Book XXIV: The Body of Hector Recovered

The assembly was dissolved, the people allDispersed to their swift galleys, and preparedWith food and gentle slumber to refreshTheir wearied frames. But still Achilles wept,Remembering his dear comrade. Sleep, whose swayIs over all, came not; he turned and tossed,Still yearning for his strong and valiant friendPatroclus. All that they had ever doneTogether, all the hardships they had borne,The battles fought with heroes, the wild seasO’erpassed, came thronging on his memory.He shed warm tears, as now upon his sides,Now on his back, now on his face he lay.Then, starting from his couch, he wandered forthIn sorrow by the margin of the deep.Nor did the morn that rose o’er sea and shoreDawn unperceived by him; for then he yokedHis fleet steeds to the chariot, and made fastThe corse of Hector, that it might be draggedAfter the wheels. Three times around the tombOf Menoetiades he dragged the slain,Then turned and sought his tent, again to rest,And left him there stretched out amid the dustWith the face downward. Yet Apollo, movedWith pity for the hero, kept him freeFrom soil or stain, though dead, and o’er him heldThe golden aegis, lest, when roughly draggedAlong the ground, the body might be torn.

So in his anger did Achilles treatUnworthily the noble Hector’s corse.The blessed gods themselves with pity lookedUpon the slain, and bade the vigilant one,The Argus-queller, bear him thence by stealth.This counsel pleased the immortals all, exceptJuno and Neptune and the blue-eyed maid,And these persisted in their wrath. To themIlium, the hallowed city, and its king,Priam, and all his people, from the firstWere hateful; ’twas for Alexander’s fault,Affronting the two goddesses what timeThey sought his cottage, and preferring herWho ministered to his calamitous love.But now, when the twelfth morning from that dayArose, Apollo spake among the gods:—

“Cruel are ye, O gods, and prone to wrong.For was not Hector wont before your shrinesTo burn the thighs of chosen bulls and goats?And now that he is dead ye venture notTo rescue him, and let his wife and sonAnd mother and King Priam look againUpon his face. Soon would they light the pile,And burn the dead, and pay the funeral rite.Ye seek to favor, O ye gods, that pestAchilles, in whose breast there dwells no loveOf justice, nor a temper to be movedBy prayers, but who delights in savage deeds.And as a lion, conscious of vast strengthAnd scornful of resistance, falls uponThe shepherd’s flock, and slays for his repast,Thus with Achilles neither mercy dwellsNor shame, which often profits, often harmsMankind. For when another man has metA greater grief than he—has lost, perchance,A brother or a son—he dries at lengthHis tears, and ceases to lament; for fateBestows the power to suffer patiently.But this Achilles, after he has spoiledThe godlike Hector of his life in war,Hath bound him to his chariot, and hath draggedThe corse around his dear companion’s tomb.Unseemly is the deed, and small will beThe good it brings him. Brave although he be,We may be angry with him when he thusInsults a portion of insensible earth.”

The white-armed Juno was incensed, and spake:“So mightst thou say, God of the silver bow,Were equal honor to Achilles dueAnd Hector. Hector is a mortal man,And suckled at a woman’s breast. Not soAchilles; he was born of one of us,A goddess whom I nurtured and brought upAnd gave to Peleus. Ye were present all,Ye gods, when they were wedded. Thou wert thereTo share the marriage banquet, harp in hand,Thou plotter with the vile, thou faithless one!”

Then answered cloud-compelling Jove, and said:“Let not thy anger rise against the gods,O Juno, for the honor of the chiefsShall not be equal. Yet of all the raceOf mortals dwelling in the city of TroyWas Hector dearest to the gods; to meHe ever was; and never did he failTo offer welcome gifts. My altar ne’erLacked fitting feast, libation, and the fumeOf incense—hallowed rites which are our due.Yet seek we not to steal away the corseOf valiant Hector; that we could not doWithout his slayer’s knowledge, who by nightAnd day is ever near to him and keepsWatch o’er him like a mother. Let some godCall hither Thetis. I will counsel herPrudently, that Achilles may receiveRansom from Priam, and restore his son.”

He ceased, and with the swiftness of the stormRose Iris up, to be his messenger.Half way ’twixt Samos and the rugged coastOf Imbrus down she plunged to the dark sea,Entering the deep with noise. Far down she sankAs sinks the ball of lead, that, sliding o’erA wild bull’s horn, bears into ocean’s depthsDeath to the greedy fishes. There she foundThetis within her roomy cave, amongThe goddesses of ocean, seated roundIn full assembly. Thetis in the midstBewailed the fate of her own blameless son,About to perish on the fertile soilOf Troy, and far from Greece. The swift of wing,Iris, approached her and addressed her thus:—

“Arise, O Thetis. Father Jupiter,Whose counsel stands forever, sends for thee.”

And silver-footed Thetis answered him:“Why should that potent deity requireMy presence, who have many griefs, and shrinkFrom mingling with immortals? Yet I go,Perforce, for never doth he speak in vain.”

So spake the goddess-queen, and, speaking, tookHer mantle—darker web was never worn—And onward went. Wind-footed Iris ledThe way; the waters of the sea withdrewOn either side. They climbed the steepy shore,And took their way to heaven. They found the sonOf Saturn, him of the far-sounding voice,With all the blessed, ever-living godsAssembled round him. Close to Father JoveShe took her seat, for Pallas yielded it,And Juno put a beautiful cup of goldInto her hand, and spake consoling words.She drank and gave it back, and thus beganThe father of immortals and of men:—

“Thou comest to Olympus, though in grief,O goddess Thetis, and I know the causeThat makes thee sad and will not from thy thoughts;Yet let me now declare why I have calledThee hither. For nine days the immortal godsHave been at strife concerning Hector’s corseAnd Peleus’ son, the spoiler. They have askedThe vigilant Argus-queller to removeThe dead by stealth. But I must yet bestowFresh honor on Achilles, and thus keepThy love and reverence. Now descend at onceInto the camp and carry to thy sonMy message: say that it offends the gods,And me the most, that in his spite he keepsThe corse of Hector at the beaked ships,Refusing to restore it. He perchanceWill listen, and, revering me, give backThe slain. And I will send a messenger,Iris, to large-souled Priam, bidding himHasten in person to the Grecian fleet,To ransom his beloved son, and bringAchilles gifts that shall appease his rage.”

He spake: the goddess of the silver feet,Thetis, obeyed, and with precipitate flightDescended from the mountain-peaks. She cameTo her son’s tent, and found him uttering moansContinually, while his beloved friendsWere busy round him; they prepared a feast,And had just slain within the tent a eweOf ample size and fleece. She took her seatBeside her son, and smoothed his brow, and said:—

“How long, my son, wilt thou lament and grieveAnd pine at heart, abstaining from the feastAnd from thy couch? Yet well it is to seekA woman’s love. Thy life will not be sparedLong time to me, for death and cruel fateStand near thee. Listen to me; I am comeA messenger from Jove, who bids me sayThe immortals are offended, and himselfThe most, that thou shouldst in thy spite detainThe corse of Hector at the beaked ships,Refusing its release. Comply thou then,And take the ransom and restore the dead.”

And thus Achilles, swift of foot, replied:“Let him who brings the ransom come and takeThe body, if it be the will of Jove.”

Thus did the mother and the son conferAmong the galleys, and between them passedFull many a wingèd word, while Saturn’s sonBade Iris go with speed to sacred Troy:—

“Fleet Iris, haste thee. Leave the Olympian seats,And send magnanimous Priam to the fleet,To ransom his dear son, and bear him backTo Ilium. Let him carry gifts to calmThe anger of Achilles. He should goAlone, no Trojan with him, save a manIn years, a herald, who may guide the mulesAnd strong-wheeled chariot, harnessed to bear backHim whom the great Achilles has o’erthrown;And let him fear not death nor other harm,For we will send a guide to lead him safe,The Argus-queller, till he stand besideAchilles; and when once he comes withinThe warrior’s tent, Achilles will not raiseHis hand to slay, but will restrain the rest.Nor mad, nor rash, nor criminal is he,And will humanely spare a suppliant man.”

He spake, and Iris, the swift messenger,Whose feet are like the wind, went forth with speed,And came to Priam’s palace, where she foundSorrow and wailing. Round the father satHis sons within the hall, and steeped with tearsTheir garments. In the midst the aged manSat with a cloak wrapped round him, and much dustStrewn on his head and neck, which, when he rolledUpon the earth, he gathered with his hands.His daughters and the consorts of his sonsFilled with their cries the mansion, sorrowingFor those, the many and brave, who now lay slainBy Grecian hands. The ambassadress of JoveStood beside Priam, and in soft, low tones,While his limbs shook with fear, addressed him thus:—

“Be comforted, and have no fear; for IAm come, Dardanian Priam, not to bringMischief, but blessing. I am sent to theeA messenger from Jove, who, though afar,Pities thee and will aid thee. He who rulesOlympus bids thee ransom thy slain son,The noble Hector, carrying gifts to calmThe anger of Achilles. Thou shouldst goAlone, no Trojan with thee, save a manIn years, a herald, who shall guide the mulesAnd strong-wheeled chariot, harnessed to bring backHim whom the great Achilles has o’erthrown.And have no fear of death or other harm;A guide shall go with thee to lead thee safe,The Argus-queller, till thou stand besideAchilles, and when once thou art withinThe warrior’s tent, Achilles will not raiseHis hand to slay, but will restrain the rest.He is not mad, nor rash, nor prone to crime,And will humanely spare a suppliant man.”

Thus the swift-footed Iris spake, and thenDeparted. Priam bade his sons prepareThe strong-wheeled chariot, drawn by mules, and bindA coffer on it. He descended nextInto a fragrant chamber, cedar-lined,High-roofed, and stored with many things of price,And calling Hecuba, his wife, he said:—

“Dear wife, a message from Olympian JoveCommands that I betake me to the fleet,And thence redeem my slaughtered son with giftsThat may appease Achilles. Tell me nowHow this may seem to thee? for I am movedBy a strong impulse to approach the ships,And venture into the great Grecian camp.”

He spake: his consort wept, and answered thus:“Ah me! The prudence which was once so praisedBy strangers and by those who own thy sway,Where is it now? Why wouldst thou go aloneTo the Greek fleet, to meet the eye of himWho slew so many of thy gallant sons?An iron heart is thine. If that false man,Remorseless as he is, should see thee thereAnd seize thee, neither pity nor respectHast thou to hope from him. Let us lamentOur Hector in these halls. A cruel fateSpun, when I brought him forth, his thread of life—That far from us his corse should feed the houndsNear that fierce man, whose liver I could tearFrom out his bosom. Then the indignitiesDone to my son would be repaid, for heWas slain, not shunning combat, coward-like,But fighting to defend the men of TroyAnd the deep-bosomed Trojan dames. He fellWithout a thought of flight or of retreat.”

And thus the aged, godlike king rejoined:“Keep me not back from going, nor be thouA bird of evil omen in these halls,For thou shalt not persuade me. This I say:If any of the dwellers of the earth,Soothsayer, seer, or priest, had said to meWhat I have heard, I well might deem the wordsA lie, and heed them not. But since I heardMyself the mandate from a deity,And saw her face to face, I certainlyWill go, nor shall the message be in vain.And should it be my fate to perish thereBeside the galleys of the mail-clad Greeks,So be it; for Achilles will forthwithPut me to death embracing my poor son,And satisfying my desire to weep.”

He spake, and, raising the fair coffer-lids,Took out twelve robes of state most beautiful,Twelve single cloaks, as many tapestried mats,And tunics next and mantles twelve of each,And ten whole talents of pure gold, which firstHe weighed. Two burnished tripods from his storeHe added, and four goblets and a cupOf eminent beauty, which the men of ThraceGave him when, as an envoy to their coast,He came from Troy—a sumptuous gift, and yetThe aged king reserved not even thisTo deck his palace, such was his desireTo ransom his dear son. And then he draveAway the Trojans hovering round his porch,Rebuking them with sharp and bitter words:—

“Hence with you, worthless wretches! Have ye notSorrow enough at home, that ye are comeTo vex me thus? Or doth it seem to youOf little moment, that Saturnian JoveHath sent such grief upon me in the lossOf my most valiant son? Ye yet will knowHow great that loss has been; for it will beA lighter task for the beleaguering GreeksTo work our ruin, now that he is dead.But I shall sink to Hades ere mine eyesBehold the city sacked and made a spoil.”

He spake, and with his staff he chased awayThe loiterers; forth before the aged manThey went. With like harsh words he chid his sons.Helenus, Paris, noble Agathon,Pammon, Antiphonus, Deïphobus,Polites, great in war, Hippothoüs,And gallant Dios, nine in all he called,And thus bespake them with reproachful words:—

“Make haste, ye idle fellows, my disgrace!Would ye had all been slain beside the fleetInstead of Hector! Woe is me! The mostUnhappy of mankind am I, who hadThe bravest sons in all the town of Troy,And none of them, I think, are left to me.Mestor, divine in presence, Troilus,The gallant knight, and Hector, he who lookedA god among his countrymen—no sonOf man he seemed, but of immortal birth—Those Mars has slain, but these who are my shameRemain—these liars, dancers, excellentIn choirs, whose trade is public robberyOf lambs and kids. Why haste ye not to getMy chariot ready, and bestow these thingsWithin it, that my journey may begin?”

He spake, and they, in fear of his rebuke,Lifted from out its place the strong-wheeled car,Framed to be drawn by mules, and beautiful,And newly built, and on it they made fastThe coffer. From its pin they next took downThe boxwood mule-yoke, fitted well with rings,And carved with a smooth boss. With this they broughtA yoke-band nine ells long, which carefullyAdjusting to the polished pole’s far end,They cast the ring upon the bolt, and thriceWound the long band on each side of the boltAround the yoke, and made it fast, and turnedThe loose ends under. Then they carried forthThe treasures that should ransom Hector’s corse;And having piled them in the polished car,They yoked the hardy, strong-hoofed mules which onceThe Mysians gave to Priam, princely gifts.To bear the yoke of Priam they led forthThe horses which the aged man himselfFed at the polished manger. These the kingYoked, aided by the herald, while in mind,Within the palace court, they both revolvedTheir prudent counsels. Hecuba, the queen,Came to them in deep sorrow. In her handShe bore a golden cup of delicate wine,That they might make libations and depart.She stood before the steeds, and thus she spake:—

“Take this, and pour to Father Jove, and prayThat thou mayst safely leave the enemy’s campFor home, since ’tis thy will, though I dissuade,To go among the ships. Implore thou thenThe god of Ida and the gathererOf the black tempest, Saturn’s son, who looksDown on all Troy, to send his messenger,His swift and favorite bird, of matchless strength,On thy right hand, that, with thine eye on him,Thou mayst with courage journey to the shipsOf the Greek horsemen. But if JupiterAll-seeing should withhold his messenger,I cannot bid thee, eager as thou art,Adventure near the galleys of the Greeks.”

And thus the godlike Priam made reply:“Dear wife, indeed, I will not disobeyThy counsel; meet it is to raise our handsTo Jove, and ask him to be merciful.”

He spake, and bade the attendant handmaid pourPure water on his hands, for near him stoodA maid who came and held a basin forthAnd ewer. When his hands were washed, he tookThe goblet from the queen, and then, in prayer,Stood in the middle of the court, and pouredThe wine, and, looking heavenward, spake aloud:—

“O Father Jove, most glorious and most great,Who rulest all from Ida, let me findFavor and pity with Achilles. SendA messenger, thy own swift, favorite bird,Of matchless strength, on my right hand, that I,Beholding him, may confidently passTo where the fleet of the Greek horsemen lies!”

Thus in his prayer he spake, and Jupiter,The All-disposer, hearkened, and sent forthAn eagle, bird of surest augury,Named the Black Chaser, and by others calledPercnos, with wings as broad as is the doorSkilfully fashioned for the lofty hallOf some rich man, and fastened with a bolt.Such ample wings he spread on either sideAs townward on the right they saw him fly.They saw and they rejoiced; their hearts grew lightWithin their bosoms. Then the aged kingHastened to mount the polished car, and draveThrough vestibule and echoing porch. The mules,Harnessed to draw the four-wheeled car, went first,Driven by the sage Idaeus; after them,The horses, urged by Priam with the lashRapidly through the city. All his friendsFollowed lamenting, as for one who wentTo meet his death. And now when they had reachedThe plain descending from the town, the sonsAnd sons-in-law of Priam all returnedTo Ilium, and the twain proceeded on,Yet not unmarked by all-beholding Jove,Who, moved with pity for the aged man,Turned to his well-beloved son and said:—

“Hermes, who more than any other godDelightest to consort with human kind,And willingly dost listen to their prayers,Haste, guide King Priam to the Grecian fleet,Yet so that none may see him, and no GreekKnow of his coming, till he stand beforePelides.” Thus he spake: the messengerWho slew the Argus hearkened and obeyed;And hastily beneath his feet he boundThe fair, ambrosial, golden sandals wornTo bear him over ocean like the wind,And o’er the boundless land. His wand he tookWherewith he seals in sleep the eyes of men,And opens them at will. With this in hand,The mighty Argus-queller flew, and soonWas at the Troad and the Hellespont.Like to some royal stripling seemed the god,In youth’s first prime, when youth has most of grace.And there the Trojans twain, when they had passedThe tomb of Ilus, halted with their mulesAnd horses, that the beasts might drink the stream;For twilight now was creeping o’er the earth.The herald looked, and saw that MercuryWas near, and thus, addressing Priam, said:—

“Be on thy guard, O son of Dardanus,For here is cause for wariness. I seeA warrior, and I think he seeks our lives.Now let us urge our steeds and fly, or elseDescend and clasp his knees, and sue for grace.”

He spake, and greatly was the aged kingBewildered by his words; with hair erectHe stood, and motionless, while MercuryDrew near, and took the old man’s hand, and asked:—

“Whither, O father, guidest thou thy mulesAnd steeds in the dim night, while others sleep?Fearest thou nothing from the warlike Greeks,Thy foes, who hate thee, and are near at hand?Should one of them behold thee bearing offThese treasures in the swiftly darkening night,What wouldst thou do? Thou art not young, and heWho comes with thee is old; ye could not makeDefence against the foe. Fear nought from me,And I will save thee, since thou art so likeTo my own father, from all other harm.”

Priam, the godlike ancient, answered thus:“Thou sayest true, dear son; but sure some godHolds over me his kind, protecting hand,Who sends a guide like thee to join me here,So noble art thou both in form and air,And gracious are thy thoughts, and blessed theyWho gave thee birth.” With that the messenger,The Argus-queller, spake again, and said:“Most wisely hast thou spoken, aged man.But tell, and truly, why thou bearest henceThis store of treasures among stranger men?Is it that they may be preserved for thee?Or are ye all deserting in alarmYour hallowed Troy? for such a man of mightWas thy brave son who died, that I may sayThe Greeks in battle had no braver man.”

And Priam, godlike ancient, spake in turn:“Who then art thou, and of what parents born,Excellent youth, who dost in such kind wordsSpeak of the death of my unhappy son?”

The herald, Argus-queller, answered him:“I see that thou wouldst prove me, aged man,By questions touching Hector, whom I oftHave seen with mine own eyes in glorious fight,Putting the Greeks to rout and slaying themBy their swift ships with that sharp spear of his.We stood and marvelled, for Achilles, wrothWith Agamemnon, would not suffer usTo join the combat. I attend on him;The same good galley brought us to this shore,And I am one among his Myrmidons.Polyctor is my father, who is rich,And now as old as thou. Six are his sonsBeside me, I the seventh. In casting lotsWith them, it fell to me that I should comeTo Ilium with Achilles. I am hereIn coming from the fleet, for with the dawnThe dark-eyed Greeks are planning to renewThe war around the city. They have grownImpatient of long idleness; their chiefsSeek vainly to restrain their warlike rage.”

Then spake the godlike ancient, Priam, thus:“If thou indeed dost serve Pelides, tell,And truly tell me, whether yet my sonIs at the fleet, or has Achilles cast,Torn limb from limb, his body to the hounds?”

The herald, Argus-queller, thus replied:“O aged monarch, neither have the houndsDevoured thy son, nor yet the birds of prey;But near the galleys of Achilles stillHe lies neglected and among the tents.Twelve mornings have beheld him lying there,Nor hath corruption touched him, nor the wormsThat make the slain their feast begun to feed.’Tis true that, when the holy morning dawnsAchilles drags him fiercely round the tombOf his dear friend; yet that disfigures notThe dead. Shouldst thou approach him, thou wouldst seeWith marvelling eyes how fresh and dewy stillThe body lies, the blood all cleansed away,Unsoiled in every part, and all the woundsClosed up wherever made; for many a spearWas thrust into his sides. Thus tenderlyThe blessed gods regard thy son, though dead,For dearly was he loved by them in life.”

He spake; the aged man was comforted,And said: “ ’Tis meet, O son, that we should payOblations to the immortals; for my sonWhile yet alive neglected not withinHis palace the due worship of the godsWho dwell upon Olympus; therefore theyAre mindful of him, even after death.Take this magnificent goblet; be my guard,And guide me, by the favor of the gods,Until I reach Pelides in his tent.”

Again the herald, Argus-queller, spake:“Thou seekest yet to try me, aged man,Who younger am than thou. Yet think thou notThat I, without the knowledge of my chief,Will take thy gifts; for in my heart I fearAchilles, nor would wrong him in the least,Lest evil come upon me. Yet I goWillingly with thee, as thy faithful guide.Were it as far as Argos the renowned,In a swift galley, or on foot by land,Yet none would dare to harm thee while with me.”

So Hermes spake, and leaped into the car,And took into his hands the lash and reins,And breathed into the horses and the mulesFresh vigor. Coming to the wall and trenchAbout the ships, they found the guard engagedWith their night-meal. The herald ArgicidePoured sleep upon them all, and quickly flungThe gates apart, and pushed aside the bars,And led in Priam, with the costly giftsHeaped on the car. They went until they reachedThe lofty tent in which Achilles sat,Reared by the Myrmidons to lodge their king,With timbers of hewn fir, and over-roofedWith thatch, for which the meadows had been mown,And fenced for safety round with rows of stakes.One fir-tree bar made fast its gate, which threeStrong Greeks were wont to raise aloft, and threeWere needed to take down the massive beam.Achilles wielded the vast weight alone;Beneficent Hermes opened it beforeThe aged man, and brought the treasures in,Designed for swift Achilles. Then he leftThe car and stood upon the ground, and said:—

“O aged monarch, I am Mercury,An ever-living god; my father, Jove,Bade me attend thy journey. I shall nowReturn, nor must Achilles look on me;It is not meet that an immortal godShould openly befriend a mortal man.Enter, approach Pelides, clasp his knees;Entreat him by his father, and his son,And fair-haired mother; so shall he be moved.”

Thus having spoken, Hermes took his wayBack to the Olympian summit. Priam thenSprang from the chariot to the ground. He leftIdaeus there to guard the steeds and mules,And, hastening to the tent where, dear to Jove,Achilles lodged, he found the chief within,While his companions sat apart, save two—Automedon the brave, and Alcimus,Who claimed descent from Mars. These stood near by,And ministered to Peleus’ son, who thenWas closing a repast, and had just leftThe food and wine, and still the table stood.Unmarked the royal Priam entered in,And, coming to Achilles, clasped his knees,And kissed those fearful slaughter-dealing hands,By which so many of his sons had died.And as, when some blood-guilty man, whose handIn his own land has slain a fellow-man,Flees to another country, and the abodeOf some great chieftain, all men look on himAstonished—so, when godlike Priam firstWas seen, Achilles was amazed, and allLooked on each other, wondering at the sight.And thus King Priam supplicating spake:—

“Think of thy father, an old man like me,Godlike Achilles! On the dreary vergeOf closing life he stands, and even nowHaply is fiercely pressed by those who dwellAround him, and has none to shield his ageFrom war and its disasters. Yet his heartRejoices when he hears thou yet dost live,And every day he hopes that his dear sonWill come again from Troy. My lot is hard,For I was father of the bravest sonsIn all wide Troy, and none are left me now.Fifty were with me when the men of GreeceArrived upon our coast; nineteen of theseOwned the same mother, and the rest were bornWithin my palaces. Remorseless MarsAlready had laid lifeless most of these,And Hector, whom I cherished most, whose armDefended both our city and ourselves,Him didst thou lately slay while combatingFor his dear country. For his sake I comeTo the Greek fleet, and to redeem his corseI bring uncounted ransom. O, revereThe gods, Achilles, and be merciful,Calling to mind thy father! Happier heThan I; for I have borne what no man elseThat dwells on earth could bear—have laid my lipsUpon the hand of him who slew my son.”He spake: Achilles sorrowfully thoughtOf his own father. By the hand he tookThe suppliant, and with gentle force removedThe old man from him. Both in memoryOf those they loved were weeping. The old king,With many tears, and rolling in the dustBefore Achilles, mourned his gallant son.Achilles sorrowed for his father’s sake,And then bewailed Patroclus, and the soundOf lamentation filled the tent. At lastAchilles, when he felt his heart relievedBy tears, and that strong grief had spent its force,Sprang from his seat; then lifting by the handThe aged man, and pitying his white headAnd his white chin, he spake these wingèd words:—

“Great have thy sufferings been, unhappy king!How couldst thou venture to approach aloneThe Grecian fleet, and show thyself to himWho slew so many of thy valiant sons?An iron heart is thine. But seat thyself,And let us, though afflicted grievously,Allow our woes to sleep awhile, for griefIndulged can bring no good. The gods ordainThe lot of man to suffer, while themselvesAre free from care. Beside Jove’s threshold standTwo casks of gifts for man. One cask containsThe evil, one the good, and he to whomThe Thunderer gives them mingled sometimes fallsInto misfortune, and is sometimes crownedWith blessings. But the man to whom he givesThe evil only stands a mark exposedTo wrong, and, chased by grim calamity,Wanders the teeming earth, alike unlovedBy gods and men. So did the gods bestowMunificent gifts on Peleus from his birth,For eminent was he among mankindFor wealth and plenty; o’er the MyrmidonsHe ruled, and, though a mortal, he was givenA goddess for a wife. Yet did the godsAdd evil to the good, for not to himWas born a family of kingly sonsWithin his house, successors to his reign.One short-lived son is his, nor am I thereTo cherish him in his old age; but hereDo I remain, far from my native land,In Troy, and causing grief to thee and thine.Of thee too, aged king, they speak, as oneWhose wealth was large in former days, when allThat Lesbos, seat of Macar, owns was thine,And all in Phrygia and the shores that boundThe Hellespont; men said thou didst excelAll others in thy riches and thy sons.But since the gods have brought this strife on theeWar and perpetual slaughter of brave menAre round thy city. Yet be firm of heart,Nor grieve forever. Sorrow for thy sonWill profit nought; it cannot bring the deadTo life again, and while thou dost afflictThyself for him fresh woes may fall on thee.”

And thus the godlike Priam, aged king,Made answer: “Bid me not be seated here,Nursling of Jove, while Hector lies amongThy tents unburied. Let me ransom himAt once, that I may look on him once moreWith my own eyes. Receive the many giftsWe bring thee, and mayst thou possess them long,And reach thy native shore, since by thy graceI live and yet behold the light of day.”

Achilles heard, and, frowning, thus rejoined:“Anger me not, old man; ’twas in my thoughtTo let thee ransom Hector. To my tentThe mother came who bore me, sent from Jove,The daughter of the Ancient of the Sea,And I perceive, nor can it be concealed,O Priam, that some god hath guided theeTo our swift galleys; for no mortal man,Though in his prime of youthful strength, would dareTo come into the camp; he could not passThe guard, nor move the beams that bar our gates.So then remind me of my griefs no more,Lest, suppliant as thou art, I leave thee notUnharmed, and thus transgress the laws of Jove.”

He spake: the aged man in fear obeyed.And then Pelides like a lion leapedForth from the door, yet not alone he went;For of his comrades two—Automedon,The hero, and his comrade Alcimus,He whom Achilles held in most esteemAfter the slain Patroclus—followed him.The mules and horses they unyoked, and ledThe aged monarch’s clear-voiced herald in,And bade him sit. Then from the polished carThey took the costly ransom of the corseOf Hector, save two cloaks, which back they laidWith a fair tunic, that their chief might giveThe body shrouded to be borne to Troy.And then he called the maidens, bidding themWash and anoint the dead, yet far apartFrom Priam, lest, with looking on his son,The grief within his heart might rise uncurbedTo anger, and Achilles in his rageMight stay him and transgress the laws of Jove.And when the handmaids finished, having washedThe body and anointed it with oil,And wrapped a sumptuous cloak and tunic roundThe limbs, Achilles lifted it himselfAnd placed it on a bier. His comrades gaveTheir aid, and raised it to the polished car.When all was done, Achilles groaned, and calledBy name the friend he dearly loved, and said:—

“O my Patroclus, be not wroth with meShouldst thou in Hades hear that I restoreHector to his dear father, since I takeA ransom not unworthy; but of thisI yield to thee the portion justly thine.”

So spake the godlike warrior, and withdrewInto his tent, and took the princely seatFrom which he had arisen, oppositeTo that of Priam, whom he thus bespake:—

“Behold thy son is ransomed, aged man,As thou hast asked, and lies upon his bier.Thou shalt behold him with the early dawn,And bear him hence. Now let us break our fast,For even Niobe, the golden-haired,Refrained not from her food, though children twelvePerished within her palace—six young sonsAnd six fair daughters. Phoebus slew the sonsWith arrows from his silver bow, incensedAt Niobe, while Dian, archer queen,Struck down the daughters; for the mother daredTo make herself the peer of rosy-cheekedLatona, who, she boastfully proclaimed,Had borne two children only, while herselfHad brought forth many. Yet, though only two,The children of Latona took the livesOf all her own. Nine days the corses layIn blood, and there was none to bury them,For Jove had changed the dwellers of the placeTo stone; but on the tenth the gods of heavenGave burial to the dead. Yet Niobe,Though spent with weeping long, did not refrainFrom food. And now forever mid the rocksAnd desert hills of Sipylus, where lie,Fame says, the couches of the goddess-nymphs,Who lead the dance where Acheloüs flows,Although she be transformed to stone, she broodsOver the woes inflicted by the gods.But now, O noble Ancient, let us sitAt our repast, and thou mayst afterwardMourn thy beloved son, while bearing himHomeward, to be bewailed with many tears.”

Achilles, the swift-footed, spake, and leftHis seat, and, slaying a white sheep, he badeHis comrades flay and dress it. Then they carvedThe flesh in portions which they fixed on spits,And roasted carefully, and drew them back.And then Automedon distributedThe bread in shapely canisters aroundThe table, while Achilles served the flesh,And all put forth their hands and shared the feast.But when their thirst and hunger were appeased,Dardanian Priam fixed a wondering lookUpon Achilles, who in noblenessOf form was like the gods. Achilles fixedA look of equal wonder on his guest,Dardanian Priam, for he much admiredHis gracious aspect and his pleasant speech.And when at length they both withdrew their gaze,Priam, the godlike Ancient, spake, and said:—

“Nursling of Jove, dismiss me speedilyTo rest, that we may lie, and be refreshedWith gentle slumbers. Never have these eyesBeen closed beneath their lids, since by thy handMy Hector lost his life; and evermoreI mourn and cherish all my griefs, and writheUpon the ground within my palace courts;But I have taken food at last, and drunkDraughts of red wine, untasted till this hour.”

Achilles bade the attending men and maidsPlace couches in the porch, and over themDraw sumptuous purple mats on which to layEmbroidered tapestries, and on each of theseSpread a broad, fleecy mantle, covering all.Forth went the train with torches in their hands,And quickly spread two couches. Then the swiftAchilles pleasantly to Priam said:—

“Sleep, excellent old man, without the tent,Lest some one of our counsellors arrive,Such as oft come within my tent to sitAnd talk of warlike matters. Seeing theeIn the dark hours of night, he might relateThe tale to Agamemnon, king of men,And hinder thus the ransom of thy son.But say, and truly say, how many daysRequirest thou to pay the funeral ritesTo noble Hector, so that I may restAs many, and restrain the troops from war.”

Then answered godlike Priam, aged king:“Since, then, thou wilt, Achilles, that we payThe rites of burial to my noble son,I own the favor. Well thou knowest howWe Trojans are constrained to keep withinThe city walls, for it is far to bringWood from the mountains, and we fear to dareThe journey. Nine days would we mourn the deadWithin our dwellings, and upon the tenthWould bury him, and make a solemn feast,And the next day would rear his monument,And on the twelfth, if needful, fight again.”

And swift Achilles, godlike chief, rejoined:“Be it, O reverend Priam, as thou wilt,And for that space will I delay the war.”

He spake, and that the aged king might feelNo fear, he grasped his right hand at the wrist;And then King Priam and the herald wentTo sleep within the porch, but wary still.Achilles slumbered in his stately tent,The rosy-cheeked Briseis at his side,And all the other gods and men who foughtIn chariots gave themselves to slumber, saveBeneficent Hermes; sleep came not to him,For still he meditated how to bringKing Priam back from the Achaian fleetUnnoticed by the watchers at the gate.So at the monarch’s head he stood, and spake:—

“O aged king, thou givest little heedTo danger, sleeping thus amid thy foes,Because Achilles spares thee. Thou hast paidLarge ransom for thy well-beloved son,And yet the sons whom thou hast left in TroyWould pay three times that ransom for thy life,Should Agamemnon, son of Atreus, learn—Or any of the Greeks—that thou art here.”

He spake: the aged king in fear awakedThe herald. Hermes yoked the steeds and mules,And drave them quickly through the camp unmarkedBy any there. But when they reached the fordWhere Xanthus, progeny of Jupiter,Rolls the smooth eddies of his stream, the godDeputed for the Olympian height, and MornIn saffron robes o’erspread the Earth with light.Townward they urged the steeds, and as they wentSorrowed and wailed: the mules conveyed the dead,And they were seen by none of all the menAnd graceful dames of Troy save one alone.Cassandra, beautiful as Venus, stoodOn Pergamus, and from its height discernedHer wither, standing on the chariot-seat,And knew the herald, him whose voice so oftSummoned the citizens, and knew the deadStretched on a litter drawn by mules. She raisedHer voice, and called to all the city thus:—

“O Trojan men and women, hasten forthTo look on Hector, if ye e’er rejoicedTo see him coming from the field alive,The pride of Troy, and all who dwell in her.”

She spake, and suddenly was neither manNor woman left within the city bounds.Deep grief was on them all; they went to meet,Near to the gates, the monarch bringing homeThe dead. And first the wife whom Hector lovedRushed with his reverend mother to the carAs it rolled on, and, plucking out their hair,Touched with their hands the forehead of the dead,While round it pressed the multitude, and wept,And would have wept before the gates all day,Even to the set of sun, in bitter griefFor Hector’s loss, had not the aged manAddressed the people from his chariot-seat:“Give place to me, and let the mules pass on,And ye may weep your fill when once the deadIs laid within the palace.” As he spake,The throng gave way and let the chariot pass;And having brought it to the royal halls,On a fair couch they laid the corse, and placedSingers beside it, leaders of the dirge,Who sang a sorrowful, lamenting strain,And all the women answered it with sobs.White-armed Andromache in both her handsTook warlike Hector’s head, and over itBegan the lamentation midst them all:—

“Thou hast died young, my husband, leaving meIn this thy home a widow, and one son,An infant yet. To an unhappy pairHe owes his birth, and never will, I fear,Bloom into youth; for ere that day will TroyBe overthrown, since thou, its chief defence,Art dead, the guardian of its walls and allIts noble matrons and its speechless babes,Yet to be carried captive far away,And I among them, in the hollow barques;And thou, my son, wilt either go with me,Where thou shalt toil at menial tasks for somePitiless master; or perhaps some GreekWill seize thy little arm, and in his rageWill hurl thee from a tower and dash thee dead,Remembering how thy father, Hector, slewHis brother, son, or father; for the handOf Hector forced full many a Greek to biteThe dust of earth. Not slow to smite was heIn the fierce conflict; therefore all who dwellWithin the city sorrow for his fall.Thou bringest an unutterable grief,O Hector, on thy parents, and on meThe sharpest sorrows. Thou didst not stretch forthThy hands to me, in dying, from thy couch,Nor speak a word to comfort me, which IMight ever think of night and day with tears.”

So spake the weeping wife: the women allMingled their wail with hers, and HecubaTook up the passionate lamentation next:—

“O Hector, thou who wert most fondly lovedOf all my sons! While yet thou wert alive,Dear wert thou to the gods, who even now,When death has overtaken thee, bestowSuch care upon thee. All my other sonsWhom swift Achilles took in war he soldAt Samos, Imbrus, by the barren sea,And Lemnos harborless. But as for thee,When he had taken with his cruel spearThy life, he dragged thee round and round the tombOf his young friend, Patroclus, whom thy handHad slain, yet raised he not by this the dead;And now thou liest in the palace here,Fresh and besprinkled as with early dew,Like one just slain with silent arrows aimedBy Phoebus, bearer of the silver bow.”

Weeping she spake, and woke in all who heardGrief without measure. Helen, last of all,Took up the lamentation, and began:—

“O Hector, who wert dearest to my heartOf all my husband’s brothers—for the wifeAm I of godlike Paris, him whose fleetBrought me to Troy—would I had sooner died!And now the twentieth year is past since firstI came a stranger from my native shore,Yet have I never heard from thee a wordOf anger or reproach. And when the sonsOf Priam, and his daughters, and the wivesOf Priam’s sons, in all their fair array,Taunted me grievously, or HecubaHerself—for Priam ever was to meA gracious father—thou didst take my partWith kindly admonitions, and restrainTheir tongues with soft address and gentle words.Therefore my heart is grieved, and I bewailThee and myself at once—unhappy me!For now I have no friend in all wide Troy—None to be kind to me: they hate me all.”

Weeping she spake: the mighty throng againAnswered with wailing. Priam then addressedThe people: “Now bring wood, ye men of Troy,Into the city. Let there be no fearOf ambush from the Greeks, for when of lateI left Achilles at the dark-hulled barques,He gave his promise to molest no moreThe men of Troy till the twelfth morn shall rise.”

He spake, and speedily they yoked the mulesAnd oxen to the wains, and came in throngsBefore the city walls. Nine days they toiledTo bring the trunks of trees, and when the tenthArose to light the abodes of men, they broughtThe corse of valiant Hector from the townWith many tears, and laid it on the woodHigh up, and flung the fire to light the pile.

Now when the early rosy-fingered DawnLooked forth, the people gathered round the pileOf glorious Hector. When they all had comeTogether, first they quenched the funeral fires,Wherever they had spread, with dark-red wine,And then his brothers and companions searchedFor the white bones. In sorrow and in tears,That streaming stained their cheeks, they gathered them,And placed them in a golden um. O’er thisThey drew a covering of soft purple robes,And laid it in a hollow grave, and piledFragments of rock above it, many and huge.In haste they reared the tomb, with sentries setOn every side, lest all too soon the GreeksShould come in armor to renew the war.When now the tomb was built, the multitudeReturned, and in the halls where Priam dwelt,Nursling of Jove, were feasted royally.Such was the mighty Hector’s burial rite.