The gods deliberate about the redemption of Hector’s body. Jupiter sends Thetis to Achilles, to dispose him for the restoring it, and Iris to Priam, to encourage him to go in person and treat for it. The old king, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his queen, makes ready for the journey, to which he is encouraged by an omen from Jupiter. He sets forth in his chariot, with a waggon loaded with presents, under the charge of Idaeus the herald. Mercury descends in the shape of a young man, and conducts him to the pavilion of Achilles. Their conversation on the way. Priam finds Achilles at his table, casts himself at his feet, and begs for the body of his son: Achilles, moved with compassion, grants his request, detains him one night in his tent, and the next morning sends him home with the body: the Trojans run out to meet him. The lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba, and Helen, with the solemnities of the funeral.
The time of twelve days is employed in this book, while the body of Hector lies in the tent of Achilles; and as many more are spent in the truce allowed for his interment. The scene is partly in Achilles’ camp, and partly in Troy.
Now from the finish’d games the Grecian band
Seek their black ships, and clear the crowded strand,
All stretch’d at ease the genial banquet share,
And pleasing slumbers quiet all their care.
Not so Achilles: he, to grief resign’d,
His friend’s dear image present to his mind,
Takes his sad couch, more unobserved to weep;
Nor tastes the gifts of all-composing sleep.
Restless he roll’d around his weary bed,
And all his soul on his Patroclus fed:
The form so pleasing, and the heart so kind,
That youthful vigour, and that manly mind,
What toils they shared, what martial works they wrought,
What seas they measured, and what fields they fought;
All pass’d before him in remembrance dear,
Thought follows thought, and tear succeeds to tear.
And now supine, now prone, the hero lay,
Now shifts his side, impatient for the day:
Then starting up, disconsolate he goes
Wide on the lonely beach to vent his woes.
There as the solitary mourner raves,
The ruddy morning rises o’er the waves:
Soon as it rose, his furious steeds he join’d!
The chariot flies, and Hector trails behind.
And thrice, Patroclus! round thy monument
Was Hector dragg’d, then hurried to the tent.
There sleep at last o’ercomes the hero’s eyes;
While foul in dust the unhonour’d carcase lies,
But not deserted by the pitying skies:
For Phoebus watch’d it with superior care,
Preserved from gaping wounds and tainting air;
And, ignominious as it swept the field,
Spread o’er the sacred corse his golden shield.
All heaven was moved, and Hermes will’d to go
By stealth to snatch him from the insulting foe:
But Neptune this, and Pallas this denies,
And th’ unrelenting empress of the skies,
E’er since that day implacable to Troy,
What time young Paris, simple shepherd boy,
Won by destructive lust (reward obscene),
Their charms rejected for the Cyprian queen.
But when the tenth celestial morning broke,
To heaven assembled, thus Apollo spoke:
“Unpitying powers! how oft each holy fane
Has Hector tinged with blood of victims slain?
And can ye still his cold remains pursue?
Still grudge his body to the Trojans’ view?
Deny to consort, mother, son, and sire,
The last sad honours of a funeral fire?
Is then the dire Achilles all your care?
That iron heart, inflexibly severe;
A lion, not a man, who slaughters wide,
In strength of rage, and impotence of pride;
Who hastes to murder with a savage joy,
Invades around, and breathes but to destroy!
Shame is not of his soul; nor understood,
The greatest evil and the greatest good.
Still for one loss he rages unresign’d,
Repugnant to the lot of all mankind;
To lose a friend, a brother, or a son,
Heaven dooms each mortal, and its will is done:
Awhile they sorrow, then dismiss their care;
Fate gives the wound, and man is born to bear.
But this insatiate, the commission given
By fate exceeds, and tempts the wrath of heaven:
Lo, how his rage dishonest drags along
Hector’s dead earth, insensible of wrong!
Brave though he be, yet by no reason awed,
He violates the laws of man and god.”
“If equal honours by the partial skies
Are doom’d both heroes, (Juno thus replies,)
If Thetis’ son must no distinction know,
Then hear, ye gods! the patron of the bow.
But Hector only boasts a mortal claim,
His birth deriving from a mortal dame:
Achilles, of your own ethereal race,
Springs from a goddess by a man’s embrace
(A goddess by ourself to Peleus given,
A man divine, and chosen friend of heaven)
To grace those nuptials, from the bright abode
Yourselves were present; where this minstrel-god,
Well pleased to share the feast, amid the quire
Stood proud to hymn, and tune his youthful lyre.”
Then thus the Thunderer checks the imperial dame:
“Let not thy wrath the court of heaven inflame;
Their merits, nor their honours, are the same.
But mine, and every god’s peculiar grace
Hector deserves, of all the Trojan race:
Still on our shrines his grateful offerings lay,
(The only honours men to gods can pay,)
Nor ever from our smoking altar ceased
The pure libation, and the holy feast:
Howe’er by stealth to snatch the corse away,
We will not: Thetis guards it night and day.
But haste, and summon to our courts above
The azure queen; let her persuasion move
Her furious son from Priam to receive
The proffer’d ransom, and the corse to leave.”
He added not: and Iris from the skies,
Swift as a whirlwind, on the message flies,
Meteorous the face of ocean sweeps,
Refulgent gliding o’er the sable deeps.
Between where Samos wide his forests spreads,
And rocky Imbrus lifts its pointed heads,
Down plunged the maid; (the parted waves resound;)
She plunged and instant shot the dark profound.
As bearing death in the fallacious bait,
From the bent angle sinks the leaden weight;
So pass’d the goddess through the closing wave,
Where Thetis sorrow’d in her secret cave:
There placed amidst her melancholy train
(The blue-hair’d sisters of the sacred main)
Pensive she sat, revolving fates to come,
And wept her godlike son’s approaching doom.
Then thus the goddess of the painted bow:
“Arise, O Thetis! from thy seats below,
’Tis Jove that calls.”—“And why (the dame replies)
Calls Jove his Thetis to the hated skies?
Sad object as I am for heavenly sight!
Ah may my sorrows ever shun the light!
Howe’er, be heaven’s almighty sire obey’d—”
She spake, and veil’d her head in sable shade,
Which, flowing long, her graceful person clad;
And forth she paced, majestically sad.
Then through the world of waters they repair
(The way fair Iris led) to upper air.
The deeps dividing, o’er the coast they rise,
And touch with momentary flight the skies.
There in the lightning’s blaze the sire they found,
And all the gods in shining synod round.
Thetis approach’d with anguish in her face,
(Minerva rising, gave the mourner place,)
Even Juno sought her sorrows to console,
And offer’d from her hand the nectar-bowl:
She tasted, and resign’d it: then began
The sacred sire of gods and mortal man:
“Thou comest, fair Thetis, but with grief o’ercast;
Maternal sorrows; long, ah, long to last!
Suffice, we know and we partake thy cares;
But yield to fate, and hear what Jove declares
Nine days are past since all the court above
In Hector’s cause have moved the ear of Jove;
’Twas voted, Hermes from his godlike foe
By stealth should bear him, but we will’d not so:
We will, thy son himself the corse restore,
And to his conquest add this glory more.
Then hie thee to him, and our mandate bear:
Tell him he tempts the wrath of heaven too far;
Nor let him more (our anger if he dread)
Vent his mad vengeance on the sacred dead;
But yield to ransom and the father’s prayer;
The mournful father, Iris shall prepare
With gifts to sue; and offer to his hands
Whate’er his honour asks, or heart demands.”
His word the silver-footed queen attends,
And from Olympus’ snowy tops descends.
Arrived, she heard the voice of loud lament,
And echoing groans that shook the lofty tent:
His friends prepare the victim, and dispose
Repast unheeded, while he vents his woes;
The goddess seats her by her pensive son,
She press’d his hand, and tender thus begun:
“How long, unhappy! shall thy sorrows flow,
And thy heart waste with life-consuming woe:
Mindless of food, or love, whose pleasing reign
Soothes weary life, and softens human pain?
O snatch the moments yet within thy power;
Not long to live, indulge the amorous hour!
Lo! Jove himself (for Jove’s command I bear)
Forbids to tempt the wrath of heaven too far.
No longer then (his fury if thou dread)
Detain the relics of great Hector dead;
Nor vent on senseless earth thy vengeance vain,
But yield to ransom, and restore the slain.”
To whom Achilles: “Be the ransom given,
And we submit, since such the will of heaven.”
While thus they communed, from the Olympian bowers
Jove orders Iris to the Trojan towers:
“Haste, winged goddess! to the sacred town,
And urge her monarch to redeem his son.
Alone the Ilian ramparts let him leave,
And bear what stern Achilles may receive:
Alone, for so we will; no Trojan near
Except, to place the dead with decent care,
Some aged herald, who with gentle hand
May the slow mules and funeral car command.
Nor let him death, nor let him danger dread,
Safe through the foe by our protection led:
Him Hermes to Achilles shall convey,
Guard of his life, and partner of his way.
Fierce as he is, Achilles’ self shall spare
His age, nor touch one venerable hair:
Some thought there must be in a soul so brave,
Some sense of duty, some desire to save.”
Then down her bow the winged Iris drives,
And swift at Priam’s mournful court arrives:
Where the sad sons beside their father’s throne
Sat bathed in tears, and answer’d groan with groan.
And all amidst them lay the hoary sire,
(Sad scene of woe!) his face his wrapp’d attire
Conceal’d from sight; with frantic hands he spread
A shower of ashes o’er his neck and head.
From room to room his pensive daughters roam;
Whose shrieks and clamours fill the vaulted dome;
Mindful of those, who late their pride and joy,
Lie pale and breathless round the fields of Troy!
Before the king Jove’s messenger appears,
And thus in whispers greets his trembling ears:
“Fear not, O father! no ill news I bear;
From Jove I come, Jove makes thee still his care;
For Hector’s sake these walls he bids thee leave,
And bear what stern Achilles may receive;
Alone, for so he wills; no Trojan near,
Except, to place the dead with decent care,
Some aged herald, who with gentle hand
May the slow mules and funeral car command.
Nor shalt thou death, nor shall thou danger dread:
Safe through the foe by his protection led:
Thee Hermes to Pelides shall convey,
Guard of thy life, and partner of thy way.
Fierce as he is, Achilles’ self shall spare
Thy age, nor touch one venerable hair;
Some thought there must be in a soul so brave,
Some sense of duty, some desire to save.”
She spoke, and vanish’d. Priam bids prepare
His gentle mules and harness to the car;
There, for the gifts, a polish’d casket lay:
His pious sons the king’s command obey.
Then pass’d the monarch to his bridal-room,
Where cedar-beams the lofty roofs perfume,
And where the treasures of his empire lay;
Then call’d his queen, and thus began to say:
“Unhappy consort of a king distress’d!
Partake the troubles of thy husband’s breast:
I saw descend the messenger of Jove,
Who bids me try Achilles’ mind to move;
Forsake these ramparts, and with gifts obtain
The corse of Hector, at yon navy slain.
Tell me thy thought: my heart impels to go
Through hostile camps, and bears me to the foe.”
The hoary monarch thus. Her piercing cries
Sad Hecuba renews, and then replies:
“Ah! whither wanders thy distemper’d mind?
And where the prudence now that awed mankind?
Through Phrygia once and foreign regions known;
Now all confused, distracted, overthrown!
Singly to pass through hosts of foes! to face
(O heart of steel!) the murderer of thy race!
To view that deathful eye, and wander o’er
Those hands yet red with Hector’s noble gore!
Alas! my lord! he knows not how to spare.
And what his mercy, thy slain sons declare;
So brave! so many fallen! To claim his rage
Vain were thy dignity, and vain thy age.
No—pent in this sad palace, let us give
To grief the wretched days we have to live.
Still, still for Hector let our sorrows flow,
Born to his own, and to his parents’ woe!
Doom’d from the hour his luckless life begun,
To dogs, to vultures, and to Peleus’ son!
Oh! in his dearest blood might I allay
My rage, and these barbarities repay!
For ah! could Hector merit thus, whose breath
Expired not meanly, in unactive death?
He poured his latest blood in manly fight,
And fell a hero in his country’s right.”
“Seek not to stay me, nor my soul affright