Beset with watchful dogs, and shouting swains;

Repulsed by numbers from the nightly stalls,

Though rage impels him, and though hunger calls,

Long stands the showering darts, and missile fires;

Then sourly slow the indignant beast retires:

So turn’d stern Ajax, by whole hosts repell’d,

While his swoln heart at every step rebell’d.

As the slow beast, with heavy strength endued,

In some wide field by troops of boys pursued,

Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain,

Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain;

Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound,

The patient animal maintains his ground,

Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased,

And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last:

On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung,

The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung;

Confiding now in bulky strength he stands,

Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands;

Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly,

And threats his followers with retorted eye.

Fix’d as the bar between two warring powers,

While hissing darts descend in iron showers:

In his broad buckler many a weapon stood,

Its surface bristled with a quivering wood;

And many a javelin, guiltless on the plain,

Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain.

But bold Eurypylus his aid imparts,

And dauntless springs beneath a cloud of darts;

Whose eager javelin launch’d against the foe,

Great Apisaon felt the fatal blow;

From his torn liver the red current flow’d,

And his slack knees desert their dying load.

The victor rushing to despoil the dead,

From Paris’ bow a vengeful arrow fled;

Fix’d in his nervous thigh the weapon stood,

Fix’d was the point, but broken was the wood.

Back to the lines the wounded Greek retired,

Yet thus retreating, his associates fired:

“What god, O Grecians! has your hearts dismay’d?

Oh, turn to arms; ’tis Ajax claims your aid.

This hour he stands the mark of hostile rage,

And this the last brave battle he shall wage:

Haste, join your forces; from the gloomy grave

The warrior rescue, and your country save.”

Thus urged the chief: a generous troop appears,

Who spread their bucklers, and advance their spears,

To guard their wounded friend: while thus they stand

With pious care, great Ajax joins the band:

Each takes new courage at the hero’s sight;

The hero rallies, and renews the fight.

Thus raged both armies like conflicting fires,

While Nestor’s chariot far from fight retires:

His coursers steep’d in sweat, and stain’d with gore,

The Greeks’ preserver, great Machaon, bore.

That hour Achilles, from the topmost height

Of his proud fleet, o’erlook’d the fields of fight;

His feasted eyes beheld around the plain

The Grecian rout, the slaying, and the slain.

His friend Machaon singled from the rest,

A transient pity touch’d his vengeful breast.

Straight to Menoetius’ much-loved son he sent:

Graceful as Mars, Patroclus quits his tent;

In evil hour! Then fate decreed his doom,

And fix’d the date of all his woes to come.

“Why calls my friend? thy loved injunctions lay;

Whate’er thy will, Patroclus shall obey.”

“O first of friends! (Pelides thus replied)

Still at my heart, and ever at my side!

The time is come, when yon despairing host

Shall learn the value of the man they lost:

Now at my knees the Greeks shall pour their moan,

And proud Atrides tremble on his throne.

Go now to Nestor, and from him be taught

What wounded warrior late his chariot brought:

For, seen at distance, and but seen behind,

His form recall’d Machaon to my mind;

Nor could I, through yon cloud, discern his face,

The coursers pass’d me with so swift a pace.”

The hero said. His friend obey’d with haste,

Through intermingled ships and tents he pass’d;

The chiefs descending from their car he found:

The panting steeds Eurymedon unbound.

The warriors standing on the breezy shore,

To dry their sweat, and wash away the gore,

Here paused a moment, while the gentle gale

Convey’d that freshness the cool seas exhale;

Then to consult on farther methods went,

And took their seats beneath the shady tent.

The draught prescribed, fair Hecamede prepares,

Arsinous’ daughter, graced with golden hairs:

(Whom to his aged arms, a royal slave,

Greece, as the prize of Nestor’s wisdom gave:)

A table first with azure feet she placed;

Whose ample orb a brazen charger graced;

Honey new-press’d, the sacred flour of wheat,

And wholesome garlic, crown’d the savoury treat,

Next her white hand an antique goblet brings,

A goblet sacred to the Pylian kings

From eldest times: emboss’d with studs of gold,

Two feet support it, and four handles hold;

On each bright handle, bending o’er the brink,

In sculptured gold, two turtles seem to drink:

A massy weight, yet heaved with ease by him,

When the brisk nectar overlook’d the brim.

Temper’d in this, the nymph of form divine

Pours a large portion of the Pramnian wine;

With goat’s-milk cheese a flavourous taste bestows,

And last with flour the smiling surface strows:

This for the wounded prince the dame prepares:

The cordial beverage reverend Nestor shares:

Salubrious draughts the warriors’ thirst allay,

And pleasing conference beguiles the day.

Meantime Patroclus, by Achilles sent,

Unheard approached, and stood before the tent.

Old Nestor, rising then, the hero led

To his high seat: the chief refused and said:

“’Tis now no season for these kind delays;

The great Achilles with impatience stays.

To great Achilles this respect I owe;

Who asks, what hero, wounded by the foe,

Was borne from combat by thy foaming steeds?

With grief I see the great Machaon bleeds.

This to report, my hasty course I bend;

Thou know’st the fiery temper of my friend.”

“Can then the sons of Greece (the sage rejoin’d)

Excite compassion in Achilles’ mind?

Seeks he the sorrows of our host to know?

This is not half the story of our woe.

Tell him, not great Machaon bleeds alone,

Our bravest heroes in the navy groan,

Ulysses, Agamemnon, Diomed,

And stern Eurypylus, already bleed.

But, ah! what flattering hopes I entertain!

Achilles heeds not, but derides our pain:

Even till the flames consume our fleet he stays,

And waits the rising of the fatal blaze.

Chief after chief the raging foe destroys;

Calm he looks on, and every death enjoys.

Now the slow course of all-impairing time

Unstrings my nerves, and ends my manly prime;

Oh! had I still that strength my youth possess’d,

When this bold arm the Epeian powers oppress’d,

The bulls of Elis in glad triumph led,

And stretch’d the great Itymonaeus dead!

Then from my fury fled the trembling swains,

And ours was all the plunder of the plains:

Fifty white flocks, full fifty herds of swine,

As many goats, as many lowing kine:

And thrice the number of unrivall’d steeds,

All teeming females, and of generous breeds.

These, as my first essay of arms, I won;

Old Neleus gloried in his conquering son.

Thus Elis forced, her long arrears restored,

And shares were parted to each Pylian lord.

The state of Pyle was sunk to last despair,

When the proud Elians first commenced the war:

For Neleus’ sons Alcides’ rage had slain;

Of twelve bold brothers, I alone remain!

Oppress’d, we arm’d; and now this conquest gain’d,

My sire three hundred chosen sheep obtain’d.

(That large reprisal he might justly claim,

For prize defrauded, and insulted fame,

When Elis’ monarch, at the public course,

Detain’d his chariot, and victorious horse.)

The rest the people shared; myself survey’d

The just partition, and due victims paid.

Three days were past, when Elis rose to war,

With many a courser, and with many a car;

The sons of Actor at their army’s head

(Young as they were) the vengeful squadrons led.

High on the rock fair Thryoessa stands,

Our utmost frontier on the Pylian lands:

Not far the streams of famed Alphaeus flow:

The stream they pass’d, and pitch’d their tents below.

Pallas, descending in the shades of night,

Alarms the Pylians and commands the fight.

Each burns for fame, and swells with martial pride,

Myself the foremost; but my sire denied;

Fear’d for my youth, exposed to stern alarms;

And stopp’d my chariot, and detain’d my arms.

My sire denied in vain: on foot I fled

Amidst our chariots; for the goddess led.

“Along fair Arene’s delightful plain

Soft Minyas rolls his waters to the main:

There, horse and foot, the Pylian troops unite,

And sheathed in arms, expect the dawning light.

Thence, ere the sun advanced his noon-day flame,

To great Alphaeus’ sacred source we came.

There first to Jove our solemn rites were paid;

An untamed heifer pleased the blue-eyed maid;

A bull, Alphaeus; and a bull was slain

To the blue monarch of the watery main.

In arms we slept, beside the winding flood,

While round the town the fierce Epeians stood.

Soon as the sun, with all-revealing ray,

Flamed in the front of Heaven, and gave the day.

Bright scenes of arms, and works of war appear;

The nations meet; there Pylos, Elis here.

The first who fell, beneath my javelin bled;

King Augias’ son, and spouse of Agamede:

(She that all simples’ healing virtues knew,

And every herb that drinks the morning dew:)

I seized his car, the van of battle led;

The Epeians saw, they trembled, and they fled.

The foe dispersed, their bravest warrior kill’d,

Fierce as the whirlwind now I swept the field:

Full fifty captive chariots graced my train;

Two chiefs from each fell breathless to the plain.

Then Actor’s sons had died, but Neptune shrouds

The youthful heroes in a veil of clouds.

O’er heapy shields, and o’er the prostrate throng,

Collecting spoils, and slaughtering all along,

Through wide Buprasian fields we forced the foes,

Where o’er the vales the Olenian rocks arose;

Till Pallas stopp’d us where Alisium flows.

Even there the hindmost of the rear I slay,

And the same arm that led concludes the day;

Then back to Pyle triumphant take my way.

There to high Jove were public thanks assign’d,

As first of gods; to Nestor, of mankind.

Such then I was, impell’d by youthful blood;

So proved my valour for my country’s good.

“Achilles with unactive fury glows,

And gives to passion what to Greece he owes.

How shall he grieve, when to the eternal shade

Her hosts shall sink, nor his the power to aid!

0 friend! my memory recalls the day,

When, gathering aids along the Grecian sea,

I, and Ulysses, touch’d at Phthia’s port,

And entered Peleus’ hospitable court.

A bull to Jove he slew in sacrifice,

And pour’d libations on the flaming thighs.

Thyself, Achilles, and thy reverend sire

Menoetius, turn’d the fragments on the fire.

Achilles sees us, to the feast invites;

Social we sit, and share the genial rites.

We then explained the cause on which we came,

Urged you to arms, and found you fierce for fame.

Your ancient fathers generous precepts gave;

Peleus said only this:—‘My son! be brave.’

Menoetius thus: ‘Though great Achilles shine

In strength superior, and of race divine,

Yet cooler thoughts thy elder years attend;

Let thy just counsels aid, and rule thy friend.’

Thus spoke your father at Thessalia’s court:

Words now forgot, though now of vast import.

Ah! try the utmost that a friend can say:

Such gentle force the fiercest minds obey;

Some favouring god Achilles’ heart may move;

Though deaf to glory, he may yield to love.

If some dire oracle his breast alarm,

If aught from Heaven withhold his saving arm,

Some beam of comfort yet on Greece may shine,

If thou but lead the Myrmidonian line;

Clad in Achilles’ arms, if thou appear,

Proud Troy may tremble, and desist from war;

Press’d by fresh forces, her o’er-labour’d train

Shall seek their walls, and Greece respire again.”

This touch’d his generous heart, and from the tent

Along the shore with hasty strides he went;

Soon as he came, where, on the crowded strand,

The public mart and courts of justice stand,

Where the tall fleet of great Ulysses lies,

And altars to the guardian gods arise;

There, sad, he met the brave Euaemon’s son,

Large painful drops from all his members run;

An arrow’s head yet rooted in his wound,

The sable blood in circles mark’d the ground.

As faintly reeling he confess’d the smart,

Weak was his pace, but dauntless was his heart.

Divine compassion touch’d Patroclus’ breast,

Who, sighing, thus his bleeding friend address’d:

“Ah, hapless leaders of the Grecian host!

Thus must ye perish on a barbarous coast?

Is this your fate, to glut the dogs with gore,

Far from your friends, and from your native shore?

Say, great Eurypylus! shall Greece yet stand?

Resists she yet the raging Hector’s hand?

Or are her heroes doom’d to die with shame,

And this the period of our wars and fame?”

Eurypylus replies: “No more, my friend;

Greece is no more! this day her glories end;

Even to the ships victorious Troy pursues,

Her force increasing as her toil renews.

Those chiefs, that used her utmost rage to meet,

Lie pierced with wounds, and bleeding in the fleet.

But, thou, Patroclus! act a friendly part,

Lead to my ships, and draw this deadly dart;

With lukewarm water wash the gore away;

With healing balms the raging smart allay,

Such as sage Chiron, sire of pharmacy,

Once taught Achilles, and Achilles thee.

Of two famed surgeons, Podalirius stands

This hour surrounded by the Trojan bands;

And great Machaon, wounded in his tent,

Now wants that succour which so oft he lent.”

To him the chief: “What then remains to do?

The event of things the gods alone can view.

Charged by Achilles’ great command I fly,

And bear with haste the Pylian king’s reply:

But thy distress this instant claims relief.”

He said, and in his arms upheld the chief.

The slaves their master’s slow approach survey’d,

And hides of oxen on the floor display’d:

There stretch’d at length the wounded hero lay;

Patroclus cut the forky steel away:

Then in his hands a bitter root he bruised;

The wound he wash’d, the styptic juice infused.

The closing flesh that instant ceased to glow,

The wound to torture, and the blood to flow.