnd lovely virgins, tripping to light airs,Held fast each other’s wrists. The maidens woreFine linen robes; the youths had tunics onLustrous as oil, and woven daintily.The maids wore wreaths of flowers; the young men swordsOf gold in silver belts. They bounded nowIn a swift circle—as a potter whirlsWith both his hands a wheel to try its speed,Sitting before it—then again they crossedEach other, darting to their former place.A multitude around that joyous danceGathered, and were amused, while from the crowdTwo tumblers raised their song, and flung themselvesAbout among the band that trod the dance.

Last on the border of that glorious shieldHe graved in all its strength the ocean-stream.

And when that huge and massive shield was done,He forged a corselet brighter than the blazeOf fire; he forged a solid helm to fitThe hero’s temples, shapely and enchasedWith rare designs, and with a crest of gold.And last he forged him greaves of ductile tin.

When the great artist Vulcan saw his taskComplete, he lifted all that armor upAnd laid it at the feet of her who boreAchilles. Like a falcon in her flight,Down plunging from Olympus capped with snow,She bore the shining armor Vulcan gave.