Book 19
About this Edition
Translated By
Publishing Date
- Alexander Pope
1720
Argument
The Reconciliation of Achilles and Agamemnon
Thetis brings to her son the armour made by Vulcan. She preserves the body of his friend from corruption, and commands him to assemble the army, to declare his resentment at an end. Agamemnon and Achilles are solemnly reconciled: the speeches, presents, and ceremonies on that occasion. Achilles is with great difficulty persuaded to refrain from the battle till the troops have refreshed themselves by the advice of Ulysses. The presents are conveyed to the tent of Achilles, where Briseis laments over the body of Patroclus. The hero obstinately refuses all repast, and gives himself up to lamentations for his friend. Minerva descends to strengthen him, by the order of Jupiter. He arms for the fight: his appearance described. He addresses himself to his horses, and reproaches them with the death of Patroclus. One of them is miraculously endued with voice, and inspired to prophesy his fate: but the hero, not astonished by that prodigy, rushes with fury to the combat.
The thirteenth day. The scene is on the sea-shore.
Soon as Aurora heaved her Orient head
Above the waves, that blushâd with early red,
(With new-born day to gladden mortal sight,
And gild the courts of heaven with sacred light,)
The immortal arms the goddess-mother bears
Swift to her son: her son she finds in tears
Stretchâd oâer Patroclusâ corse; while all the rest
Their sovereignâs sorrows in their own expressâd.
A ray divine her heavenly presence shed,
And thus, his hand soft touching, Thetis said:
âSuppress, my son, this rage of grief, and know
It was not man, but heaven, that gave the blow;
Behold what arms by Vulcan are bestowâd,
Arms worthy thee, or fit to grace a god.â
Then drops the radiant burden on the ground;
Clang the strong arms, and ring the shores around;
Back shrink the Myrmidons with dread surprise,
And from the broad effulgence turn their eyes.
Unmoved the hero kindles at the show,
And feels with rage divine his bosom glow;
From his fierce eyeballs living flames expire,
And flash incessant like a stream of fire:
He turns the radiant gift: and feeds his mind
On all the immortal artist had designâd.
âGoddess! (he cried,) these glorious arms, that shine
With matchless art, confess the hand divine.
Now to the bloody battle let me bend:
But ah! the relics of my slaughterâd friend!
In those wide wounds through which his spirit fled,
Shall flies, and worms obscene, pollute the dead?â
âThat unavailing care be laid aside,
(The azure goddess to her son replied,)
Whole years untouchâd, uninjured shall remain,
Fresh as in life, the carcase of the slain.
But go, Achilles, as affairs require,
Before the Grecian peers renounce thine ire:
Then uncontrollâd in boundless war engage,
And heaven with strength supply the mighty rage!â
Then in the nostrils of the slain she pourâd
Nectareous drops, and rich ambrosia showerâd
Oâer all the corse. The flies forbid their prey,
Untouchâd it rests, and sacred from decay.
Achilles to the strand obedient went:
The shores resounded with the voice he sent.
The heroes heard, and all the naval train
That tend the ships, or guide them oâer the main,
Alarmâd, transported, at the well-known sound,
Frequent and full, the great assembly crownâd;
Studious to see the terror of the plain,
Long lost to battle, shine in arms again.
Tydides and Ulysses first appear,
Lame with their wounds, and leaning on the spear;
These on the sacred seats of council placed,
The king of men, Atrides, came the last:
He too sore wounded by Agenorâs son.
Achilles (rising in the midst) begun:
âO monarch! better far had been the fate
Of thee, of me, of all the Grecian state,
If (ere the day when by mad passion swayâd,
Rash we contended for the black-eyed maid)
Preventing Dian had despatchâd her dart,
And shot the shining mischief to the heart!
Then many a hero had not pressâd the shore,
Nor Troyâs glad fields been fattenâd with our gore.
Long, long shall Greece the woes we caused bewail,
And sad posterity repeat the tale.
But this, no more the subject of debate,
Is past, forgotten, and resignâd to fate.
Why should, alas, a mortal man, as I,
Burn with a fury that can never die?
Here then my anger ends: let war succeed,
And even as Greece has bled, let Ilion bleed.
Now call the hosts, and try if in our sight
Troy yet shall dare to camp a second night!
I deem, their mightiest, when this arm he knows,
Shall âscape with transport, and with joy repose.â
He said: his finishâd wrath with loud acclaim
The Greeks accept, and shout Pelidesâ name.
When thus, not rising from his lofty throne,
In state unmoved, the king of men begun:
âHear me, ye sons of Greece! with silence hear!
And grant your monarch an impartial ear:
Awhile your loud, untimely joy suspend,
And let your rash, injurious clamours end:
Unruly murmurs, or ill-timed applause,
Wrong the best speaker, and the justest cause.
Nor charge on me, ye Greeks, the dire debate:
Know, angry Jove, and all-compelling Fate,
With fell Erinnys, urged my wrath that day
When from Achillesâ arms I forced the prey.
What then could I against the will of heaven?
Not by myself, but vengeful Ate driven;
She, Joveâs dread daughter, fated to infest
The race of mortals, enterâd in my breast.
Not on the ground that haughty fury treads,
But prints her lofty footsteps on the heads
Of mighty men; inflicting as she goes
Long-festering wounds, inextricable woes!
Of old, she stalkâd amid the bright abodes;
And Jove himself, the sire of men and gods,
The worldâs great ruler, felt her venomâd dart;
Deceived by Junoâs wiles, and female art:
For when Alcmenaâs nine long months were run,
And Jove expected his immortal son,
To gods and goddesses the unruly joy
He showâd, and vaunted of his matchless boy:
âFrom us, (he said) this day an infant springs,
Fated to rule, and born a king of kings.â
Saturnia askâd an oath, to vouch the truth,
And fix dominion on the favourâd youth.
The Thunderer, unsuspicious of the fraud,
Pronounced those solemn words that bind a god.
The joyful goddess, from Olympusâ height,
Swift to Achaian Argos bent her flight:
Scarce seven moons gone, lay Sthenelusâs wife;
She pushâd her lingering infant into life:
Her charms Alcmenaâs coming labours stay,
And stop the babe, just issuing to the day.
Then bids Saturnius bear his oath in mind;
âA youth (said she) of Joveâs immortal kind
Is this day born: from Sthenelus he springs,
And claims thy promise to be king of kings.â
Grief seized the Thunderer, by his oath engaged;
Stung to the soul, he sorrowâd, and he raged.
From his ambrosial head, where perchâd she sate,
He snatchâd the fury-goddess of debate,
The dread, the irrevocable oath he swore,
The immortal seats should neâer behold her more;
And whirlâd her headlong down, for ever driven
From bright Olympus and the starry heaven:
Thence on the nether world the fury fell;
Ordainâd with manâs contentious race to dwell.
Full oft the god his sonâs hard toils bemoanâd,
Cursed the dire fury, and in secret groanâd.[257]
Even thus, like Jove himself, was I misled,
While raging Hector heapâd our camps with dead.
What can the errors of my rage atone?
My martial troops, my treasures are thy own:
This instant from the navy shall be sent
Whateâer Ulysses promised at thy tent:
But thou! appeased, propitious to our prayer,
Resume thy arms, and shine again in war.â
â O king of nations! whose superior sway
(Returns Achilles) all our hosts obey!
To keep or send the presents, be thy care;
To us, âtis equal: all we ask is war.
While yet we talk, or but an instant shun
The fight, our glorious work remains undone.
Let every Greek, who sees my spear confound
The Trojan ranks, and deal destruction round,
With emulation, what I act survey,
And learn from thence the business of the day.
The son of Peleus thus; and thus replies
The great in councils, Ithacus the wise:
âThough, godlike, thou art by no toils oppressâd,
At least our armies claim repast and rest:
Long and laborious must the combat be,
When by the gods inspired, and led by thee.
Strength is derived from spirits and from blood,
And those augment by generous wine and food:
What boastful son of war, without that stay,
Can last a hero through a single day?
Courage may prompt; but, ebbing out his strength,
Mere unsupported man must yield at length;
Shrunk with dry famine, and with toils declined,
The drooping body will desert the mind:
But built anew with strength-conferring fare,
With limbs and soul untamed, he tires a war.
Dismiss the people, then, and give command.
With strong repast to hearten every band;
But let the presents to Achilles made,
In full assembly of all Greece be laid.
The king of men shall rise in public sight,
And solemn swear (observant of the rite)
That, spotless, as she came, the maid removes,
Pure from his arms, and guiltless of his loves.
That done, a sumptuous banquet shall be made,
And the full price of injured honour paid.
Stretch not henceforth, O prince.! thy sovereign might
Beyond the bounds of reason and of right;
âTis the chief praise that eâer to kings belongâd,
To right with justice whom with power they wrongâd.â
To him the monarch: âJust is thy decree,
Thy words give joy, and wisdom breathes in thee.
Each due atonement gladly I prepare;
And heaven regard me as I justly swear!
Here then awhile let Greece assembled stay,
Nor great Achilles grudge this short delay.
Till from the fleet our presents be conveyâd,
And Jove attesting, the firm compact made.
A train of noble youths the charge shall bear;
These to select, Ulysses, be thy care:
In order rankâd let all our gifts appear,
And the fair train of captives close the rear:
Talthybius shall the victim boar convey,
Sacred to Jove, and yon bright orb of day.â
âFor this (the stern AEacides replies)
Some less important season may suffice,
When the stern fury of the war is oâer,
And wrath, extinguishâd, burns my breast no more.
By Hector slain, their faces to the sky,
All grim with gaping wounds, our heroes lie:
Those call to war! and might my voice incite,
Now, now, this instant, shall commence the fight:
Then, when the dayâs complete, let generous bowls,
And copious banquets, glad your weary souls.
Let not my palate know the taste of food,
Till my insatiate rage be cloyâd with blood:
Pale lies my friend, with wounds disfigured oâer,
And his cold feet are pointed to the door.
Revenge is all my soul! no meaner care,
Interest, or thought, has room to harbour there;
Destruction be my feast, and mortal wounds,
And scenes of blood, and agonizing sounds.â
âO first of Greeks, (Ulysses thus rejoinâd,)
The best and bravest of the warrior kind!
Thy praise it is in dreadful camps to shine,
But old experience and calm wisdom mine.
Then hear my counsel, and to reason yield,
The bravest soon are satiate of the field;
Though vast the heaps that strow the crimson plain,
The bloody harvest brings but little gain:
The scale of conquest ever wavering lies,
Great Jove but turns it, and the victor dies!
The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall,
And endless were the grief, to weep for all.
Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?
Greece honours not with solemn fasts the dead:
Enough, when death demands the brave, to pay
The tribute of a melancholy day.
One chief with patience to the grave resignâd,
Our care devolves on others left behind.
Let generous food supplies of strength produce,
Let rising spirits flow from sprightly juice,
Let their warm heads with scenes of battle glow,
And pour new furies on the feebler foe.
Yet a short interval, and none shall dare
Expect a second summons to the war;
Who waits for that, the dire effects shall find,
If trembling in the ships he lags behind.
Embodied, to the battle let us bend,
And all at once on haughty Troy descend.â
And now the delegates Ulysses sent,
To bear the presents from the royal tent:
The sons of Nestor, Phyleusâ valiant heir,
Thias and Merion, thunderbolts of war,
With Lycomedes of Creiontian strain,
And Melanippus, formâd the chosen train.
Swift as the word was given, the youths obeyâd:
Twice ten bright vases in the midst they laid;
A row of six fair tripods then succeeds;
And twice the number of high-bounding steeds:
Seven captives next a lovely line compose;
The eighth Briseis, like the blooming rose,
Closed the bright band: great Ithacus, before,
First of the train, the golden talents bore:
The rest in public view the chiefs dispose,
A splendid scene! then Agamemnon rose:
The boar Talthybius held: the Grecian lord
Drew the broad cutlass sheathâd beside his sword:
The stubborn bristles from the victimâs brow
He crops, and offering meditates his vow.
His hands uplifted to the attesting skies,
On heavenâs broad marble roof were fixed his eyes.
The solemn words a deep attention draw,
And Greece around sat thrillâd with sacred awe.
âWitness thou first! thou greatest power above,
All-good, all-wise, and all-surveying Jove!
And mother-earth, and heavenâs revolving light,
And ye, fell furies of the realms of night,
Who rule the dead, and horrid woes prepare
For perjured kings, and all who falsely swear!
The black-eyed maid inviolate removes,
Pure and unconscious of my manly loves.
If this be false, heaven all its vengeance shed,
And levellâd thunder strike my guilty head!â
With that, his weapon deep inflicts the wound;
The bleeding savage tumbles to the ground;
The sacred herald rolls the victim slain
(A feast for fish) into the foaming main.
Then thus Achilles: âHear, ye Greeks! and know
Whateâer we feel, âtis Jove inflicts the woe;
Not else Atrides could our rage inflame,
Nor from my arms, unwilling, force the dame.
âTwas Joveâs high will alone, oâerruling all,
That doomâd our strife, and doomâd the Greeks to fall.
Go then, ye chiefs! indulge the genial rite;
Achilles waits ye, and expects the fight.â
The speedy council at his word adjournâd:
To their black vessels all the Greeks returnâd.
Achilles sought his tent. His train before
Marchâd onward, bending with the gifts they bore.
Those in the tents the squires industrious spread:
The foaming coursers to the stalls they led;
To their new seats the female captives move
Briseis, radiant as the queen of love,
Slow as she passâd, beheld with sad survey
Where, gashâd with cruel wounds, Patroclus lay.
Prone on the body fell the heavenly fair,
Beat her sad breast, and tore her golden hair;
All beautiful in grief, her humid eyes
Shining with tears she lifts, and thus she cries:
âAh, youth for ever dear, for ever kind,
Once tender friend of my distracted mind!
I left thee fresh in life, in beauty gay;
Now find thee cold, inanimated clay!
What woes my wretched race of life attend!
Sorrows on sorrows, never doomâd to end!
The first loved consort of my virgin bed
Before these eyes in fatal battle bled:
My three brave brothers in one mournful day
All trod the dark, irremeable way:
Thy friendly hand uprearâd me from the plain,
And dried my sorrows for a husband slain;
Achillesâ care you promised I should prove,
The first, the dearest partner of his love;
That rites divine should ratify the band,
And make me empress in his native land.
Accept these grateful tears! for thee they flow,
For thee, that ever felt anotherâs woe!â
Her sister captives echoed groan for groan,
Nor mournâd Patroclusâ fortunes, but their own.
The leaders pressâd the chief on every side;
Unmoved he heard them, and with sighs denied.
âIf yet Achilles have a friend, whose care
Is bent to please him, this request forbear;
Till yonder sun descend, ah, let me pay
To grief and anguish one abstemious day.â
He spoke, and from the warriors turnâd his face:
Yet still the brother-kings of Atreusâ race,
Nestor, Idomeneus, Ulysses sage,
And Phoenix, strive to calm his grief and rage:
His rage they calm not, nor his grief control;
He groans, he raves, he sorrows from his soul.
âThou too, Patroclus! (thus his heart he vents)
Once spread the inviting banquet in our tents:
Thy sweet society, thy winning care,
Once stayâd Achilles, rushing to the war.
But now, alas! to deathâs cold arms resignâd,
What banquet but revenge can glad my mind?
What greater sorrow could afflict my breast,
What more if hoary Peleus were deceased?
Who now, perhaps, in Phthia dreads to hear
His sonâs sad fate, and drops a tender tear.
What more, should Neoptolemus the brave,
My only offspring, sink into the grave?
If yet that offspring lives; (I distant far,
Of all neglectful, wage a hateful war.)
I could not this, this cruel stroke attend;
Fate claimâd Achilles, but might spare his friend.
I hoped Patroclus might survive, to rear
My tender orphan with a parentâs care,
From Scyrosâ isle conduct him oâer the main,
And glad his eyes with his paternal reign,
The lofty palace, and the large domain.
For Peleus breathes no more the vital air;
Or drags a wretched life of age and care,
But till the news of my sad fate invades
His hastening soul, and sinks him to the shades.â
Sighing he said: his grief the heroes joinâd,
Each stole a tear for what he left behind.
Their mingled grief the sire of heaven surveyâd,
And thus with pity to his blue-eyed maid:
âIs then Achilles now no more thy care,
And dost thou thus desert the great in war?
Lo, where yon sails their canvas wings extend,
All comfortless he sits, and wails his friend:
Ere thirst and want his forces have oppressâd,
Haste and infuse ambrosia in his breast.â
He spoke; and sudden, at the word of Jove,
Shot the descending goddess from above.
So swift through ether the shrill harpy springs,
The wide air floating to her ample wings,
To great Achilles she her flight addressâd,
And pourâd divine ambrosia in his breast,[258]
With nectar sweet, (refection of the gods!)
Then, swift ascending, sought the bright abodes.
Now issued from the ships the warrior-train,
And like a deluge pourâd upon the plain.
As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow,
And scatter oâer the fields the driving snow;
From dusky clouds the fleecy winter flies,
Whose dazzling lustre whitens all the skies:
So helms succeeding helms, so shields from shields,
Catch the quick beams, and brighten all the fields;
Broad glittering breastplates, spears with pointed rays,
Mix in one stream, reflecting blaze on blaze;
Thick beats the centre as the coursers bound;
With splendour flame the skies, and laugh the fields around,
Full in the midst, high-towering oâer the rest,
His limbs in arms divine Achilles dressâd;
Arms which the father of the fire bestowâd,
Forged on the eternal anvils of the god.
Grief and revenge his furious heart inspire,
His glowing eyeballs roll with living fire;
He grinds his teeth, and furious with delay
Oâerlooks the embattled host, and hopes the bloody day.
The silver cuishes first his thighs infold;
Then oâer his breast was braced the hollow gold;
The brazen sword a various baldric tied,
That, starrâd with gems, hung glittering at his side;
And, like the moon, the broad refulgent shield
Blazed with long rays, and gleamâd athwart the field.
So to night-wandering sailors, pale with fears,
Wide oâer the watery waste, a light appears,
Which on the far-seen mountain blazing high,
Streams from some lonely watch-tower to the sky:
With mournful eyes they gaze, and gaze again;
Loud howls the storm, and drives them oâer the main.
Next, his high head the helmet graced; behind
The sweepy crest hung floating in the wind:
Like the red star, that from his flaming hair
Shakes down diseases, pestilence, and war;
So streamâd the golden honours from his head,
Trembled the sparkling plumes, and the loose glories shed.
The chief beholds himself with wondering eyes;
His arms he poises, and his motions tries;
Buoyâd by some inward force, he seems to swim,
And feels a pinion lifting every limb.
And now he shakes his great paternal spear,
Ponderous and huge, which not a Greek could rear,
From Pelionâs cloudy top an ash entire
Old Chiron fellâd, and shaped it for his sire;
A spear which stern Achilles only wields,
The death of heroes, and the dread of fields.
Automedon and Alcimus prepare
The immortal coursers, and the radiant car;
(The silver traces sweeping at their side;)
Their fiery mouths resplendent bridles tied;
The ivory-studded reins, returnâd behind,
Waved oâer their backs, and to the chariot joinâd.
The charioteer then whirlâd the lash around,
And swift ascended at one active bound.
All bright in heavenly arms, above his squire
Achilles mounts, and sets the field on fire;
Not brighter Phoebus in the ethereal way
Flames from his chariot, and restores the day.
High oâer the host, all terrible he stands,
And thunders to his steeds these dread commands:
âXanthus and Balius! of Podargesâ strain,
(Unless ye boast that heavenly race in vain,)
Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear,
And learn to make your master more your care:
Through falling squadrons bear my slaughtering sword,
Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your lord.â
The generous Xanthus, as the words he said,
Seemâd sensible of woe, and droopâd his head:
Trembling he stood before the golden wain,
And bowâd to dust the honours of his mane.
When, strange to tell! (so Juno willâd) he broke
Eternal silence, and portentous spoke.
âAchilles! yes! this day at least we bear
Thy rage in safety through the files of war:
But come it will, the fatal time must come,
Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom.
Not through our crime, or slowness in the course,
Fell thy Patroclus, but by heavenly force;
The bright far-shooting god who gilds the day
(Confessâd we saw him) tore his arms way.
No â could our swiftness oâer the winds prevail,
Or beat the pinions of the western gale,
All were in vain â the Fates thy death demand,
Due to a mortal and immortal hand.â
Then ceased for ever, by the Furies tied,
His fateful voice. The intrepid chief replied
With unabated rage ââSo let it be!
Portents and prodigies are lost on me.
I know my fate: to die, to see no more
My much-loved parents, and my native shore â
Enough â when heaven ordains, I sink in night:
Now perish Troy!â He said, and rushâd to fight.