The foaming bowl, and instant thus began,

His speech addressing to the godlike man.

“Health to Achilles! happy are thy guests!

Not those more honour’d whom Atrides feasts:

Though generous plenty crown thy loaded boards,

That, Agamemnon’s regal tent affords;

But greater cares sit heavy on our souls,

Nor eased by banquets or by flowing bowls.

What scenes of slaughter in yon fields appear!

The dead we mourn, and for the living fear;

Greece on the brink of fate all doubtful stands,

And owns no help but from thy saving hands:

Troy and her aids for ready vengeance call;

Their threatening tents already shade our wall:

Hear how with shouts their conquest they proclaim,

And point at every ship their vengeful flame!

For them the father of the gods declares,

Theirs are his omens, and his thunder theirs.

See, full of Jove, avenging Hector rise!

See! heaven and earth the raging chief defies;

What fury in his breast, what lightning in his eyes!

He waits but for the morn, to sink in flame

The ships, the Greeks, and all the Grecian name.

Heavens! how my country’s woes distract my mind,

Lest Fate accomplish all his rage design’d!

And must we, gods! our heads inglorious lay

In Trojan dust, and this the fatal day?

Return, Achilles: oh return, though late,

To save thy Greeks, and stop the course of Fate;

If in that heart or grief or courage lies,

Rise to redeem; ah, yet to conquer, rise!

The day may come, when, all our warriors slain,

That heart shall melt, that courage rise in vain:

Regard in time, O prince divinely brave!

Those wholesome counsels which thy father gave.

When Peleus in his aged arms embraced

His parting son, these accents were his last:

“‘My child! with strength, with glory, and success,

Thy arms may Juno and Minerva bless!

Trust that to Heaven: but thou, thy cares engage

To calm thy passions, and subdue thy rage:

From gentler manners let thy glory grow,

And shun contention, the sure source of woe;

That young and old may in thy praise combine,

The virtues of humanity be thine—’

This now-despised advice thy father gave;

Ah! check thy anger; and be truly brave.

If thou wilt yield to great Atrides’ prayers,

Gifts worthy thee his royal hand prepares;

If not—but hear me, while I number o’er

The proffer’d presents, an exhaustless store.

Ten weighty talents of the purest gold,

And twice ten vases of refulgent mould;

Seven sacred tripods, whose unsullied frame

Yet knows no office, nor has felt the flame;

Twelve steeds unmatched in fleetness and in force,

And still victorious in the dusty course;

(Rich were the man, whose ample stores exceed

The prizes purchased by their winged speed;)

Seven lovely captives of the Lesbian line,

Skill’d in each art, unmatch’d in form divine,

The same he chose for more than vulgar charms,

When Lesbos sank beneath thy conquering arms.

All these, to buy thy friendship shall be paid,

And, join’d with these, the long-contested maid;

With all her charms, Briseis he’ll resign,

And solemn swear those charms were only thine;

Untouch’d she stay’d, uninjured she removes,

Pure from his arms, and guiltless of his loves.

These instant shall be thine; and if the powers

Give to our arms proud Ilion’s hostile towers,

Then shalt thou store (when Greece the spoil divides)

With gold and brass thy loaded navy’s sides.

Besides, full twenty nymphs of Trojan race

With copious love shall crown thy warm embrace;

Such as thyself shall chose; who yield to none,

Or yield to Helen’s heavenly charms alone.

Yet hear me further: when our wars are o’er,

If safe we land on Argos’ fruitful shore,

There shalt thou live his son, his honour share,

And with Orestes’ self divide his care.

Yet more—three daughters in his court are bred,

And each well worthy of a royal bed:

Laodice and Iphigenia fair,

And bright Chrysothemis with golden hair:

Her shalt thou wed whom most thy eyes approve;

He asks no presents, no reward for love:

Himself will give the dower; so vast a store

As never father gave a child before.

Seven ample cities shall confess thy sway,

The Enope and Pherae thee obey,

Cardamyle with ample turrets crown’d,

And sacred Pedasus, for vines renown’d:

Æpea fair, the pastures Hira yields,

And rich Antheia with her flowery fields;

The whole extent to Pylos’ sandy plain,

Along the verdant margin of the main.

There heifers graze, and labouring oxen toil;

Bold are the men, and generous is the soil.

There shalt thou reign, with power and justice crown’d,

And rule the tributary realms around.

Such are the proffers which this day we bring,

Such the repentance of a suppliant king.

But if all this, relentless, thou disdain,

If honour and if interest plead in vain,

Yet some redress to suppliant Greece afford,

And be, amongst her guardian gods, adored.

If no regard thy suffering country claim,

Hear thy own glory, and the voice of fame:

For now that chief, whose unresisted ire

Made nations tremble, and whole hosts retire,

Proud Hector, now, the unequal fight demands,

And only triumphs to deserve thy hands.”

Then thus the goddess-born: “Ulysses, hear

A faithful speech, that knows nor art nor fear;

What in my secret soul is understood,

My tongue shall utter, and my deeds make good.

Let Greece then know, my purpose I retain:

Nor with new treaties vex my peace in vain.

Who dares think one thing, and another tell,

My heart detests him as the gates of hell.

“Then thus in short my fix’d resolves attend,

Which nor Atrides nor his Greeks can bend;

Long toils, long perils in their cause I bore,

But now the unfruitful glories charm no more.

Fight or not fight, a like reward we claim,

The wretch and hero find their prize the same.

Alike regretted in the dust he lies,

Who yields ignobly, or who bravely dies.

Of all my dangers, all my glorious pains,

A life of labours, lo! what fruit remains?

As the bold bird her helpless young attends,

From danger guards them, and from want defends;

In search of prey she wings the spacious air,

And with the untasted food supplies her care:

For thankless Greece such hardships have I braved,

Her wives, her infants, by my labours saved;

Long sleepless nights in heavy arms I stood,

And sweat laborious days in dust and blood.

I sack’d twelve ample cities on the main,²⁰⁷

And twelve lay smoking on the Trojan plain:

Then at Atrides’ haughty feet were laid

The wealth I gathered, and the spoils I made.

Your mighty monarch these in peace possess’d;

Some few my soldiers had, himself the rest.

Some present, too, to every prince was paid;

And every prince enjoys the gift he made:

I only must refund, of all his train;

See what pre-eminence our merits gain!

My spoil alone his greedy soul delights:

My spouse alone must bless his lustful nights:

The woman, let him (as he may) enjoy;

But what’s the quarrel, then, of Greece to Troy?

What to these shores the assembled nations draws,

What calls for vengeance but a woman’s cause?

Are fair endowments and a beauteous face

Beloved by none but those of Atreus’ race?

The wife whom choice and passion doth approve,

Sure every wise and worthy man will love.

Nor did my fair one less distinction claim;

Slave as she was, my soul adored the dame.

Wrong’d in my love, all proffers I disdain;

Deceived for once, I trust not kings again.

Ye have my answer—what remains to do,

Your king, Ulysses, may consult with you.

What needs he the defence this arm can make?

Has he not walls no human force can shake?

Has he not fenced his guarded navy round

With piles, with ramparts, and a trench profound?

And will not these (the wonders he has done)

Repel the rage of Priam’s single son?

There was a time (’twas when for Greece I fought)

When Hector’s prowess no such wonders wrought;

He kept the verge of Troy, nor dared to wait

Achilles’ fury at the Scaean gate;

He tried it once, and scarce was saved by fate.

But now those ancient enmities are o’er;

To-morrow we the favouring gods implore;

Then shall you see our parting vessels crown’d,

And hear with oars the Hellespont resound.

The third day hence shall Pthia greet our sails,²⁰⁸

If mighty Neptune send propitious gales;

Pthia to her Achilles shall restore

The wealth he left for this detested shore:

Thither the spoils of this long war shall pass,

The ruddy gold, the steel, and shining brass:

My beauteous captives thither I’ll convey,

And all that rests of my unravish’d prey.

One only valued gift your tyrant gave,

And that resumed—the fair Lyrnessian slave.

Then tell him: loud, that all the Greeks may hear,

And learn to scorn the wretch they basely fear;

(For arm’d in impudence, mankind he braves,

And meditates new cheats on all his slaves;

Though shameless as he is, to face these eyes

Is what he dares not: if he dares he dies;)

Tell him, all terms, all commerce I decline,

Nor share his council, nor his battle join;

For once deceiv’d, was his; but twice were mine,

No—let the stupid prince, whom Jove deprives

Of sense and justice, run where frenzy drives;

His gifts are hateful: kings of such a kind

Stand but as slaves before a noble mind,

Not though he proffer’d all himself possess’d,

And all his rapine could from others wrest:

Not all the golden tides of wealth that crown

The many-peopled Orchomenian town;²⁰⁹

Not all proud Thebes’ unrivall’d walls contain,

The world’s great empress on the Egyptian plain

(That spreads her conquests o’er a thousand states,

And pours her heroes through a hundred gates,

Two hundred horsemen and two hundred cars

From each wide portal issuing to the wars);²¹⁰

Though bribes were heap’d on bribes, in number more

Than dust in fields, or sands along the shore;

Should all these offers for my friendship call,

’Tis he that offers, and I scorn them all.

Atrides’ daughter never shall be led

(An ill-match’d consort) to Achilles’ bed;

Like golden Venus though she charm’d the heart,

And vied with Pallas in the works of art;

Some greater Greek let those high nuptials grace,

I hate alliance with a tyrant’s race.

If heaven restore me to my realms with life,

The reverend Peleus shall elect my wife;

Thessalian nymphs there are of form divine,

And kings that sue to mix their blood with mine.

Bless’d in kind love, my years shall glide away,

Content with just hereditary sway;

There, deaf for ever to the martial strife,

Enjoy the dear prerogative of life.

Life is not to be bought with heaps of gold.

Not all Apollo’s Pythian treasures hold,

Or Troy once held, in peace and pride of sway,

Can bribe the poor possession of a day!