Meantime erect the tomb with pious hands,

A common structure on the humble sands:

Hereafter Greece some nobler work may raise,

And late posterity record our praise!”

The Greeks obey; where yet the embers glow,

Wide o’er the pile the sable wine they throw,

And deep subsides the ashy heap below.

Next the white bones his sad companions place,

With tears collected, in the golden vase.

The sacred relics to the tent they bore;

The urn a veil of linen covered o’er.

That done, they bid the sepulchre aspire,

And cast the deep foundations round the pyre;

High in the midst they heap the swelling bed

Of rising earth, memorial of the dead.

The swarming populace the chief detains,

And leads amidst a wide extent of plains;

There placed them round: then from the ships proceeds

A train of oxen, mules, and stately steeds,

Vases and tripods (for the funeral games),

Resplendent brass, and more resplendent dames.

First stood the prizes to reward the force

Of rapid racers in the dusty course:

A woman for the first, in beauty’s bloom,

Skill’d in the needle, and the labouring loom;

And a large vase, where two bright handles rise,

Of twenty measures its capacious size.

The second victor claims a mare unbroke,

Big with a mule, unknowing of the yoke:

The third, a charger yet untouch’d by flame;

Four ample measures held the shining frame:

Two golden talents for the fourth were placed:

An ample double bowl contents the last.

These in fair order ranged upon the plain,

The hero, rising, thus address’d the train:

“Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed

To the brave rulers of the racing steed;

Prizes which none beside ourself could gain,

Should our immortal coursers take the plain;

(A race unrivall’d, which from ocean’s god

Peleus received, and on his son bestow’d.)

But this no time our vigour to display;

Nor suit, with them, the games of this sad day:

Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck

Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck.

Sad, as they shared in human grief, they stand,

And trail those graceful honours on the sand!

Let others for the noble task prepare,

Who trust the courser and the flying car.”

Fired at his word the rival racers rise;

But far the first Eumelus hopes the prize,

Famed though Pieria for the fleetest breed,

And skill’d to manage the high-bounding steed.

With equal ardour bold Tydides swell’d,

The steeds of Tros beneath his yoke compell’d

(Which late obey’d the Dardan chiefs command,

When scarce a god redeem’d him from his hand).

Then Menelaus his Podargus brings,

And the famed courser of the king of kings:

Whom rich Echepolus (more rich than brave),

To ’scape the wars, to Agamemnon gave,

(Æthe her name) at home to end his days;

Base wealth preferring to eternal praise.

Next him Antilochus demands the course

With beating heart, and cheers his Pylian horse.

Experienced Nestor gives his son the reins,

Directs his judgment, and his heat restrains;

Nor idly warns the hoary sire, nor hears

The prudent son with unattending ears.

“My son! though youthful ardour fire thy breast,

The gods have loved thee, and with arts have bless’d;

Neptune and Jove on thee conferr’d the skill

Swift round the goal to turn the flying wheel.

To guide thy conduct little precept needs;

But slow, and past their vigour, are my steeds.

Fear not thy rivals, though for swiftness known;

Compare those rivals’ judgment and thy own:

It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize,

And to be swift is less than to be wise.

’Tis more by art than force of numerous strokes

The dexterous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks;

By art the pilot, through the boiling deep

And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship;

And ’tis the artist wins the glorious course;

Not those who trust in chariots and in horse.

In vain, unskilful to the goal they strive,

And short, or wide, the ungovern’d courser drive:

While with sure skill, though with inferior steeds,

The knowing racer to his end proceeds;

Fix’d on the goal his eye foreruns the course,

His hand unerring steers the steady horse,

And now contracts, or now extends the rein,

Observing still the foremost on the plain.

Mark then the goal, ’tis easy to be found;

Yon aged trunk, a cubit from the ground;

Of some once stately oak the last remains,

Or hardy fir, unperish’d with the rains:

Inclosed with stones, conspicuous from afar;

And round, a circle for the wheeling car.

(Some tomb perhaps of old, the dead to grace;

Or then, as now, the limit of a race.)

Bear close to this, and warily proceed,

A little bending to the left-hand steed;

But urge the right, and give him all the reins;

While thy strict hand his fellow’s head restrains,

And turns him short; till, doubling as they roll,

The wheel’s round naves appear to brush the goal.

Yet (not to break the car, or lame the horse)

Clear of the stony heap direct the course;

Lest through incaution failing, thou mayst be

A joy to others, a reproach to me.

So shalt thou pass the goal, secure of mind,

And leave unskilful swiftness far behind:

Though thy fierce rival drove the matchless steed

Which bore Adrastus, of celestial breed;

Or the famed race, through all the regions known,

That whirl’d the car of proud Laomedon.”

Thus (nought unsaid) the much-advising sage

Concludes; then sat, stiff with unwieldy age.

Next bold Meriones was seen to rise,

The last, but not least ardent for the prize.

They mount their seats; the lots their place dispose

(Roll’d in his helmet, these Achilles throws).

Young Nestor leads the race: Eumelus then;

And next the brother of the king of men:

Thy lot, Meriones, the fourth was cast;

And, far the bravest, Diomed, was last.

They stand in order, an impatient train:

Pelides points the barrier on the plain,

And sends before old Phoenix to the place,

To mark the racers, and to judge the race.

At once the coursers from the barrier bound;

The lifted scourges all at once resound;

Their heart, their eyes, their voice, they send before;

And up the champaign thunder from the shore:

Thick, where they drive, the dusty clouds arise,

And the lost courser in the whirlwind flies;

Loose on their shoulders the long manes reclined,

Float in their speed, and dance upon the wind:

The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound,

Now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground.

While hot for fame, and conquest all their care,

(Each o’er his flying courser hung in air,)

Erect with ardour, poised upon the rein,

They pant, they stretch, they shout along the plain.

Now (the last compass fetch’d around the goal)

At the near prize each gathers all his soul,

Each burns with double hope, with double pain,

Tears up the shore, and thunders toward the main.

First flew Eumelus on Pheretian steeds;

With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds:

Close on Eumelus’ back they puff the wind,

And seem just mounting on his car behind;

Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,

And, hovering o’er, their stretching shadows sees.

Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize;

But angry Phoebus to Tydides flies,

Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain

His matchless horses’ labour on the plain.

Rage fills his eye with anguish, to survey

Snatch’d from his hope the glories of the day.

The fraud celestial Pallas sees with pain,

Springs to her knight, and gives the scourge again,

And fills his steeds with vigour. At a stroke

She breaks his rival’s chariot from the yoke:

No more their way the startled horses held;

The car reversed came rattling on the field;

Shot headlong from his seat, beside the wheel,

Prone on the dust the unhappy master fell;

His batter’d face and elbows strike the ground;

Nose, mouth, and front, one undistinguish’d wound:

Grief stops his voice, a torrent drowns his eyes:

Before him far the glad Tydides flies;

Minerva’s spirit drives his matchless pace,

And crowns him victor of the labour’d race.

The next, though distant, Menelaus succeeds;

While thus young Nestor animates his steeds:

“Now, now, my generous pair, exert your force;

Not that we hope to match Tydides’ horse,

Since great Minerva wings their rapid way,

And gives their lord the honours of the day;

But reach Atrides! shall his mare outgo

Your swiftness? vanquish’d by a female foe?

Through your neglect, if lagging on the plain

The last ignoble gift be all we gain,

No more shall Nestor’s hand your food supply,

The old man’s fury rises, and ye die.

Haste then: yon narrow road, before our sight,

Presents the occasion, could we use it right.”

Thus he. The coursers at their master’s threat

With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat.

And now Antilochus with nice survey

Observes the compass of the hollow way.

’Twas where, by force of wintry torrents torn,

Fast by the road a precipice was worn:

Here, where but one could pass, to shun the throng

The Spartan hero’s chariot smoked along.

Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep,

Still edging near, and bears him toward the steep.

Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below,

And wonders at the rashness of his foe.

“Hold, stay your steeds—What madness thus to ride

This narrow way! take larger field (he cried),

Or both must fall.”—Atrides cried in vain;

He flies more fast, and throws up all the rein.

Far as an able arm the disk can send,

When youthful rivals their full force extend,

So far, Antilochus! thy chariot flew

Before the king: he, cautious, backward drew

His horse compell’d; foreboding in his fears

The rattling ruin of the clashing cars,

The floundering coursers rolling on the plain,

And conquest lost through frantic haste to gain.

But thus upbraids his rival as he flies:

“Go, furious youth! ungenerous and unwise!

Go, but expect not I’ll the prize resign;

Add perjury to fraud, and make it thine—”

Then to his steeds with all his force he cries,

“Be swift, be vigorous, and regain the prize!

Your rivals, destitute of youthful force,

With fainting knees shall labour in the course,

And yield the glory yours.”—The steeds obey;

Already at their heels they wing their way,

And seem already to retrieve the day.

Meantime the Grecians in a ring beheld

The coursers bounding o’er the dusty field.

The first who mark’d them was the Cretan king;

High on a rising ground, above the ring,

The monarch sat: from whence with sure survey

He well observed the chief who led the way,

And heard from far his animating cries,

And saw the foremost steed with sharpen’d eyes;

On whose broad front a blaze of shining white,

Like the full moon, stood obvious to the sight.

He saw; and rising, to the Greeks begun:

“Are yonder horse discern’d by me alone?

Or can ye, all, another chief survey,

And other steeds than lately led the way?

Those, though the swiftest, by some god withheld,

Lie sure disabled in the middle field:

For, since the goal they doubled, round the plain

I search to find them, but I search in vain.

Perchance the reins forsook the driver’s hand,

And, turn’d too short, he tumbled on the strand,

Shot from the chariot; while his coursers stray

With frantic fury from the destined way.

Rise then some other, and inform my sight,

For these dim eyes, perhaps, discern not right;

Yet sure he seems, to judge by shape and air,

The great Ætolian chief, renown’d in war.”

“Old man! (Oileus rashly thus replies)

Thy tongue too hastily confers the prize;

Of those who view the course, nor sharpest eyed,

Nor youngest, yet the readiest to decide.

Eumelus’ steeds, high bounding in the chase,

Still, as at first, unrivall’d lead the race:

I well discern him, as he shakes the rein,

And hear his shouts victorious o’er the plain.”

Thus he. Idomeneus, incensed, rejoin’d:

“Barbarous of words! and arrogant of mind!

Contentious prince, of all the Greeks beside

The last in merit, as the first in pride!

To vile reproach what answer can we make?

A goblet or a tripod let us stake,

And be the king the judge. The most unwise

Will learn their rashness, when they pay the price.”

He said: and Ajax, by mad passion borne,

Stern had replied; fierce scorn enhancing scorn

To fell extremes. But Thetis’ godlike son

Awful amidst them rose, and thus begun:

“Forbear, ye chiefs! reproachful to contend;

Much would ye blame, should others thus offend:

And lo! the approaching steeds your contest end.”

No sooner had he spoke, but thundering near,

Drives, through a stream of dust, the charioteer.

High o’er his head the circling lash he wields:

His bounding horses scarcely touch the fields:

His car amidst the dusty whirlwind roll’d,

Bright with the mingled blaze of tin and gold,

Refulgent through the cloud: no eye could find

The track his flying wheels had left behind:

And the fierce coursers urged their rapid pace

So swift, it seem’d a flight, and not a race.

Now victor at the goal Tydides stands,

Quits his bright car, and springs upon the sands;

From the hot steeds the sweaty torrents stream;

The well-plied whip is hung athwart the beam:

With joy brave Sthenelus receives the prize,

The tripod-vase, and dame with radiant eyes:

These to the ships his train triumphant leads,

The chief himself unyokes the panting steeds.

Young Nestor follows (who by art, not force,

O’erpass’d Atrides) second in the course.

Behind, Atrides urged the race, more near

Than to the courser in his swift career

The following car, just touching with his heel

And brushing with his tail the whirling wheel:

Such, and so narrow now the space between

The rivals, late so distant on the green;

So soon swift Æthe her lost ground regain’d,

One length, one moment, had the race obtain’d.

Merion pursued, at greater distance still,

With tardier coursers, and inferior skill.

Last came, Admetus! thy unhappy son;

Slow dragged the steeds his batter’d chariot on:

Achilles saw, and pitying thus begun:

“Behold! the man whose matchless art surpass’d

The sons of Greece! the ablest, yet the last!

Fortune denies, but justice bids us pay

(Since great Tydides bears the first away)

To him the second honours of the day.”

The Greeks consent with loud-applauding cries,

And then Eumelus had received the prize,

But youthful Nestor, jealous of his fame,

The award opposes, and asserts his claim.

“Think not (he cries) I tamely will resign,

O Peleus’ son! the mare so justly mine.

What if the gods, the skilful to confound,

Have thrown the horse and horseman to the ground?

Perhaps he sought not heaven by sacrifice,

And vows omitted forfeited the prize.

If yet (distinction to thy friend to show,

And please a soul desirous to bestow)

Some gift must grace Eumelus, view thy store

Of beauteous handmaids, steeds, and shining ore;

An ample present let him thence receive,

And Greece shall praise thy generous thirst to give.

But this my prize I never shall forego;

This, who but touches, warriors! is my foe.”

Thus spake the youth; nor did his words offend;

Pleased with the well-turn’d flattery of a friend,

Achilles smiled: “The gift proposed (he cried),

Antilochus! we shall ourself provide.

With plates of brass the corslet cover’d o’er,

(The same renown’d Asteropaeus wore,)

Whose glittering margins raised with silver shine,

(No vulgar gift,) Eumelus! shall be thine.”

He said: Automedon at his command

The corslet brought, and gave it to his hand.

Distinguish’d by his friend, his bosom glows

With generous joy: then Menelaus rose;

The herald placed the sceptre in his hands,

And still’d the clamour of the shouting bands.

Not without cause incensed at Nestor’s son,

And inly grieving, thus the king begun:

“The praise of wisdom, in thy youth obtain’d,

An act so rash, Antilochus! has stain’d.

Robb’d of my glory and my just reward,

To you, O Grecians! be my wrong declared:

So not a leader shall our conduct blame,

Or judge me envious of a rival’s fame.