"Ah think, thou favour'd of the powers divine!(295) Think of thy father's age, and pity mine!

In me that father's reverend image trace, Those silver hairs, that venerable face; His trembling limbs, his helpless person, see!

In all my equal, but in misery!

Yet now, perhaps, some turn of human fate Expels him helpless from his peaceful state; Think, from some powerful foe thou seest him fly, And beg protection with a feeble cry.

Yet still one comfort in his soul may rise; He hears his son still lives to glad his eyes, And, hearing, still may hope a better day May send him thee, to chase that foe away.

No comfort to my griefs, no hopes remain, The best, the bravest, of my sons are slain!

Yet what a race! ere Greece to Ilion came, The pledge of many a loved and loving dame: Nineteen one mother bore--Dead, all are dead!

How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled!

Still one was left their loss to recompense; His father's hope, his country's last defence.

Him too thy rage has slain! beneath thy steel, Unhappy in his country's cause he fell!

"For him through hostile camps I bent my way, For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay; Large gifts proportion'd to thy wrath I bear; O hear the wretched, and the G.o.ds revere!

"Think of thy father, and this face behold!

See him in me, as helpless and as old!

Though not so wretched: there he yields to me, The first of men in sovereign misery!

Thus forced to kneel, thus grovelling to embrace The scourge and ruin of my realm and race; Suppliant my children's murderer to implore, And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore!"

These words soft pity in the chief inspire, Touch'd with the dear remembrance of his sire.

Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay) The old man's cheek he gently turn'd away.

Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe; And now the mingled tides together flow: This low on earth, that gently bending o'er; A father one, and one a son deplore: But great Achilles different pa.s.sions rend, And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend.

The infectious softness through the heroes ran; One universal solemn shower began; They bore as heroes, but they felt as man.

Satiate at length with unavailing woes, From the high throne divine Achilles rose; The reverend monarch by the hand he raised; On his white beard and form majestic gazed, Not unrelenting; then serene began With words to soothe the miserable man:

"Alas, what weight of anguish hast thou known, Unhappy prince! thus guardless and alone Two pa.s.s through foes, and thus undaunted face The man whose fury has destroy'd thy race!

Heaven sure has arm'd thee with a heart of steel, A strength proportion'd to the woes you feel.

Rise, then: let reason mitigate your care: To mourn avails not: man is born to bear.

Such is, alas! the G.o.ds' severe decree: They, only they are blest, and only free.

Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ill; To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed To taste the bad unmix'd, is cursed indeed; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.

The happiest taste not happiness sincere; But find the cordial draught is dash'd with care.

Who more than Peleus shone in wealth and power What stars concurring bless'd his natal hour!

A realm, a G.o.ddess, to his wishes given; Graced by the G.o.ds with all the gifts of heaven.

One evil yet o'ertakes his latest day: No race succeeding to imperial sway; An only son; and he, alas! ordain'd To fall untimely in a foreign land.

See him, in Troy, the pious care decline Of his weak age, to live the curse of thine!

Thou too, old man, hast happier days beheld; In riches once, in children once excell'd; Extended Phrygia own'd thy ample reign, And all fair Lesbos' blissful seats contain, And all wide h.e.l.lespont's unmeasured main.

But since the G.o.d his hand has pleased to turn, And fill thy measure from his bitter urn, What sees the sun, but hapless heroes' falls?

War, and the blood of men, surround thy walls!

What must be, must be. Bear thy lot, nor shed These unavailing sorrows o'er the dead; Thou canst not call him from the Stygian sh.o.r.e, But thou, alas! may'st live to suffer more!"

To whom the king: "O favour'd of the skies!

Here let me grow to earth! since Hector lies On the bare beach deprived of obsequies.

O give me Hector! to my eyes restore His corse, and take the gifts: I ask no more.

Thou, as thou may'st, these boundless stores enjoy; Safe may'st thou sail, and turn thy wrath from Troy; So shall thy pity and forbearance give A weak old man to see the light and live!"

"Move me no more, (Achilles thus replies, While kindling anger sparkled in his eyes,) Nor seek by tears my steady soul to bend: To yield thy Hector I myself intend: For know, from Jove my G.o.ddess-mother came, (Old Ocean's daughter, silver-footed dame,) Nor comest thou but by heaven; nor comest alone, Some G.o.d impels with courage not thy own: No human hand the weighty gates unbarr'd, Nor could the boldest of our youth have dared To pa.s.s our outworks, or elude the guard.

Cease; lest, neglectful of high Jove's command, I show thee, king! thou tread'st on hostile land; Release my knees, thy suppliant arts give o'er, And shake the purpose of my soul no more."

The sire obey'd him, trembling and o'eraw'd.

Achilles, like a lion, rush'd abroad: Automedon and Alcimus attend, (Whom most he honour'd, since he lost his friend,) These to unyoke the mules and horses went, And led the h.o.a.ry herald to the tent; Next, heap'd on high, the numerous presents bear, (Great Hector's ransom,) from the polish'd car.

Two splendid mantles, and a carpet spread, They leave: to cover and enwrap the dead.

Then call the handmaids, with a.s.sistant toil To wash the body and anoint with oil, Apart from Priam: lest the unhappy sire, Provoked to pa.s.sion, once more rouse to ire The stern Pelides; and nor sacred age, Nor Jove's command, should check the rising rage.

This done, the garments o'er the corse they spread; Achilles lifts it to the funeral bed: Then, while the body on the car they laid, He groans, and calls on loved Patroclus' shade:

"If, in that gloom which never light must know, The deeds of mortals touch the ghosts below, O friend! forgive me, that I thus fulfil (Restoring Hector) heaven's unquestion'd will.

The gifts the father gave, be ever thine, To grace thy manes, and adorn thy shrine."(296)

He said, and, entering, took his seat of state; Where full before him reverend Priam sate; To whom, composed, the G.o.dlike chief begun: "Lo! to thy prayer restored, thy breathless son; Extended on the funeral couch he lies; And soon as morning paints the eastern skies, The sight is granted to thy longing eyes: But now the peaceful hours of sacred night Demand reflection, and to rest invite: Nor thou, O father! thus consumed with woe, The common cares that nourish life forego.

Not thus did Niobe, of form divine, A parent once, whose sorrows equall'd thine: Six youthful sons, as many blooming maids, In one sad day beheld the Stygian shades; Those by Apollo's silver bow were slain, These, Cynthia's arrows stretch'd upon the plain: So was her pride chastised by wrath divine, Who match'd her own with bright Latona's line; But two the G.o.ddess, twelve the queen enjoy'd; Those boasted twelve, the avenging two destroy'd.

Steep'd in their blood, and in the dust outspread, Nine days, neglected, lay exposed the dead; None by to weep them, to inhume them none; (For Jove had turn'd the nation all to stone.) The G.o.ds themselves, at length relenting gave The unhappy race the honours of a grave.

Herself a rock (for such was heaven's high will) Through deserts wild now pours a weeping rill; Where round the bed whence Achelous springs, The watery fairies dance in mazy rings; There high on Sipylus's s.h.a.ggy brow, She stands, her own sad monument of woe; The rock for ever lasts, the tears for ever flow.

"Such griefs, O king! have other parents known; Remember theirs, and mitigate thy own.

The care of heaven thy Hector has appear'd, Nor shall he lie unwept, and uninterr'd; Soon may thy aged cheeks in tears be drown'd, And all the eyes of Ilion stream around."

He said, and, rising, chose the victim ewe With silver fleece, which his attendants slew.

The limbs they sever from the reeking hide, With skill prepare them, and in parts divide: Each on the coals the separate morsels lays, And, hasty, s.n.a.t.c.hes from the rising blaze.

With bread the glittering canisters they load, Which round the board Automedon bestow'd.

The chief himself to each his portion placed, And each indulging shared in sweet repast.

When now the rage of hunger was repress'd, The wondering hero eyes his royal guest: No less the royal guest the hero eyes, His G.o.dlike aspect and majestic size; Here, youthful grace and n.o.ble fire engage; And there, the mild benevolence of age.

Thus gazing long, the silence neither broke, (A solemn scene!) at length the father spoke:

"Permit me now, beloved of Jove! to steep My careful temples in the dew of sleep: For, since the day that number'd with the dead My hapless son, the dust has been my bed; Soft sleep a stranger to my weeping eyes; My only food, my sorrows and my sighs!

Till now, encouraged by the grace you give, I share thy banquet, and consent to live."

With that, Achilles bade prepare the bed, With purple soft and s.h.a.ggy carpets spread; Forth, by the flaming lights, they bend their way, And place the couches, and the coverings lay.

Then he: "Now, father, sleep, but sleep not here; Consult thy safety, and forgive my fear, Lest any Argive, at this hour awake, To ask our counsel, or our orders take, Approaching sudden to our open'd tent, Perchance behold thee, and our grace prevent.

Should such report thy honour'd person here, The king of men the ransom might defer; But say with speed, if aught of thy desire Remains unask'd; what time the rites require To inter thy Hector? For, so long we stay Our slaughtering arm, and bid the hosts obey."

"If then thy will permit (the monarch said) To finish all due honours to the dead, This of thy grace accord: to thee are known The fears of Ilion, closed within her town; And at what distance from our walls aspire The hills of Ide, and forests for the fire.

Nine days to vent our sorrows I request, The tenth shall see the funeral and the feast; The next, to raise his monument be given; The twelfth we war, if war be doom'd by heaven!"

"This thy request (replied the chief) enjoy: Till then our arms suspend the fall of Troy."

Then gave his hand at parting, to prevent The old man's fears, and turn'd within the tent; Where fair Briseis, bright in blooming charms, Expects her hero with desiring arms.

But in the porch the king and herald rest; Sad dreams of care yet wandering in their breast.

Now G.o.ds and men the gifts of sleep partake; Industrious Hermes only was awake, The king's return revolving in his mind, To pa.s.s the ramparts, and the watch to blind.

The power descending hover'd o'er his head: "And sleep'st thou, father! (thus the vision said:) Now dost thou sleep, when Hector is restored?

Nor fear the Grecian foes, or Grecian lord?

Thy presence here should stern Atrides see, Thy still surviving sons may sue for thee; May offer all thy treasures yet contain, To spare thy age; and offer all in vain."

Waked with the word the trembling sire arose, And raised his friend: the G.o.d before him goes: He joins the mules, directs them with his hand, And moves in silence through the hostile land.

When now to Xanthus' yellow stream they drove, (Xanthus, immortal progeny of Jove,) The winged deity forsook their view, And in a moment to Olympus flew.

Now shed Aurora round her saffron ray, Sprang through the gates of light, and gave the day: Charged with the mournful load, to Ilion go The sage and king, majestically slow.

Ca.s.sandra first beholds, from Ilion's spire, The sad procession of her h.o.a.ry sire; Then, as the pensive pomp advanced more near, (Her breathless brother stretched upon the bier,) A shower of tears o'erflows her beauteous eyes, Alarming thus all Ilion with her cries:

"Turn here your steps, and here your eyes employ, Ye wretched daughters, and ye sons of Troy!

If e'er ye rush'd in crowds, with vast delight, To hail your hero glorious from the fight, Now meet him dead, and let your sorrows flow; Your common triumph, and your common woe."

In thronging crowds they issue to the plains; Nor man nor woman in the walls remains; In every face the self-same grief is shown; And Troy sends forth one universal groan.