With words of omen, like a bird of night,

(Replied unmoved the venerable man;)

’Tis heaven commands me, and you urge in vain.

Had any mortal voice the injunction laid,

Nor augur, priest, nor seer, had been obey’d.

A present goddess brought the high command,

I saw, I heard her, and the word shall stand.

I go, ye gods! obedient to your call:

If in yon camp your powers have doom’d my fall,

Content—By the same hand let me expire!

Add to the slaughter’d son the wretched sire!

One cold embrace at least may be allow’d,

And my last tears flow mingled with his blood!”

From forth his open’d stores, this said, he drew

Twelve costly carpets of refulgent hue,

As many vests, as many mantles told,

And twelve fair veils, and garments stiff with gold,

Two tripods next, and twice two chargers shine,

With ten pure talents from the richest mine;

And last a large well-labour’d bowl had place,

(The pledge of treaties once with friendly Thrace:)

Seem’d all too mean the stores he could employ,

For one last look to buy him back to Troy!

Lo! the sad father, frantic with his pain,

Around him furious drives his menial train:

In vain each slave with duteous care attends,

Each office hurts him, and each face offends.

“What make ye here, officious crowds! (he cries).

Hence! nor obtrude your anguish on my eyes.

Have ye no griefs at home, to fix ye there:

Am I the only object of despair?

Am I become my people’s common show,

Set up by Jove your spectacle of woe?

No, you must feel him too; yourselves must fall;

The same stern god to ruin gives you all:

Nor is great Hector lost by me alone;

Your sole defence, your guardian power is gone!

I see your blood the fields of Phrygia drown,

I see the ruins of your smoking town!

O send me, gods! ere that sad day shall come,

A willing ghost to Pluto’s dreary dome!”

He said, and feebly drives his friends away:

The sorrowing friends his frantic rage obey.

Next on his sons his erring fury falls,

Polites, Paris, Agathon, he calls;

His threats Deiphobus and Dius hear,

Hippothous, Pammon, Helenes the seer,

And generous Antiphon: for yet these nine

Survived, sad relics of his numerous line.

“Inglorious sons of an unhappy sire!

Why did not all in Hector’s cause expire?

Wretch that I am! my bravest offspring slain.

You, the disgrace of Priam’s house, remain!

Mestor the brave, renown’d in ranks of war,

With Troilus, dreadful on his rushing car,²⁹³

And last great Hector, more than man divine,

For sure he seem’d not of terrestrial line!

All those relentless Mars untimely slew,

And left me these, a soft and servile crew,

Whose days the feast and wanton dance employ,

Gluttons and flatterers, the contempt of Troy!

Why teach ye not my rapid wheels to run,

And speed my journey to redeem my son?”

The sons their father’s wretched age revere,

Forgive his anger, and produce the car.

High on the seat the cabinet they bind:

The new-made car with solid beauty shined;

Box was the yoke, emboss’d with costly pains,

And hung with ringlets to receive the reins;

Nine cubits long, the traces swept the ground:

These to the chariot’s polish’d pole they bound.

Then fix’d a ring the running reins to guide,

And close beneath the gather’d ends were tied.

Next with the gifts (the price of Hector slain)

The sad attendants load the groaning wain:

Last to the yoke the well-matched mules they bring,

(The gift of Mysia to the Trojan king.)

But the fair horses, long his darling care,

Himself received, and harness’d to his car:

Grieved as he was, he not this task denied;

The hoary herald help’d him, at his side.

While careful these the gentle coursers join’d,

Sad Hecuba approach’d with anxious mind;

A golden bowl that foam’d with fragrant wine,

(Libation destined to the power divine,)

Held in her right, before the steed she stands,

And thus consigns it to the monarch’s hands:

“Take this, and pour to Jove; that safe from harms

His grace restore thee to our roof and arms.

Since victor of thy fears, and slighting mine,

Heaven, or thy soul, inspires this bold design;

Pray to that god, who high on Ida’s brow

Surveys thy desolated realms below,

His winged messenger to send from high,

And lead thy way with heavenly augury:

Let the strong sovereign of the plumy race

Tower on the right of yon ethereal space.

That sign beheld, and strengthen’d from above,

Boldly pursue the journey mark’d by Jove:

But if the god his augury denies,

Suppress thy impulse, nor reject advice.”

“’Tis just (said Priam) to the sire above

To raise our hands; for who so good as Jove?”

He spoke, and bade the attendant handmaid bring

The purest water of the living spring:

(Her ready hands the ewer and bason held:)

Then took the golden cup his queen had fill’d;

On the mid pavement pours the rosy wine,

Uplifts his eyes, and calls the power divine:

“O first and greatest! heaven’s imperial lord!

On lofty Ida’s holy hill adored!

To stern Achilles now direct my ways,

And teach him mercy when a father prays.

If such thy will, despatch from yonder sky

Thy sacred bird, celestial augury!

Let the strong sovereign of the plumy race

Tower on the right of yon ethereal space;

So shall thy suppliant, strengthen’d from above,

Fearless pursue the journey mark’d by Jove.”

Jove heard his prayer, and from the throne on high,

Despatch’d his bird, celestial augury!

The swift-wing’d chaser of the feather’d game,

And known to gods by Percnos’ lofty name.

Wide as appears some palace-gate display’d.

So broad, his pinions stretch’d their ample shade,

As stooping dexter with resounding wings

The imperial bird descends in airy rings.

A dawn of joy in every face appears:

The mourning matron dries her timorous tears:

Swift on his car the impatient monarch sprung;

The brazen portal in his passage rung;

The mules preceding draw the loaded wain,

Charged with the gifts: Idaeus holds the rein:

The king himself his gentle steeds controls,

And through surrounding friends the chariot rolls.

On his slow wheels the following people wait,

Mourn at each step, and give him up to fate;

With hands uplifted eye him as he pass’d,

And gaze upon him as they gazed their last.

Now forward fares the father on his way,

Through the lone fields, and back to Ilion they.

Great Jove beheld him as he cross’d the plain,

And felt the woes of miserable man.

Then thus to Hermes: “Thou whose constant cares

Still succour mortals, and attend their prayers;

Behold an object to thy charge consign’d:

If ever pity touch’d thee for mankind,

Go, guard the sire: the observing foe prevent,

And safe conduct him to Achilles’ tent.”

The god obeys, his golden pinions binds,²⁹⁴

And mounts incumbent on the wings of winds,

That high, through fields of air, his flight sustain,

O’er the wide earth, and o’er the boundless main;

Then grasps the wand that causes sleep to fly,

Or in soft slumbers seals the wakeful eye:

Thus arm’d, swift Hermes steers his airy way,

And stoops on Hellespont’s resounding sea.

A beauteous youth, majestic and divine,

He seem’d; fair offspring of some princely line!

Now twilight veil’d the glaring face of day,

And clad the dusky fields in sober grey;

What time the herald and the hoary king

(Their chariots stopping at the silver spring,

That circling Ilus’ ancient marble flows)

Allow’d their mules and steeds a short repose,

Through the dim shade the herald first espies

A man’s approach, and thus to Priam cries:

“I mark some foe’s advance: O king! beware;

This hard adventure claims thy utmost care!

For much I fear destruction hovers nigh:

Our state asks counsel; is it best to fly?

Or old and helpless, at his feet to fall,

Two wretched suppliants, and for mercy call?”

The afflicted monarch shiver’d with despair;

Pale grew his face, and upright stood his hair;

Sunk was his heart; his colour went and came;

A sudden trembling shook his aged frame:

When Hermes, greeting, touch’d his royal hand,

And, gentle, thus accosts with kind demand:

“Say whither, father! when each mortal sight

Is seal’d in sleep, thou wanderest through the night?

Why roam thy mules and steeds the plains along,

Through Grecian foes, so numerous and so strong?

What couldst thou hope, should these thy treasures view;

These, who with endless hate thy race pursue?

For what defence, alas! could’st thou provide;

Thyself not young, a weak old man thy guide?

Yet suffer not thy soul to sink with dread;

From me no harm shall touch thy reverend head;

From Greece I’ll guard thee too; for in those lines

The living image of my father shines.”

“Thy words, that speak benevolence of mind,

Are true, my son! (the godlike sire rejoin’d:)

Great are my hazards; but the gods survey

My steps, and send thee, guardian of my way.

Hail, and be bless’d! For scarce of mortal kind

Appear thy form, thy feature, and thy mind.”

“Nor true are all thy words, nor erring wide;

(The sacred messenger of heaven replied;)

But say, convey’st thou through the lonely plains

What yet most precious of thy store remains,

To lodge in safety with some friendly hand:

Prepared, perchance, to leave thy native land?

Or fliest thou now?—What hopes can Troy retain,

Thy matchless son, her guard and glory, slain?”

The king, alarm’d: “Say what, and whence thou art

Who search the sorrows of a parent’s heart,

And know so well how godlike Hector died?”

Thus Priam spoke, and Hermes thus replied:

“You tempt me, father, and with pity touch:

On this sad subject you inquire too much.

Oft have these eyes that godlike Hector view’d

In glorious fight, with Grecian blood embrued:

I saw him when, like Jove, his flames he toss’d

On thousand ships, and wither’d half a host:

I saw, but help’d not: stern Achilles’ ire

Forbade assistance, and enjoy’d the fire.

For him I serve, of Myrmidonian race;

One ship convey’d us from our native place;

Polyctor is my sire, an honour’d name,

Old like thyself, and not unknown to fame;

Of seven his sons, by whom the lot was cast

To serve our prince, it fell on me, the last.

To watch this quarter, my adventure falls:

For with the morn the Greeks attack your walls;

Sleepless they sit, impatient to engage,

And scarce their rulers check their martial rage.”

“If then thou art of stern Pelides’ train,

(The mournful monarch thus rejoin’d again,)

Ah tell me truly, where, oh! where are laid

My son’s dear relics? what befals him dead?

Have dogs dismember’d (on the naked plains),

Or yet unmangled rest, his cold remains?”

“O favour’d of the skies! (thus answered then

The power that mediates between god and men)

Nor dogs nor vultures have thy Hector rent,

But whole he lies, neglected in the tent:

This the twelfth evening since he rested there,

Untouch’d by worms, untainted by the air.

Still as Aurora’s ruddy beam is spread,

Round his friend’s tomb Achilles drags the dead:

Yet undisfigured, or in limb or face,

All fresh he lies, with every living grace,

Majestical in death! No stains are found

O’er all the corse, and closed is every wound,

Though many a wound they gave. Some heavenly care,

Some hand divine, preserves him ever fair:

Or all the host of heaven, to whom he led

A life so grateful, still regard him dead.”

Thus spoke to Priam the celestial guide,

And joyful thus the royal sire replied:

“Blest is the man who pays the gods above

The constant tribute of respect and love!

Those who inhabit the Olympian bower

My son forgot not, in exalted power;

And heaven, that every virtue bears in mind,

Even to the ashes of the just is kind.

But thou, O generous youth! this goblet take,

A pledge of gratitude for Hector’s sake;

And while the favouring gods our steps survey,

Safe to Pelides’ tent conduct my way.”

To whom the latent god: “O king, forbear

To tempt my youth, for apt is youth to err.

But can I, absent from my prince’s sight,

Take gifts in secret, that must shun the light?

What from our master’s interest thus we draw,

Is but a licensed theft that ’scapes the law.

Respecting him, my soul abjures the offence;

And as the crime, I dread the consequence.

Thee, far as Argos, pleased I could convey;

Guard of thy life, and partner of thy way:

On thee attend, thy safety to maintain,

O’er pathless forests, or the roaring main.”

He said, then took the chariot at a bound,

And snatch’d the reins, and whirl’d the lash around:

Before the inspiring god that urged them on,

The coursers fly with spirit not their own.

And now they reach’d the naval walls, and found

The guards repasting, while the bowls go round;

On these the virtue of his wand he tries,

And pours deep slumber on their watchful eyes:

Then heaved the massy gates, removed the bars,

And o’er the trenches led the rolling cars.

Unseen, through all the hostile camp they went,

And now approach’d Pelides’ lofty tent.

On firs the roof was raised, and cover’d o’er

With reeds collected from the marshy shore;

And, fenced with palisades, a hall of state,

(The work of soldiers,) where the hero sat.

Large was the door, whose well-compacted strength

A solid pine-tree barr’d of wondrous length:

Scarce three strong Greeks could lift its mighty weight,

But great Achilles singly closed the gate.

This Hermes (such the power of gods) set wide;

Then swift alighted the celestial guide,

And thus reveal’d—”Hear, prince! and understand

Thou ow’st thy guidance to no mortal hand:

Hermes I am, descended from above,

The king of arts, the messenger of Jove,

Farewell: to shun Achilles’ sight I fly;

Uncommon are such favours of the sky,

Nor stand confess’d to frail mortality.

Now fearless enter, and prefer thy prayers;

Adjure him by his father’s silver hairs,

His son, his mother! urge him to bestow

Whatever pity that stern heart can know.”

Thus having said, he vanish’d from his eyes,

And in a moment shot into the skies:

The king, confirm’d from heaven, alighted there,

And left his aged herald on the car,

With solemn pace through various rooms he went,

And found Achilles in his inner tent:

There sat the hero: Alcimus the brave,

And great Automedon, attendance gave:

These served his person at the royal feast;

Around, at awful distance, stood the rest.

Unseen by these, the king his entry made:

And, prostrate now before Achilles laid,

Sudden (a venerable sight!) appears;

Embraced his knees, and bathed his hands in tears;

Those direful hands his kisses press’d, embrued

Even with the best, the dearest of his blood!

As when a wretch (who, conscious of his crime,

Pursued for murder, flies his native clime)

Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amazed,

All gaze, all wonder: thus Achilles gazed:

Thus stood the attendants stupid with surprise:

All mute, yet seem’d to question with their eyes:

Each look’d on other, none the silence broke,

Till thus at last the kingly suppliant spoke:

“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 gods 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,