But shall not we, ourselves, the truth maintain?

What needs appealing in a fact so plain?

What Greek shall blame me, if I bid thee rise,

And vindicate by oath th’ ill-gotten prize?

Rise if thou darest, before thy chariot stand,

The driving scourge high-lifted in thy hand;

And touch thy steeds, and swear thy whole intent

Was but to conquer, not to circumvent.

Swear by that god whose liquid arms surround

The globe, and whose dread earthquakes heave the ground!”

The prudent chief with calm attention heard;

Then mildly thus: “Excuse, if youth have err’d;

Superior as thou art, forgive the offence,

Nor I thy equal, or in years, or sense.

Thou know’st the errors of unripen’d age,

Weak are its counsels, headlong is its rage.

The prize I quit, if thou thy wrath resign;

The mare, or aught thou ask’st, be freely thine

Ere I become (from thy dear friendship torn)

Hateful to thee, and to the gods forsworn.”

So spoke Antilochus; and at the word

The mare contested to the king restored.

Joy swells his soul: as when the vernal grain

Lifts the green ear above the springing plain,

The fields their vegetable life renew,

And laugh and glitter with the morning dew;

Such joy the Spartan’s shining face o’erspread,

And lifted his gay heart, while thus he said:

“Still may our souls, O generous youth! agree

’Tis now Atrides’ turn to yield to thee.

Rash heat perhaps a moment might control,

Not break, the settled temper of thy soul.

Not but (my friend) ’tis still the wiser way

To waive contention with superior sway;

For ah! how few, who should like thee offend,

Like thee, have talents to regain the friend!

To plead indulgence, and thy fault atone,

Suffice thy father’s merit and thy own:

Generous alike, for me, the sire and son

Have greatly suffer’d, and have greatly done.

I yield; that all may know, my soul can bend,

Nor is my pride preferr’d before my friend.”

He said; and pleased his passion to command,

Resign’d the courser to Noemon’s hand,

Friend of the youthful chief: himself content,

The shining charger to his vessel sent.

The golden talents Merion next obtain’d;

The fifth reward, the double bowl, remain’d.

Achilles this to reverend Nestor bears.

And thus the purpose of his gift declares:

“Accept thou this, O sacred sire! (he said)

In dear memorial of Patroclus dead;

Dead and for ever lost Patroclus lies,

For ever snatch’d from our desiring eyes!

Take thou this token of a grateful heart,

Though ’tis not thine to hurl the distant dart,

The quoit to toss, the ponderous mace to wield,

Or urge the race, or wrestle on the field:

Thy pristine vigour age has overthrown,

But left the glory of the past thy own.”

He said, and placed the goblet at his side;

With joy the venerable king replied:

“Wisely and well, my son, thy words have proved

A senior honour’d, and a friend beloved!

Too true it is, deserted of my strength,

These wither’d arms and limbs have fail’d at length.

Oh! had I now that force I felt of yore,

Known through Buprasium and the Pylian shore!

Victorious then in every solemn game,

Ordain’d to Amarynces’ mighty name;

The brave Epeians gave my glory way,

Ætolians, Pylians, all resign’d the day.

I quell’d Clytomedes in fights of hand,

And backward hurl’d Ancaeus on the sand,

Surpass’d Iphyclus in the swift career,

Phyleus and Polydorus with the spear.

The sons of Actor won the prize of horse,

But won by numbers, not by art or force:

For the famed twins, impatient to survey

Prize after prize by Nestor borne away,

Sprung to their car; and with united pains

One lash’d the coursers, while one ruled the reins.

Such once I was! Now to these tasks succeeds

A younger race, that emulate our deeds:

I yield, alas! (to age who must not yield?)

Though once the foremost hero of the field.

Go thou, my son! by generous friendship led,

With martial honours decorate the dead:

While pleased I take the gift thy hands present,

(Pledge of benevolence, and kind intent,)

Rejoiced, of all the numerous Greeks, to see

Not one but honours sacred age and me:

Those due distinctions thou so well canst pay,

May the just gods return another day!”

Proud of the gift, thus spake the full of days:

Achilles heard him, prouder of the praise.

The prizes next are order’d to the field,

For the bold champions who the caestus wield.

A stately mule, as yet by toils unbroke,

Of six years’ age, unconscious of the yoke,

Is to the circus led, and firmly bound;

Next stands a goblet, massy, large, and round.

Achilles rising, thus: “Let Greece excite

Two heroes equal to this hardy fight;

Who dare the foe with lifted arms provoke,

And rush beneath the long-descending stroke.

On whom Apollo shall the palm bestow,

And whom the Greeks supreme by conquest know,

This mule his dauntless labours shall repay,

The vanquish’d bear the massy bowl away.”

This dreadful combat great Epeus chose;²⁹¹

High o’er the crowd, enormous bulk! he rose,

And seized the beast, and thus began to say:

“Stand forth some man, to bear the bowl away!

(Price of his ruin: for who dares deny

This mule my right; the undoubted victor I)

Others, ’tis own’d, in fields of battle shine,

But the first honours of this fight are mine;

For who excels in all? Then let my foe

Draw near, but first his certain fortune know;

Secure this hand shall his whole frame confound,

Mash all his bones, and all his body pound:

So let his friends be nigh, a needful train,

To heave the batter’d carcase off the plain.”

The giant spoke; and in a stupid gaze

The host beheld him, silent with amaze!

’Twas thou, Euryalus! who durst aspire

To meet his might, and emulate thy sire,

The great Mecistheus; who in days of yore

In Theban games the noblest trophy bore,

(The games ordain’d dead OEdipus to grace,)

And singly vanquish the Cadmean race.

Him great Tydides urges to contend,

Warm with the hopes of conquest for his friend;

Officious with the cincture girds him round;

And to his wrist the gloves of death are bound.

Amid the circle now each champion stands,

And poises high in air his iron hands;

With clashing gauntlets now they fiercely close,

Their crackling jaws re-echo to the blows,

And painful sweat from all their members flows.

At length Epeus dealt a weighty blow

Full on the cheek of his unwary foe;

Beneath that ponderous arm’s resistless sway

Down dropp’d he, nerveless, and extended lay.

As a large fish, when winds and waters roar,

By some huge billow dash’d against the shore,

Lies panting; not less batter’d with his wound,

The bleeding hero pants upon the ground.

To rear his fallen foe, the victor lends,

Scornful, his hand; and gives him to his friends;

Whose arms support him, reeling through the throng,

And dragging his disabled legs along;

Nodding, his head hangs down his shoulder o’er;

His mouth and nostrils pour the clotted gore;²⁹²

Wrapp’d round in mists he lies, and lost to thought;

His friends receive the bowl, too dearly bought.

The third bold game Achilles next demands,

And calls the wrestlers to the level sands:

A massy tripod for the victor lies,

Of twice six oxen its reputed price;

And next, the loser’s spirits to restore,

A female captive, valued but at four.

Scarce did the chief the vigorous strife prop

When tower-like Ajax and Ulysses rose.

Amid the ring each nervous rival stands,

Embracing rigid with implicit hands.

Close lock’d above, their heads and arms are mix’d:

Below, their planted feet at distance fix’d;

Like two strong rafters which the builder forms,

Proof to the wintry winds and howling storms,

Their tops connected, but at wider space

Fix’d on the centre stands their solid base.

Now to the grasp each manly body bends;

The humid sweat from every pore descends;

Their bones resound with blows: sides, shoulders, thighs

Swell to each gripe, and bloody tumours rise.

Nor could Ulysses, for his art renown’d,

O’erturn the strength of Ajax on the ground;

Nor could the strength of Ajax overthrow

The watchful caution of his artful foe.

While the long strife even tired the lookers on,

Thus to Ulysses spoke great Telamon:

“Or let me lift thee, chief, or lift thou me:

Prove we our force, and Jove the rest decree.”

He said; and, straining, heaved him off the ground

With matchless strength; that time Ulysses found

The strength to evade, and where the nerves combine

His ankle struck: the giant fell supine;

Ulysses, following, on his bosom lies;

Shouts of applause run rattling through the skies.

Ajax to lift Ulysses next essays;

He barely stirr’d him, but he could not raise:

His knee lock’d fast, the foe’s attempt denied;

And grappling close, they tumbled side by side.

Defiled with honourable dust they roll,

Still breathing strife, and unsubdued of soul:

Again they rage, again to combat rise;

When great Achilles thus divides the prize:

“Your noble vigour, O my friends, restrain;

Nor weary out your generous strength in vain.

Ye both have won: let others who excel,

Now prove that prowess you have proved so well.”

The hero’s words the willing chiefs obey,

From their tired bodies wipe the dust away,

And, clothed anew, the following games survey.

And now succeed the gifts ordain’d to grace

The youths contending in the rapid race:

A silver urn that full six measures held,

By none in weight or workmanship excell’d:

Sidonian artists taught the frame to shine,

Elaborate, with artifice divine;

Whence Tyrian sailors did the prize transport,

And gave to Thoas at the Lemnian port:

From him descended, good Eunaeus heir’d

The glorious gift; and, for Lycaon spared,

To brave Patroclus gave the rich reward:

Now, the same hero’s funeral rites to grace,

It stands the prize of swiftness in the race.

A well-fed ox was for the second placed;

And half a talent must content the last.

Achilles rising then bespoke the train:

“Who hope the palm of swiftness to obtain,

Stand forth, and bear these prizes from the plain.”

The hero said, and starting from his place,

Oilean Ajax rises to the race;

Ulysses next; and he whose speed surpass’d

His youthful equals, Nestor’s son, the last.

Ranged in a line the ready racers stand;

Pelides points the barrier with his hand;

All start at once; Oileus led the race;

The next Ulysses, measuring pace with pace;

Behind him, diligently close, he sped,

As closely following as the running thread

The spindle follows, and displays the charms

Of the fair spinster’s breast and moving arms:

Graceful in motion thus, his foe he plies,

And treads each footstep ere the dust can rise;

His glowing breath upon his shoulders plays:

The admiring Greeks loud acclamations raise:

To him they give their wishes, hearts, and eyes,

And send their souls before him as he flies.

Now three times turn’d in prospect of the goal,

The panting chief to Pallas lifts his soul:

“Assist, O goddess!” thus in thought he pray’d!

And present at his thought descends the maid.

Buoy’d by her heavenly force, he seems to swim,

And feels a pinion lifting every limb.

All fierce, and ready now the prize to gain,

Unhappy Ajax stumbles on the plain

(O’erturn’d by Pallas), where the slippery shore

Was clogg’d with slimy dung and mingled gore.

(The self-same place beside Patroclus’ pyre,

Where late the slaughter’d victims fed the fire.)

Besmear’d with filth, and blotted o’er with clay,

Obscene to sight, the rueful racer lay;

The well-fed bull (the second prize) he shared,

And left the urn Ulysses’ rich reward.

Then, grasping by the horn the mighty beast,

The baffled hero thus the Greeks address’d:

“Accursed fate! the conquest I forego;

A mortal I, a goddess was my foe;

She urged her favourite on the rapid way,

And Pallas, not Ulysses, won the day.”

Thus sourly wail’d he, sputtering dirt and gore;

A burst of laughter echoed through the shore.

Antilochus, more humorous than the rest,

Takes the last prize, and takes it with a jest:

“Why with our wiser elders should we strive?

The gods still love them, and they always thrive.

Ye see, to Ajax I must yield the prize:

He to Ulysses, still more aged and wise;

(A green old age unconscious of decays,

That proves the hero born in better days!)

Behold his vigour in this active race!

Achilles only boasts a swifter pace:

For who can match Achilles? He who can,

Must yet be more than hero, more than man.”

The effect succeeds the speech. Pelides cries,

“Thy artful praise deserves a better prize.

Nor Greece in vain shall hear thy friend extoll’d;

Receive a talent of the purest gold.”

The youth departs content. The host admire

The son of Nestor, worthy of his sire.

Next these a buckler, spear, and helm, he brings;

Cast on the plain, the brazen burden rings:

Arms which of late divine Sarpedon wore,

And great Patroclus in short triumph bore.

“Stand forth the bravest of our host! (he cries)

Whoever dares deserve so rich a prize,

Now grace the lists before our army’s sight,

And sheathed in steel, provoke his foe to fight.

Who first the jointed armour shall explore,

And stain his rival’s mail with issuing gore,

The sword Asteropaeus possess’d of old,

(A Thracian blade, distinct with studs of gold,)

Shall pay the stroke, and grace the striker’s side:

These arms in common let the chiefs divide:

For each brave champion, when the combat ends,

A sumptuous banquet at our tents attends.”

Fierce at the word uprose great Tydeus’ son,

And the huge bulk of Ajax Telamon.

Clad in refulgent steel, on either hand,

The dreadful chiefs amid the circle stand;

Louring they meet, tremendous to the sight;

Each Argive bosom beats with fierce delight.

Opposed in arms not long they idly stood,

But thrice they closed, and thrice the charge renew’d.

A furious pass the spear of Ajax made

Through the broad shield, but at the corslet stay’d.

Not thus the foe: his javelin aim’d above

The buckler’s margin, at the neck he drove.

But Greece, now trembling for her hero’s life,

Bade share the honours, and surcease the strife.

Yet still the victor’s due Tydides gains,

With him the sword and studded belt remains.

Then hurl’d the hero, thundering on the ground,

A mass of iron (an enormous round),

Whose weight and size the circling Greeks admire,

Rude from the furnace, and but shaped by fire.

This mighty quoit Aetion wont to rear,

And from his whirling arm dismiss in air;

The giant by Achilles slain, he stow’d

Among his spoils this memorable load.

For this, he bids those nervous artists vie,

That teach the disk to sound along the sky.

“Let him, whose might can hurl this bowl, arise;

Who farthest hurls it, take it as his prize;

If he be one enrich’d with large domain

Of downs for flocks, and arable for grain,

Small stock of iron needs that man provide;

His hinds and swains whole years shall be supplied

From hence; nor ask the neighbouring city’s aid

For ploughshares, wheels, and all the rural trade.”

Stern Polypoetes stepp’d before the throng,

And great Leonteus, more than mortal strong;

Whose force with rival forces to oppose,

Uprose great Ajax; up Epeus rose.

Each stood in order: first Epeus threw;

High o’er the wondering crowds the whirling circle flew.

Leonteus next a little space surpass’d;

And third, the strength of godlike Ajax cast.

O’er both their marks it flew; till fiercely flung

From Polypoetes’ arm the discus sung:

Far as a swain his whirling sheephook throws,

That distant falls among the grazing cows,

So past them all the rapid circle flies:

His friends, while loud applauses shake the skies,

With force conjoin’d heave off the weighty prize.

Those, who in skilful archery contend,

He next invites the twanging bow to bend;

And twice ten axes casts amidst the round,

Ten double-edged, and ten that singly wound

The mast, which late a first-rate galley bore,

The hero fixes in the sandy shore;

To the tall top a milk-white dove they tie,

The trembling mark at which their arrows fly.

“Whose weapon strikes yon fluttering bird, shall bear

These two-edged axes, terrible in war;

The single, he whose shaft divides the cord.”

He said: experienced Merion took the word;

And skilful Teucer: in the helm they threw

Their lots inscribed, and forth the latter flew.

Swift from the string the sounding arrow flies;

But flies unbless’d! No grateful sacrifice,

No firstling lambs, unheedful! didst thou vow

To Phoebus, patron of the shaft and bow.

For this, thy well-aim’d arrow turn’d aside,

Err’d from the dove, yet cut the cord that tied:

Adown the mainmast fell the parted string,

And the free bird to heaven displays her wing:

Sea, shores, and skies, with loud applause resound,

And Merion eager meditates the wound:

He takes the bow, directs the shaft above,

And following with his eye the soaring dove,

Implores the god to speed it through the skies,

With vows of firstling lambs, and grateful sacrific

The dove, in airy circles as she wheels,

Amid the clouds the piercing arrow feels;

Quite through and through the point its passage found,

And at his feet fell bloody to the ground.

The wounded bird, ere yet she breathed her last,

With flagging wings alighted on the mast,

A moment hung, and spread her pinions there,

Then sudden dropp’d, and left her life in air.

From the pleased crowd new peals of thunder rise,

And to the ships brave Merion bears the prize.

To close the funeral games, Achilles last

A massy spear amid the circle placed,

And ample charger of unsullied frame,

With flowers high-wrought, not blacken’d yet by flame.

For these he bids the heroes prove their art,

Whose dexterous skill directs the flying dart.

Here too great Merion hopes the noble prize;

Nor here disdain’d the king of men to rise.

With joy Pelides saw the honour paid,

Rose to the monarch, and respectful said:

“Thee first in virtue, as in power supreme,

O king of nations! all thy Greeks proclaim;

In every martial game thy worth attest,

And know thee both their greatest and their best.

Take then the prize, but let brave Merion bear

This beamy javelin in thy brother’s war.”

Pleased from the hero’s lips his praise to hear,

The king to Merion gives the brazen spear:

But, set apart for sacred use, commands

The glittering charger to Talthybius’ hands.