THUS like the rage of fire the combat burns, | |
| And now it rises, now it sinks, by turns. | |
| Meanwhile, where Hellespont’s broad waters flow, | |
| Stood Nestor’s son, the messenger of woe. | |
| There sat Achilles, shaded by his sails, | 5 |
| On hoisted yards extended to the gales; | |
| Pensive he sat; for all that Fate design’d | |
| Rose in sad prospect to his boding mind. | |
| Thus to his soul he said: ‘Ah what constrains | |
| The Greeks, late victors, now to quit the plains? | 10 |
| Is this the day, which Heav’n so long ago | |
| Ordain’d, to sink me with the weight of woe | |
| (So Thetis warn’d), when, by a Trojan hand, | |
| The bravest of the Myrmidonian band | |
| Should lose the light? Fulfill’d is that decree? | 15 |
| Fall’n is the warrior, and Patroclus he? | |
| In vain I charged him soon to quit the plain, | |
| And warn’d to shun Hectorean force in vain!’ | |
| Thus while he thinks, Antilochus appears, | |
| And tells the melancholy tale with tears: | 20 |
| ‘Sad tidings, son of Peleus! thou must hear; | |
| And wretched I, th’ unwilling messenger! | |
| Dead is Patroclus! for his corse they fight; | |
| His naked corse: his arms are Hector’s right.’ | |
| A sudden horror shot thro’ all the Chief, | 25 |
| And wrapt his senses in the cloud of grief; | |
| Cast on the ground, with furious hand he spread | |
| The scorching ashes o’er his graceful head; | |
| His purple garments, and his golden hairs, | |
| Those he deforms with dust, and these he tears: | 30 |
| On the hard soil his groaning breast he threw, | |
| And roll’d and grovell’d, as to earth he grew. | |
| The virgin captives, with disorder’d charms | |
| (Won by his own, or by Patroclus’ arms), | |
| Rush’d from the tents with cries; and, gath’ring round, | 35 |
| Beat their white breasts, and fainted on the ground: | |
| While Nestor’s son sustains a manlier part, | |
| And mourns the warrior with a warrior’s heart; | |
| Hangs on his arms, amidst his frantic woe, | |
| And oft prevents the meditated blow. | 40 |
| Far in the deep abysses of the main, | |
| With hoary Nereus, and the wat’ry train, | |
| The Mother-Goddess from her crystal throne | |
| Heard his loud cries, and answered groan for groan. | |
| The circling Nereids with their mistress weep, | 45 |
| And all the sea-green Sisters of the Deep. | |
| Thalia, Glauce (every wat’ry name), | |
| Nesæa mild, and silver Spio came: | |
| Cymothoë and Cymodoce were nigh, | |
| And the blue languish of soft Alia’s eye: | 50 |
| Their locks Actæa and Limnoria rear, | |
| Then Proto, Doris, Panope appear, | |
| Thoa, Pherusa, Doto, Melita; | |
| Agave gentle, and Amphithoë gay; | |
| Next Callianira, Callianassa shew | 55 |
| Their sister looks; Dexamene the slow, | |
| And swift Dynamene, now cut the tides: | |
| Iæra now the verdant wave divides: | |
| Nemertes with Apseudes lifts the head, | |
| Bright Galatea quits her pearly bed; | 60 |
| These Orythia, Clymene, attend, | |
| Mæra, Amphinome, the train extend, | |
| And black Janira, and Janassa fair, | |
| And Amatheia with her amber hair. | |
| All these, and all that deep in ocean held | 65 |
| Their sacred seats, the glimm’ring grotto fill’d; | |
| Each beat her iv’ry breast with silent woe, | |
| Till Thetis’ sorrows thus began to flow: | |
| ‘Hear me, and judge, ye Sisters of the Main! | |
| How just a cause has Thetis to complain! | 70 |
| How wretched, were I mortal, were my fate! | |
| How more than wretched in th’ immortal state! | |
| Sprung from my bed a godlike Hero came, | |
| The bravest far that ever bore the name; | |
| Like some fair olive, by my careful hand | 75 |
| He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land. | |
| To Troy I sent him; but the Fates ordain | |
| He never, never must return again. | |
| So short a space the light of Heav’n to view, | |
| So short, alas! and fill’d with anguish too. | 80 |
| Hear how his sorrows echo thro’ the shore! | |
| I cannot ease them, but I must deplore; | |
| I go at least to bear a tender part, | |
| And mourn my lov’d one with a mother’s heart.’ | |
| She said, and left the caverns of the main. | 85 |
| All bathed in tears, the melancholy train | |
| Attend her way. Wide-opening part the tides, | |
| While the long pomp the silver wave divides, | |
| Approaching now, they touch’d the Trojan land; | |
| Then, two by two, ascended up the strand. | 90 |
| Th’ immortal mother, standing close beside | |
| Her mournful offspring, to his sighs replied; | |
| Along the coast their mingled clamours ran, | |
| And thus the Silver-footed Dame began: | |
| ‘Why mourns my son? thy late-preferr’d request | 95 |
| The God has granted, and the Greeks distress’d: | |
| Why mourns my son? thy anguish let me share, | |
| Reveal the cause, and trust a parent’s care.’ | |
| He, deeply groaning, ‘To this cureless grief | |
| Not ev’n the Thund’rer’s favour brings relief. | 100 |
| Patroclus—Ah! say, Goddess, can I boast | |
| A pleasure now? Revenge itself is lost; | |
| Patroclus, lov’d of all my martial train, | |
| Beyond mankind, beyond myself, is slain! | |
| Lost are those arms the Gods themselves bestow’d | 105 |
| On Peleus; Hector bears the glorious load. | |
| Curs’d be that day, when all the powers above | |
| Thy charms submitted to a mortal love: | |
| Oh hadst thou still, a sister of the main, | |
| Pursued the pleasures of the wat’ry reign; | 110 |
| And happier Peleus, less ambitious, led | |
| A mortal beauty to his equal bed! | |
| Ere the sad fruit of thy unhappy womb | |
| Had caus’d such sorrows past, and woes to come. | |
| For soon, alas! that wretched offspring slain, | 115 |
| New woes, new sorrows, shall create again. | |
| ’T is not in Fate th’ alternate now to give; | |
| Patroclus dead, Achilles hates to live. | |
| Let me revenge it on proud Hector’s heart, | |
| Let his last spirit smoke upon my dart; | 120 |
| On these conditions will I breathe: till then, | |
| I blush to walk among the race of men.’ | |
| A flood of tears, at this, the Goddess shed: | |
| ‘Ah then, I see thee dying, see thee dead! | |
| When Hector falls, thou diest.’—‘Let Hector die, | 125 |
| And let me fall!’ (Achilles made reply.) | |
| ‘Far lies Patroclus from his native plain; | |
| He fell, and, falling, wish’d my aid in vain. | |
| Ah then, since from this miserable day | |
| I cast all hope of my return away; | 130 |
| Since, unrevenged, a hundred ghosts demand | |
| The fate of Hector from Achilles’ hand; | |
| Since here, for brutal courage far renown’d, | |
| I live an idle burden to the ground | |
| (Others in council famed for nobler skill, | 135 |
| More useful to preserve than I to kill); | |
| Let me—But oh! ye gracious Powers above! | |
| Wrath and revenge from men and Gods remove: | |
| Far, far too dear to ev’ry mortal breast, | |
| Sweet to the soul, as honey to the taste; | 140 |
| Gath’ring like vapours of a noxious kind | |
| From fiery blood, and dark’ning all the mind. | |
| Me Agamemnon urged to deadly hate; | |
| ’T is past—I quell it; I resign to Fate. | |
| Yes—I will meet the murd’rer of my friend, | 145 |
| Or (if the Gods ordain it) meet my end. | |
| The stroke of Fate the bravest cannot shun: | |
| The great Alcides, Jove’s unequall’d son, | |
| To Juno’s hate at length resign’d his breath, | |
| And sunk the victim of all-conquering death. | 150 |
| So shall Achilles fall! stretch’d pale and dead, | |
| No more the Grecian hope, or Trojan dread! | |
| Let me, this instant, rush into the fields, | |
| And reap what glory life’s short harvest yields. | |
| Shall I not force some widow’d dame to tear, | 155 |
| With frantic hands, her long dishevell’d hair? | |
| Shall I not force her breast to heave with sighs, | |
| And the soft tears to trickle from her eyes? | |
| Yes, I shall give the fair those mournful charms— | |
| In vain you hold me—Hence! my arms, my arms! | 160 |
| Soon shall the sanguine torrent spread so wide, | |
| That all shall know Achilles swells the tide.’ | |
| ‘My son’ (cœrulean Thetis made reply, | |
| To Fate submitting with a secret sigh), | |
| ‘The host to succour and thy friends to save, | 165 |
| Is worthy thee; the duty of the brave. | |
| But canst thou, naked, issue to the plains? | |
| Thy radiant arms the Trojan foe detains. | |
| Insulting Hector bears the spoils on high, | |
| But vainly glories, for his fate is nigh. | 170 |
| Yet, yet, awhile, thy gen’rous ardour stay, | |
| Assured I meet thee at the dawn of day, | |
| Charged with refulgent arms (a glorious load), | |
| Vulcanian arms, the labour of a God.’ | |
| Then turning to the Daughters of the Main, | 175 |
| The Goddess thus dismiss’d her azure train: | |
| ‘Ye sister Nereids! to your deeps descend; | |
| Haste, and our father’s sacred seat attend; | |
| I go to find the architect divine, | |
| Where vast Olympus’ starry summits shine: | 180 |
| So tell our hoary Sire.’ This charge she gave: | |
| The sea-green Sisters plunge beneath the wave: | |
| Thetis once more ascends the blest abodes, | |
| And treads the brazen threshold of the Gods. | |
| And now the Greeks, from furious Hector’s force, | 185 |
| Urge to broad Hellespont their headlong course: | |
| Nor yet their Chiefs Patroclus’ body bore | |
| Safe thro’ the tempest, to the tented shore. | |
| The horse, the foot, with equal fury join’d, | |
| Pour’d on the rear, and thunder’d close behind; | 190 |
| And like a flame thro’ fields of ripen’d corn, | |
| The rage of Hector o’er the ranks was borne. | |
| Thrice the slain hero by the foot he drew: | |
| Thrice to the skies the Trojan clamours flew | |
| As oft th’ Ajaces his assault sustain; | 195 |
| But check’d, he turns; repuls’d, attacks again. | |
| With fiercer shouts his ling’ring troops he fires, | |
| Nor yields a step, nor from his post retires: | |
| So watchful shepherds strive to force, in vain, | |
| The hungry lion from a carcass slain. | 200 |
| Ev’n yet, Patroclus had he borne away, | |
| And all the glories of th’ extended day; | |
| Had not high Juno, from the realms of air, | |
| Secret despatch’d her trusty messenger, | |
| The various Goddess of the Showery Bow, | 205 |
| Shot in a whirlwind to the shore below; | |
| To great Achilles at his ships she came, | |
| And thus began the Many-coloured Dame: | |
| ‘Rise, son of Peleus! rise, divinely brave! | |
| Assist the combat, and Patroclus save: | 210 |
| For him the slaughter to the fleet they spread, | |
| And fall with mutual wounds around the dead. | |
| To drag him back to Troy the foe contends; | |
| Nor with his death the rage of Hector ends; | |
| A prey to dogs he dooms the corse to lie, | 215 |
| And marks the place to fix his head on high. | |
| Rise, and prevent (if yet you think of fame) | |
| Thy friend’s disgrace; thy own eternal shame!’ | |
| ‘Who sends thee, Goddess! from th’ ethereal skies?’ | |
| Achilles thus: and Iris thus replies: | 220 |
| ‘I come, Pelides, from the Queen of Jove, | |
| Th’ immortal Empress of the realms above: | |
| Unknown to him who sits remote on high, | |
| Unknown to all the Synod of the Sky.’ | |
| ‘Thou com’st in vain,’ he cries (with fury warm’d), | 225 |
| ‘Arms I have none, and can I fight unarm’d? | |
| Unwilling as I am, of force I stay, | |
| Till Thetis bring me at the dawn of day | |
| Vulcanian arms: what other can I wield, | |
| Except the mighty Telamonian shield | 230 |
| That, in my friend’s defence, has Ajax spread, | |
| While his strong lance around him heaps the dead: | |
| The gallant Chief defends Menœtius’ son, | |
| And does what his Achilles should have done.’ | |
| ‘Thy want of arms’ (said Iris) ‘well we know; | 235 |
| But, tho’ unarm’d, yet, clad in terrors, go! | |
| Let but Achilles o’er yon trench appear, | |
| Proud Troy shall tremble, and consent to fear; | |
| Greece from one glance of that tremendous eye | |
| Shall take new courage, and disdain to fly.’ | 240 |
| She spoke, and pass’d in air. The hero rose: | |
| Her ægis Pallas o’er his shoulder throws: | |
| Around his brows a golden cloud she spread; | |
| A stream of glory flamed above his head. | |
| As when from some beleaguer’d town arise | 245 |
| The smokes, high curling to the shaded skies | |
| (Seen from some island, o’er the main afar, | |
| When men distress’d hang out the sign of war): | |
| Soon as the sun in ocean hides his rays, | |
| Thick on the hills the flaming beacons blaze; | 250 |
| With long-projected beams the seas are bright, | |
| And Heav’n’s high arch reflects the ruddy light: | |
| So from Achilles’ head the splendours rise, | |
| Reflecting blaze on blaze, against the skies. | |
| Forth march’d the Chief, and, distant from the crowd, | 255 |
| High on the rampart rais’d his voice aloud; | |
| With her own shout Minerva swells the sound; | |
| Troy starts astonish’d, and the shores rebound. | |
| As the loud trumpet’s brazen mouth from far | |
| With shrilling clangour sounds th’ alarm of war, | 260 |
| Struck from the walls, the echoes float on high, | |
| And the round bulwarks and thick towers reply; | |
| So high his brazen voice the hero rear’d: | |
| Hosts dropt their arms, and trembled as they heard; | |
| And back the chariots roll, and coursers bound, | 265 |
| And steeds and men lie mingled on the ground. | |
| Aghast they see the living lightnings play, | |
| And turn their eye-balls from the flashing ray. | |
| Thrice from the trench his dreadful voice he raised: | |
| And thrice they fled, confounded and amazed. | 270 |
| Twelve in the tumult wedg’d, untimely rush’d | |
| On their own spears, by their own chariots crush’d; | |
| While, shielded from the darts, the Greeks obtain | |
| The long-contended carcass of the slain. | |
| A lofty bier the breathless warrior bears: | 275 |
| Around, his sad companions melt in tears. | |
| But chief Achilles, bending down his head, | |
| Pours unavailing sorrows o’er the dead, | |
| Whom late, triumphant with his steeds and car, | |
| He sent refulgent to the Field of War | 280 |
| (Unhappy change!): now senseless, pale, he found, | |
| Stretch’d forth, and gash’d with many a gaping wound. | |
| Meantime, unwearied with his heav’nly way, | |
| In ocean’s waves th’ unwilling light of day | |
| Quench’d his red orb, at Juno’s high command, | 285 |
| And from their labours eas’d th’ Achaian band. | |
| The frighted Trojans (panting from the war, | |
| Their steeds unharness’d from the weary car) | |
| A sudden council call’d: each Chief appear’d | |
| In haste, and standing; for to sit they fear’d. | 290 |
| ’T was now no season for prolong’d debate; | |
| They saw Achilles, and in him their fate. | |
| Silent they stood: Polydamas at last, | |
| Skill’d to discern the future by the past, | |
| The son of Panthus, thus express’d his fears | 295 |
| (The friend of Hector, and of equal years: | |
| The self-same night to both a being gave, | |
| One wise in council, one in action brave): | |
| ‘In free debate, my friends, your sentence speak: | |
| For me, I move, before the morning break, | 300 |
| To raise our camp: too dangerous here our post, | |
| Far from Troy walls, and on a naked coast. | |
| I deem’d not Greece so dreadful, while engaged | |
| In mutual feuds her King and Hero raged; | |
| Then, while we hoped our armies might prevail, | 305 |
| We boldly camp’d beside a thousand sail. | |
| I dread Pelides now: his rage of mind | |
| Not long continues to the shores confin’d, | |
| Nor to the fields, where long in equal fray | |
| Contending nations won and lost the day; | 310 |
| For Troy, for Troy, shall henceforth be the strife, | |
| And the hard contest, not for Fame, but Life. | |
| Haste then to Ilion, while the fav’ring night | |
| Detains those terrors, keeps that arm from fight; | |
| If but the morrow’s sun behold us here, | 315 |
| That arm, those terrors, we shall feel, not fear; | |
| And hearts that now disdain, shall leap with joy, | |
| If Heav’n permits them then to enter Troy. | |
| Let not my fatal prophecy be true, | |
| Nor what I tremble but to think, ensue. | 320 |
| Whatever be our fate, yet let us try | |
| What force of thought and reason can supply; | |
| Let us on council for our guard depend; | |
| The town, her gates and bulwarks shall defend. | |
| When morning dawns, our well-appointed powers, | 325 |
| Array’d in arms, shall line the lofty towers. | |
| Let the fierce hero then, when fury calls, | |
| Vent his mad vengeance on our rocky walls, | |
| Or fetch a thousand circles round the plain, | |
| Till his spent coursers seek the fleet again: | 330 |
| So may his rage be tired, and labour’d down; | |
| And dogs shall tear him ere he sack the town.’ | |
| ‘Return?’ (said Hector, fired with stern disdain), | |
| ‘What! coop whole armies in our walls again? | |
| Was ’t not enough, ye valiant warriors say, | 335 |
| Nine years imprison’d in those towers ye lay? | |
| Wide o’er the world was Ilion famed of old | |
| For brass exhaustless, and for mines of gold; | |
| But while inglorious in her walls we stay’d, | |
| Sunk were her treasures, and her stores decay’d; | 340 |
| The Phrygians now her scatter’d spoils enjoy, | |
| And proud Mæonia wastes the fruits of Troy. | |
| Great Jove at length my arms to conquest calls, | |
| And shuts the Grecians in their wooden walls: | |
| Darest thou dispirit whom the Gods incite? | 345 |
| Flies any Trojan? I shall stop his flight. | |
| To better counsel then attention lend; | |
| Take due refreshment, and the watch attend. | |
| If there be one whose riches cost him care, | |
| Forth let him bring them for the troops to share; | 350 |
| ’T is better gen’rously bestow’d on those, | |
| Than left the plunder of our country’s foes. | |
| Soon as the morn the purple orient warms, | |
| Fierce on yon navy will we pour our arms. | |
| If great Achilles rise in all his might, | 355 |
| His be the danger: I shall stand the fight. | |
| Honour, ye Gods! or let me gain, or give; | |
| And live he glorious, whosoe’er shall live! | |
| Mars is our common Lord, alike to all: | |
| And oft the victor triumphs, but to fall.’ | 360 |
| The shouting host in loud applauses join’d: | |
| So Pallas robb’d the many of their mind; | |
| To their own sense condemn’d, and left to choose | |
| The worst advice, the better to refuse. | |
| While the long night extends her sable reign, | 365 |
| Around Patroclus mourn’d the Grecian train. | |
| Stern in superior grief Pelides stood; | |
| Those slaught’ring arms, so used to bathe in blood, | |
| Now clasp his clay-cold limbs: then, gushing, start | |
| The tears, and sighs burst from his swelling heart. | 370 |
| The lion thus, with dreadful anguish stung, | |
| Roars thro’ the desert, and demands his young; | |
| When the grim savage, to his rifled den | |
| Too late returning, snuffs the track of men, | |
| And o’er the vales and o’er the forest bounds; | 375 |
| His clam’rous grief the bell’wing wood resounds. | |
| So grieves Achilles; and impetuous vents | |
| To all his Myrmidons, his loud laments: | |
| ‘In what vain promise, Gods! did I engage, | |
| When, to console Menœtius’ feeble age, | 380 |
| I vow’d his much-lov’d offspring to restore, | |
| Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia’s shore? | |
| But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain, | |
| The long, long views of poor designing man! | |
| One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike, | 385 |
| And Troy’s black sands must drink our blood alike: | |
| Me, too, a wretched mother shall deplore, | |
| An aged father never see me more! | |
| Yet, my Patroclus! yet a space I stay, | |
| Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way. | 390 |
| Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid, | |
| Shall Hector’s head be offer’d to thy shade: | |
| That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine; | |
| And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line, | |
| Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire, | 395 |
| Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre. | |
| Thus let me lie till then! thus, closely press’d, | |
| Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast! | |
| While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay, | |
| Weep all the night, and murmur all the day, | 400 |
| Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide, | |
| Our swords kept time, and conquer’d side by side.’ | |
| He spoke, and bid the sad attendants round | |
| Cleanse the pale corse, and wash each honour’d wound. | |
| A massy cauldron of stupendous frame | 405 |
| They brought, and placed it o’er the rising flame; | |
| Then heap the lighted wood; the flame divides | |
| Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides. | |
| In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream; | |
| The boiling water bubbles to the brim. | 410 |
| The body then they bathe with pious toil, | |
| Embalm the wounds, anoint the limbs with oil; | |
| High on a bed of state extended laid, | |
| And decent cover’d with a linen shade; | |
| Last o’er the dead the milk-white veil they threw; | 415 |
| That done, their sorrows and their sighs renew. | |
| Meanwhile to Juno, in the realms above | |
| (His wife and sister) spoke almighty Jove: | |
| ‘At last thy will prevails: great Peleus’ son | |
| Rises in arms: such grace thy Greeks have won. | 420 |
| Say (for I know not), is their race divine, | |
| And thou the mother of that martial line?’ | |
| ‘What words are these?’ (th’ Imperial Dame replies, | |
| While anger flash’d from her majestic eyes); | |
| ‘Succour like this a mortal arm might lend, | 425 |
| And such success mere human wit attend: | |
| And shall not I, the second Power above, | |
| Heav’n’s Queen, and Consort of the thund’ring Jove, | |
| Say, shall not I one nation’s fate command, | |
| Not wreak my vengeance on one guilty land?’ | 430 |
| So they. Meanwhile the Silver-footed Dame | |
| Reach’d the Vulcanian dome, eternal frame! | |
| High-eminent amid the works divine, | |
| Where Heav’n’s far-beaming brazen mansions shine. | |
| There the lame architect the Goddess found, | 435 |
| Obscure in smoke, his forges flaming round, | |
| While bathed in sweat from fire to fire he flew, | |
| And, puffing loud, the roaring bellows blew. | |
| That day no common task his labour claim’d: | |
| Full twenty tripods for his hall he framed, | 440 |
| That, placed on living wheels of massy gold | |
| (Wondrous to tell)! instinct with spirit roll’d | |
| From place to place, around the blest abodes, | |
| Self-mov’d, obedient to the beck of Gods: | |
| For their fair handles now, o’erwrought with flowers, | 445 |
| In moulds prepared, the glowing ore he pours. | |
| Just as, responsive to his thought, the frame | |
| Stood prompt to move, the azure Goddess came: | |
| Charis, his spouse, a Grace divinely fair | |
| (With purple fillets round her braided hair), | 450 |
| Observ’d her ent’ring; her soft hand she press’d, | |
| And, smiling, thus the wat’ry Queen address’d: | |
| ‘What, Goddess! this unusual favour draws? | |
| All hail, and welcome! whatsoe’er the cause: | |
| Till now a stranger, in a happy hour | 455 |
| Approach, and taste the dainties of the bower.’ | |
| High on a throne, with stars of silver graced, | |
| And various artifice, the Queen she placed; | |
| A footstool at her feet: then, calling, said, | |
| ‘Vulcan, draw near, ’t is Thetis asks your aid.’ | 460 |
| ‘Thetis’ (replied the God) ‘our powers may claim, | |
| An ever-dear, an ever-honour’d name! | |
| When my proud mother hurl’d me from the sky | |
| (My awkward form, it seems, displeas’d her eye), | |
| She, and Eurynome, my griefs redress’d, | 465 |
| And soft receiv’d me on their silver breast. | |
| Ev’n then, these arts employ’d my infant thought; | |
| Chains, bracelets, pendants, all their toys I wrought. | |
| Nine years kept secret in the dark abode, | |
| Secure I lay, conceal’d from man and God: | 470 |
| Deep in a cavern’d rock my days were led; | |
| The rushing ocean murmur’d o’er my head. | |
| Now since her presence glads our mansion, say, | |
| For such desert what service can I pay? | |
| Vouchsafe, O Thetis! at our board to share | 475 |
| The genial rites, and hospitable fare; | |
| While I the labours of the forge forego, | |
| And bid the roaring bellows cease to blow.’ | |
| Then from his anvil the lame artist rose; | |
| Wide with distorted legs oblique he goes, | 480 |
| And stills the bellows, and (in order laid) | |
| Locks in their chests his instruments of trade: | |
| Then with a sponge the sooty workman dress’d | |
| His brawny arms imbrown’d, and hairy breast. | |
| With his huge sceptre graced, and red attire, | 485 |
| Came halting forth the Sov’reign of the Fire: | |
| The Monarch’s steps two female forms uphold, | |
| That mov’d, and breathed, in animated gold; | |
| To whom was voice, and sense, and science giv’n | |
| Of works divine (such wonders are in Heav’n!): | 490 |
| On these supported, with unequal gait, | |
| He reach’d the throne where pensive Thetis sat; | |
| There placed beside her on the shining frame, | |
| He thus address’d the Silver-footed Dame: | |
| ‘Thee, welcome Goddess! what occasion calls | 495 |
| (So long a stranger) to these honour’d walls? | |
| ’T is thine, fair Thetis, the command to lay, | |
| And Vulcan’s joy and duty to obey.’ | |
| To whom the mournful mother thus replies | |
| (The crystal drops stood trembling in her eyes): | 500 |
| ‘Oh Vulcan! say, was ever breast divine | |
| So pierc’d with sorrows, so o’erwhelm’d as mine? | |
| Of all the Goddesses, did Jove prepare | |
| For Thetis only such a weight of care? | |
| I, only I, of all the wat’ry race, | 505 |
| By force subjected to a man’s embrace, | |
| Who, sinking now with age and sorrow, pays | |
| The mighty fine imposed on length of days. | |
| Sprung from my bed, a godlike Hero came, | |
| The bravest sure that ever bore the name; | 510 |
| Like some fair plant, beneath my careful hand, | |
| He grew, he flourish’d, and he graced the land: | |
| To Troy I sent him; but his native shore | |
| Never, ah never, shall receive him more! | |
| Ev’n while he lives, he wastes with secret woe, | 515 |
| Nor I, a Goddess, can retard the blow! | |
| Robb’d of the prize the Grecian suffrage gave, | |
| The King of Nations forc’d his royal slave: | |
| For this he griev’d; and, till the Greeks oppress’d | |
| Required his arm, he sorrow’d unredress’d. | 520 |
| Large gifts they promise, and their elders send; | |
| In vain—he arms not, but permits his friend | |
| His arms, his steeds, his forces, to employ; | |
| He marches, combats, almost conquers Troy: | |
| Then slain by Phœbus (Hector had the name), | 525 |
| At once resigns his armour, life, and fame. | |
| But thou, in pity, by my prayer be won; | |
| Grace with immortal arms this short-lived son, | |
| And to the field in martial pomp restore, | |
| To shine with glory, till he shines no more!’ | 530 |
| To her the Artist-God: ‘Thy griefs resign, | |
| Secure, what Vulcan can, is ever thine. | |
| O could I hide him from the Fates as well, | |
| Or with these hands the cruel stroke repel, | |
| As I shall forge most envied arms, the gaze | 535 |
| Of wond’ring ages, and the world’s amaze!’ | |
| Thus having said, the Father of the Fires | |
| To the black labours of his forge retires. | |
| Soon as he bade them blow, the bellows turn’d | |
| Their iron mouths, and, where the furnace burn’d | 540 |
| Resounding breathed: at once the blast expires, | |
| And twenty forges catch at once the fires; | |
| Just as the God directs, now loud, now low, | |
| They raise a tempest, or they gently blow. | |
| In hissing flames huge silver bars are roll’d, | 545 |
| And stubborn brass, and tin, and solid gold: | |
| Before, deep fix’d, th’ eternal anvils stand; | |
| The pond’rous hammer loads his better hand, | |
| His left with tongs turns the vex’d metal round; | |
| And thick strong strokes the doubling vaults rebound. | 550 |
| Then first he form’d th’ immense and solid shield; | |
| Rich various artifice emblazed the field; | |
| Its utmost verge a threefold circle bound; | |
| A silver chain suspends the massy round: | |
| Five ample plates the broad expanse compose, | 555 |
| And godlike labours on the surface rose. | |
| There shone the image of the master-mind: | |
| There Earth, there Heav’n, there Ocean, he design’d; | |
| Th’ unwearied sun, the moon completely round; | |
| The starry lights that Heav’n’s high convex crown’d; | 560 |
| The Pleiads, Hyads, with the Northern Team; | |
| And great Orion’s more refulgent beam; | |
| To which, around the axle of the sky, | |
| The Bear revolving points his golden eye; | |
| Still shines exalted on th’ ethereal plain, | 565 |
| Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main. | |
| Two cities radiant on the shield appear, | |
| The image one of peace, and one of war. | |
| Here sacred pomp and genial feast delight, | |
| And solemn dance, and Hymeneal rite; | 570 |
| Along the street the new-made brides are led, | |
| With torches flaming, to the nuptial bed: | |
| The youthful dancers in a circle bound | |
| To the soft flute, and cittern’s silver sound: | |
| Thro’ the fair streets, the matrons in a row | 575 |
| Stand in their porches, and enjoy the show. | |
| There, in the Forum swarm a numerous train; | |
| The subject of debate, a townsman slain: | |
| One pleads the fine discharged, which one denied, | |
| And bade the public and the laws decide: | 580 |
| The witness is produced on either hand: | |
| For this, or that, the partial people stand: | |
| Th’ appointed heralds still the noisy bands, | |
| And form a ring, with sceptres in their hands; | |
| On seats of stone, within the sacred place, | 585 |
| The rev’rend elders nodded o’er the case; | |
| Alternate, each th’ attending sceptre took, | |
| And, rising solemn, each his sentence spoke. | |
| Two golden talents lay amidst, in sight, | |
| The prize of him who best adjudg’d the right. | 590 |
| Another part (a prospect diff’ring far) | |
| Glow’d with refulgent arms, and horrid war. | |
| Two mighty hosts a leaguer’d town embrace, | |
| And one would pillage, one would burn, the place. | |
| Meantime the townsmen, arm’d with silent care, | 595 |
| A secret ambush on the foe prepare: | |
| Their wives, their children, and the watchful band | |
| Of trembling parents, on the turrets stand. | |
| They march, by Pallas and by Mars made bold; | |
| Gold were the Gods, their radiant garments gold, | 600 |
| And gold their armour; these the squadron led, | |
| August, divine, superior by the head! | |
| A place for ambush fit they found, and stood | |
| Cover’d with shields, beside a silver flood. | |
| Two spies at distance lurk, and watchful seem | 605 |
| If sheep or oxen seek the winding stream. | |
| Soon the white flocks proceeded o’er the plains, | |
| And steers slow-moving, and two shepherd swains; | |
| Behind them, piping on their reeds, they go, | |
| Nor fear an ambush, nor suspect a foe. | 610 |
| In arms the glitt’ring squadron rising round, | |
| Rush sudden; hills of slaughter heap the ground: | |
| Whole flocks and herds lie bleeding on the plains, | |
| And, all amidst them, dead, the shepherd swains! | |
| The bell’wing oxen the besiegers hear; | 615 |
| They rise, take horse, approach, and meet the war; | |
| They fight, they fall, beside the silver flood; | |
| The waving silver seem’d to blush with blood. | |
| There tumult, there contention, stood confess’d; | |
| One rear’d a dagger at a captive’s breast, | 620 |
| One held a living foe, that freshly bled | |
| With new-made wounds; another dragg’d a dead; | |
| Now here, now there, the carcasses they tore: | |
| Fate stalk’d amidst them, grim with human gore. | |
| And the whole war came out, and met the eye: | 625 |
| And each bold figure seem’d to live, or die. | |
| A field deep furrow’d next the God design’d, | |
| The third time labour’d by the sweating hind; | |
| The shining shares full many ploughmen guide, | |
| And turn their crooked yokes on ev’ry side. | 630 |
| Still as at either end they wheel around, | |
| The master meets them with his goblet crown’d; | |
| The hearty draught rewards, renews their toil; | |
| Then back the turning ploughshares cleave the soil: | |
| Behind, the rising earth in ridges roll’d, | 635 |
| And sable look’d, tho’ form’d of molten gold. | |
| Another field rose high with waving grain; | |
| With bended sickles stand the reaper-train. | |
| Here stretch’d in ranks the levell’d swaths are found, | |
| Sheaves, heap’d on sheaves, here thicken up the ground. | 640 |
| With sweeping stroke the mowers strew the lands; | |
| The gath’rers follow, and collect in bands; | |
| And last the children, in whose arms are borne | |
| (Too short to gripe them) the brown sheaves of corn. | |
| The rustic Monarch of the Field descries, | 645 |
| With silent glee, the heaps around him rise. | |
| A ready banquet on the turf is laid, | |
| Beneath an ample oak’s expanded shade. | |
| The victim ox the sturdy youth prepare; | |
| The reaper’s due repast, the women’s care. | 650 |
| Next ripe, in yellow gold, a vineyard shines, | |
| Bent with the pond’rous harvest of its vines; | |
| A deeper dye the dangling clusters shew, | |
| And, curl’d on silver props, in order glow: | |
| A darker metal mix’d, intrench’d the place; | 655 |
| And pales of glitt’ring tin th’ enclosure grace. | |
| To this, one pathway gently winding leads, | |
| Where march a train with baskets on their heads | |
| (Fair maids and blooming youths), that smiling bear | |
| The purple product of th’ autumnal year. | 660 |
| To these a youth awakes the warbling strings, | |
| Whose tender lay the fate of Linus sings; | |
| In measured dance behind him move the train, | |
| Tune soft the voice, and answer to the strain. | |
| Here, herds of oxen march, erect and bold, | 665 |
| Rear high their horns, and seem to low in gold, | |
| And speed to meadows, on whose sounding shores | |
| A rapid torrent thro’ the rushes roars: | |
| Four golden herdsmen as their guardians stand, | |
| And nine sour dogs complete the rustic band. | 670 |
| Two lions rushing from the wood appear’d; | |
| And seized a bull, the master of the herd; | |
| He roar’d: in vain the dogs, the men, withstood; | |
| They tore his flesh, and drank the sable blood. | |
| The dogs (oft cheer’d in vain) desert the prey, | 675 |
| Dread the grim terrors, and at distance bay. | |
| Next this, the eye the art of Vulcan leads | |
| Deep thro’ fair forests, and a length of meads; | |
| And stalls, and folds, and scatter’d cots between; | |
| And fleecy flocks, that whiten all the scene. | 680 |
| A figured dance succeeds: such once was seen | |
| In lofty Gnossus, for the Cretan Queen, | |
| Form’d by Dædalean art: A comely band | |
| Of youths and maidens, bounding hand in hand; | |
| The maids in soft cymars of linen dress’d; | 685 |
| The youths all graceful in the glossy vest; | |
| Of those the locks with flowery wreaths inroll’d, | |
| Of these the sides adorn’d with swords of gold, | |
| That, glitt’ring gay, from silver belts depend. | |
| Now all at once they rise, at once descend, | 690 |
| With well-taught feet: now shape, in oblique ways, | |
| Confusedly regular, the moving maze: | |
| Now forth at once, too swift for sight, they spring, | |
| And undistinguish’d blend the flying ring: | |
| So whirls a wheel, in giddy circle toss’d, | 695 |
| And, rapid as it runs, the single spokes are lost. | |
| The gazing multitudes admire around; | |
| Two active tumblers in the centre bound; | |
| Now high, now low, their pliant limbs they bend, | |
| And gen’ral songs the sprightly revel end. | 700 |
| Thus the broad shield complete the artist crown’d | |
| With his last hand, and pour’d the ocean round: | |
| In living silver seem’d the waves to roll, | |
| And beat the buckler’s verge, and bound the whole. | |
| This done, whate’er a warrior’s use requires | 705 |
| He forged; the cuirass that outshines the fires, | |
| The greaves of ductile tin, the helm impress’d | |
| With various sculpture, and the golden crest. | |
| At Thetis’ feet the finish’d labour lay; | |
| She, as a falcon, cuts th’ aërial way, | 710 |
| Swift from Olympus’ snowy summit flies, | |
| And bears the blazing present thro’ the skies. | |
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