Wash’d their fair garments in the days of peace.²⁷⁶

By these they pass’d, one chasing, one in flight:

(The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might:)

Swift was the course; no vulgar prize they play,

No vulgar victim must reward the day:

(Such as in races crown the speedy strife:)

The prize contended was great Hector’s life.

As when some hero’s funerals are decreed

In grateful honour of the mighty dead;

Where high rewards the vigorous youth inflame

(Some golden tripod, or some lovely dame)

The panting coursers swiftly turn the goal,

And with them turns the raised spectator’s soul:

Thus three times round the Trojan wall they fly.

The gazing gods lean forward from the sky;

To whom, while eager on the chase they look,

The sire of mortals and immortals spoke:

“Unworthy sight! the man beloved of heaven,

Behold, inglorious round yon city driven!

My heart partakes the generous Hector’s pain;

Hector, whose zeal whole hecatombs has slain,

Whose grateful fumes the gods received with joy,

From Ida’s summits, and the towers of Troy:

Now see him flying; to his fears resign’d,

And fate, and fierce Achilles, close behind.

Consult, ye powers! (’tis worthy your debate)

Whether to snatch him from impending fate,

Or let him bear, by stern Pelides slain,

(Good as he is) the lot imposed on man.”

Then Pallas thus: “Shall he whose vengeance forms

The forky bolt, and blackens heaven with storms,

Shall he prolong one Trojan’s forfeit breath?

A man, a mortal, pre-ordain’d to death!

And will no murmurs fill the courts above?

No gods indignant blame their partial Jove?”

“Go then (return’d the sire) without delay,

Exert thy will: I give the Fates their way.

Swift at the mandate pleased Tritonia flies,

And stoops impetuous from the cleaving skies.

As through the forest, o’er the vale and lawn,

The well-breath’d beagle drives the flying fawn,

In vain he tries the covert of the brakes,

Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes;

Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews,

The certain hound his various maze pursues.

Thus step by step, where’er the Trojan wheel’d,

There swift Achilles compass’d round the field.

Oft as to reach the Dardan gates he bends,

And hopes the assistance of his pitying friends,

(Whose showering arrows, as he coursed below,

From the high turrets might oppress the foe,)

So oft Achilles turns him to the plain:

He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain.

As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace,

One to pursue, and one to lead the chase,

Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake,

Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake:

No less the labouring heroes pant and strain:

While that but flies, and this pursues in vain.

What god, O muse, assisted Hector’s force

With fate itself so long to hold the course?

Phoebus it was; who, in his latest hour,

Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power:

And great Achilles, lest some Greek’s advance

Should snatch the glory from his lifted lance,

Sign’d to the troops to yield his foe the way,

And leave untouch’d the honours of the day.

Jove lifts the golden balances, that show

The fates of mortal men, and things below:

Here each contending hero’s lot he tries,

And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies.

Low sinks the scale surcharged with Hector’s fate;

Heavy with death it sinks, and hell receives the weight.

Then Phoebus left him. Fierce Minerva flies

To stern Pelides, and triumphing, cries:

“O loved of Jove! this day our labours cease,

And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece.

Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far,

Drunk with renown, insatiable of war,

Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force, nor flight,

Shall more avail him, nor his god of light.

See, where in vain he supplicates above,

Roll’d at the feet of unrelenting Jove;

Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on,

And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun.”

Her voice divine the chief with joyful mind

Obey’d; and rested, on his lance reclined

While like Deiphobus the martial dame

(Her face, her gesture, and her arms the same),

In show an aid, by hapless Hector’s side

Approach’d, and greets him thus with voice belied:

“Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight

Of this distress, and sorrow’d in thy flight:

It fits us now a noble stand to make,

And here, as brothers, equal fates partake.”

Then he: “O prince! allied in blood and fame,

Dearer than all that own a brother’s name;

Of all that Hecuba to Priam bore,

Long tried, long loved: much loved, but honoured more!

Since you, of all our numerous race alone

Defend my life, regardless of your own.”

Again the goddess: “Much my father’s prayer,

And much my mother’s, press’d me to forbear:

My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay,

But stronger love impell’d, and I obey.

Come then, the glorious conflict let us try,

Let the steel sparkle, and the javelin fly;

Or let us stretch Achilles on the field,

Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield.”

Fraudful she said; then swiftly march’d before:

The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more.

Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke:

His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke:

“Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view’d

Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued.

But now some god within me bids me try

Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die.

Yet on the verge of battle let us stay,

And for a moment’s space suspend the day;

Let Heaven’s high powers be call’d to arbitrate

The just conditions of this stern debate,

(Eternal witnesses of all below,

And faithful guardians of the treasured vow!)

To them I swear; if, victor in the strife,

Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life,

No vile dishonour shall thy corse pursue;

Stripp’d of its arms alone (the conqueror’s due)

The rest to Greece uninjured I’ll restore:

Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more.”

“Talk not of oaths (the dreadful chief replies,

While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes),

Detested as thou art, and ought to be,

Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee:

Such pacts as lambs and rabid wolves combine,

Such leagues as men and furious lions join,

To such I call the gods! one constant state

Of lasting rancour and eternal hate:

No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife,

Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life.

Rouse then thy forces this important hour,

Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power.

No further subterfuge, no further chance;

’Tis Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my lance.

Each Grecian ghost, by thee deprived of breath,

Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death.”

He spoke, and launch’d his javelin at the foe;

But Hector shunn’d the meditated blow:

He stoop’d, while o’er his head the flying spear

Sang innocent, and spent its force in air.

Minerva watch’d it falling on the land,

Then drew, and gave to great Achilles’ hand,

Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy,

Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy.

“The life you boasted to that javelin given,

Prince! you have miss’d. My fate depends on Heaven,

To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown,

Or what must prove my fortune, or thy own.

Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind,

And with false terrors sink another’s mind.

But know, whatever fate I am to try,

By no dishonest wound shall Hector die.

I shall not fall a fugitive at least,

My soul shall bravely issue from my breast.

But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart

End all my country’s woes, deep buried in thy heart.”

The weapon flew, its course unerring held,

Unerring, but the heavenly shield repell’d

The mortal dart; resulting with a bound

From off the ringing orb, it struck the ground.

Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain,

Nor other lance, nor other hope remain;

He calls Deiphobus, demands a spear—

In vain, for no Deiphobus was there.

All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh;

“’Tis so—Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh!

I deem’d Deiphobus had heard my call,

But he secure lies guarded in the wall.

A god deceived me; Pallas, ’twas thy deed,

Death and black fate approach! ’tis I must bleed.

No refuge now, no succour from above,

Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove,

Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate!

’Tis true I perish, yet I perish great:

Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,

Let future ages hear it, and admire!”

Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew,

And, all collected, on Achilles flew.

So Jove’s bold bird, high balanced in the air,

Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare.

Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares:

Before his breast the flaming shield he bears,

Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone

The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun.

Nodding at every step: (Vulcanian frame!)

And as he moved, his figure seem’d on flame.

As radiant Hesper shines with keener light,²⁷⁷

Far-beaming o’er the silver host of night,

When all the starry train emblaze the sphere:

So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear.

In his right hand he waves the weapon round,

Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound;

But the rich mail Patroclus lately wore

Securely cased the warrior’s body o’er.

One space at length he spies, to let in fate,

Where ’twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate