In vain Automedon now shakes the rein,

Now plies the lash, and soothes and threats in vain;

Nor to the fight nor Hellespont they go,

Restive they stood, and obstinate in woe:

Still as a tombstone, never to be moved,

On some good man or woman unreproved

Lays its eternal weight; or fix’d, as stands

A marble courser by the sculptor’s hands,

Placed on the hero’s grave. Along their face

The big round drops coursed down with silent pace,

Conglobing on the dust. Their manes, that late

Circled their arched necks, and waved in state,

Trail’d on the dust beneath the yoke were spread,

And prone to earth was hung their languid head:

Nor Jove disdain’d to cast a pitying look,

While thus relenting to the steeds he spoke:

“Unhappy coursers of immortal strain,

Exempt from age, and deathless, now in vain;

Did we your race on mortal man bestow,

Only, alas! to share in mortal woe?

For ah! what is there of inferior birth,

That breathes or creeps upon the dust of earth;

What wretched creature of what wretched kind,

Than man more weak, calamitous, and blind?

A miserable race! but cease to mourn:

For not by you shall Priam’s son be borne

High on the splendid car: one glorious prize

He rashly boasts: the rest our will denies.

Ourself will swiftness to your nerves impart,

Ourself with rising spirits swell your heart.

Automedon your rapid flight shall bear

Safe to the navy through the storm of war.

For yet ’tis given to Troy to ravage o’er

The field, and spread her slaughters to the shore;

The sun shall see her conquer, till his fall

With sacred darkness shades the face of all.”

He said; and breathing in the immortal horse

Excessive spirit, urged them to the course;

From their high manes they shake the dust, and bear

The kindling chariot through the parted war:

So flies a vulture through the clamorous train

Of geese, that scream, and scatter round the plain.

From danger now with swiftest speed they flew,

And now to conquest with like speed pursue;

Sole in the seat the charioteer remains,

Now plies the javelin, now directs the reins:

Him brave Alcimedon beheld distress’d,

Approach’d the chariot, and the chief address’d:

“What god provokes thee rashly thus to dare,

Alone, unaided, in the thickest war?

Alas! thy friend is slain, and Hector wields

Achilles’ arms triumphant in the fields.”

“In happy time (the charioteer replies)

The bold Alcimedon now greets my eyes;

No Greek like him the heavenly steeds restrains,

Or holds their fury in suspended reins:

Patroclus, while he lived, their rage could tame,

But now Patroclus is an empty name!

To thee I yield the seat, to thee resign

The ruling charge: the task of fight be mine.”

He said. Alcimedon, with active heat,

Snatches the reins, and vaults into the seat.

His friend descends. The chief of Troy descried,

And call’d Æneas fighting near his side.

“Lo, to my sight, beyond our hope restored,

Achilles’ car, deserted of its lord!

The glorious steeds our ready arms invite,

Scarce their weak drivers guide them through the fight.

Can such opponents stand when we assail?

Unite thy force, my friend, and we prevail.”

The son of Venus to the counsel yields;

Then o’er their backs they spread their solid shields:

With brass refulgent the broad surface shined,

And thick bull-hides the spacious concave lined.

Them Chromius follows, Aretus succeeds;

Each hopes the conquest of the lofty steeds:

In vain, brave youths, with glorious hopes ye burn,

In vain advance! not fated to return.

Unmov’d, Automedon attends the fight,

Implores the Eternal, and collects his might.

Then turning to his friend, with dauntless mind:

“Oh keep the foaming coursers close behind!

Full on my shoulders let their nostrils blow,

For hard the fight, determined is the foe;

’Tis Hector comes: and when he seeks the prize,

War knows no mean; he wins it or he dies.”

Then through the field he sends his voice aloud,

And calls the Ajaces from the warring crowd,

With great Atrides. “Hither turn, (he said,)

Turn where distress demands immediate aid;

The dead, encircled by his friends, forego,

And save the living from a fiercer foe.

Unhelp’d we stand, unequal to engage

The force of Hector, and Æneas’ rage:

Yet mighty as they are, my force to prove

Is only mine: the event belongs to Jove.”

He spoke, and high the sounding javelin flung,

Which pass’d the shield of Aretus the young:

It pierced his belt, emboss’d with curious art,

Then in the lower belly struck the dart.

As when a ponderous axe, descending full,

Cleaves the broad forehead of some brawny bull:²⁴⁹

Struck ’twixt the horns, he springs with many a bound,

Then tumbling rolls enormous on the ground:

Thus fell the youth; the air his soul received,

And the spear trembled as his entrails heaved.

Now at Automedon the Trojan foe

Discharged his lance; the meditated blow,

Stooping, he shunn’d; the javelin idly fled,

And hiss’d innoxious o’er the hero’s head;

Deep rooted in the ground, the forceful spear

In long vibrations spent its fury there.

With clashing falchions now the chiefs had closed,

But each brave Ajax heard, and interposed;

Nor longer Hector with his Trojans stood,

But left their slain companion in his blood:

His arms Automedon divests, and cries,

“Accept, Patroclus, this mean sacrifice:

Thus have I soothed my griefs, and thus have paid,

Poor as it is, some offering to thy shade.”

So looks the lion o’er a mangled boar,

All grim with rage, and horrible with gore;

High on the chariot at one bound he sprung,

And o’er his seat the bloody trophies hung.

And now Minerva from the realms of air

Descends impetuous, and renews the war;

For, pleased at length the Grecian arms to aid,

The lord of thunders sent the blue-eyed maid.

As when high Jove denouncing future woe,

O’er the dark clouds extends his purple bow,

(In sign of tempests from the troubled air,

Or from the rage of man, destructive war,)

The drooping cattle dread the impending skies,

And from his half-till’d field the labourer flies:

In such a form the goddess round her drew

A livid cloud, and to the battle flew.

Assuming Phoenix’ shape on earth she falls,

And in his well-known voice to Sparta calls:

“And lies Achilles’ friend, beloved by all,

A prey to dogs beneath the Trojan wall?

What shame ‘o Greece for future times to tell,

To thee the greatest in whose cause he fell!”

“O chief, O father! (Atreus’ son replies)

O full of days! by long experience wise!

What more desires my soul, than here unmoved

To guard the body of the man I loved?

Ah, would Minerva send me strength to rear

This wearied arm, and ward the storm of war!

But Hector, like the rage of fire, we dread,

And Jove’s own glories blaze around his head!”

Pleased to be first of all the powers address’d,

She breathes new vigour in her hero’s breast,

And fills with keen revenge, with fell despite,

Desire of blood, and rage, and lust of fight.

So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o’er),

Repulsed in vain, and thirsty still of gore;

(Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings

Untamed, untired, he turns, attacks, and stings.

Fired with like ardour fierce Atrides flew,

And sent his soul with every lance he threw.

There stood a Trojan, not unknown to fame,

Aetion’s son, and Podes was his name:

With riches honour’d, and with courage bless’d,

By Hector loved, his comrade, and his guest;

Through his broad belt the spear a passage found,

And, ponderous as he falls, his arms resound.

Sudden at Hector’s side Apollo stood,

Like Phaenops, Asius’ son, appear’d the god;

(Asius the great, who held his wealthy reign

In fair Abydos, by the rolling main.)

“Oh prince! (he cried) Oh foremost once in fame!

What Grecian now shall tremble at thy name?

Dost thou at length to Menelaus yield,

A chief once thought no terror of the field?

Yet singly, now, the long-disputed prize

He bears victorious, while our army flies:

By the same arm illustrious Podes bled;

The friend of Hector, unrevenged, is dead!”

This heard, o’er Hector spreads a cloud of woe,

Rage lifts his lance, and drives him on the foe.

But now the Eternal shook his sable shield,

That shaded Ide and all the subject field

Beneath its ample verge. A rolling cloud

Involved the mount; the thunder roar’d aloud;

The affrighted hills from their foundations nod,

And blaze beneath the lightnings of the god:

At one regard of his all-seeing eye

The vanquish’d triumph, and the victors fly.

Then trembled Greece: the flight Peneleus led;

For as the brave Boeotian turn’d his head

To face the foe, Polydamas drew near,

And razed his shoulder with a shorten’d spear:

By Hector wounded, Leitus quits the plain,

Pierced through the wrist; and raging with the pain,

Grasps his once formidable lance in vain.

As Hector follow’d, Idomen address’d

The flaming javelin to his manly breast;

The brittle point before his corslet yields;

Exulting Troy with clamour fills the fields:

High on his chariots the Cretan stood,

The son of Priam whirl’d the massive wood.

But erring from its aim, the impetuous spear

Struck to the dust the squire and charioteer

Of martial Merion: Coeranus his name,

Who left fair Lyctus for the fields of fame.

On foot bold Merion fought; and now laid low,

Had graced the triumphs of his Trojan foe,

But the brave squire the ready coursers brought,

And with his life his master’s safety bought.

Between his cheek and ear the weapon went,

The teeth it shatter’d, and the tongue it rent.

Prone from the seat he tumbles to the plain;

His dying hand forgets the falling rein:

This Merion reaches, bending from the car,

And urges to desert the hopeless war:

Idomeneus consents; the lash applies;

And the swift chariot to the navy flies.

Not Ajax less the will of heaven descried,

And conquest shifting to the Trojan side,

Turn’d by the hand of Jove. Then thus begun,

To Atreus’s seed, the godlike Telamon:

“Alas! who sees not Jove’s almighty hand

Transfers the glory to the Trojan band?

Whether the weak or strong discharge the dart,

He guides each arrow to a Grecian heart:

Not so our spears; incessant though they rain,

He suffers every lance to fall in vain.

Deserted of the god, yet let us try

What human strength and prudence can supply;

If yet this honour’d corse, in triumph borne,

May glad the fleets that hope not our return,

Who tremble yet, scarce rescued from their fates,

And still hear Hector thundering at their gates.

Some hero too must be despatch’d to bear

The mournful message to Pelides’ ear;

For sure he knows not, distant on the shore,

His friend, his loved Patroclus, is no more.

But such a chief I spy not through the host:

The men, the steeds, the armies, all are lost

In general darkness—Lord of earth and air!

Oh king! Oh father! hear my humble prayer:

Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;

Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more:

If Greece must perish, we thy will obey,

But let us perish in the face of day!”

With tears the hero spoke, and at his prayer

The god relenting clear’d the clouded air;

Forth burst the sun with all-enlightening ray;

The blaze of armour flash’d against the day.

“Now, now, Atrides! cast around thy sight;

If yet Antilochus survives the fight,

Let him to great Achilles’ ear convey

The fatal news”—Atrides hastes away.

So turns the lion from the nightly fold,

Though high in courage, and with hunger bold,

Long gall’d by herdsmen, and long vex’d by hounds,

Stiff with fatigue, and fretted sore with wounds;

The darts fly round him from a hundred hands,

And the red terrors of the blazing brands:

Till late, reluctant, at the dawn of day

Sour he departs, and quits the untasted prey,

So moved Atrides from his dangerous place

With weary limbs, but with unwilling pace;

The foe, he fear’d, might yet Patroclus gain,

And much admonish’d, much adjured his train:

“O guard these relics to your charge consign’d,

And bear the merits of the dead in mind;

How skill’d he was in each obliging art;

The mildest manners, and the gentlest heart:

He was, alas! but fate decreed his end,

In death a hero, as in life a friend!”

So parts the chief; from rank to rank he flew,

And round on all sides sent his piercing view.

As the bold bird, endued with sharpest eye

Of all that wings the mid aerial sky,

The sacred eagle, from his walks above

Looks down, and sees the distant thicket move;

Then stoops, and sousing on the quivering hare,

Snatches his life amid the clouds of air.

Not with less quickness, his exerted sight

Pass’d this and that way, through the ranks of fight:

Till on the left the chief he sought, he found,

Cheering his men, and spreading deaths around:

To him the king: “Beloved of Jove! draw near,

For sadder tidings never touch’d thy ear;

Thy eyes have witness’d what a fatal turn!

How Ilion triumphs, and the Achaians mourn.

This is not all: Patroclus, on the shore

Now pale and dead, shall succour Greece no more.

Fly to the fleet, this instant fly, and tell

The sad Achilles, how his loved-one fell:

He too may haste the naked corse to gain:

The arms are Hector’s, who despoil’d the slain.”

The youthful warrior heard with silent woe,

From his fair eyes the tears began to flow:

Big with the mighty grief, he strove to say

What sorrow dictates, but no word found way.

To brave Laodocus his arms he flung,

Who, near him wheeling, drove his steeds along;

Then ran the mournful message to impart,

With tearful eyes, and with dejected heart.

Swift fled the youth: nor Menelaus stands

(Though sore distress’d) to aid the Pylian bands;

But bids bold Thrasymede those troops sustain;

Himself returns to his Patroclus slain.

“Gone is Antilochus (the hero said);

But hope not, warriors, for Achilles’ aid:

Though fierce his rage, unbounded be his woe,

Unarm’d, he fights not with the Trojan foe.

’Tis in our hands alone our hopes remain,

’Tis our own vigour must the dead regain,

And save ourselves, while with impetuous hate

Troy pours along, and this way rolls our fate.”

“’Tis well (said Ajax), be it then thy care,

With Merion’s aid, the weighty corse to rear;

Myself, and my bold brother will sustain

The shock of Hector and his charging train:

Nor fear we armies, fighting side by side;

What Troy can dare, we have already tried,

Have tried it, and have stood.” The hero said.

High from the ground the warriors heave the dead.

A general clamour rises at the sight:

Loud shout the Trojans, and renew the fight.

Not fiercer rush along the gloomy wood,

With rage insatiate, and with thirst of blood,

Voracious hounds, that many a length before

Their furious hunters, drive the wounded boar;

But if the savage turns his glaring eye,

They howl aloof, and round the forest fly.

Thus on retreating Greece the Trojans pour,

Wave their thick falchions, and their javelins shower:

But Ajax turning, to their fears they yield,

All pale they tremble and forsake the field.

While thus aloft the hero’s corse they bear,

Behind them rages all the storm of war:

Confusion, tumult, horror, o’er the throng

Of men, steeds, chariots, urged the rout along:

Less fierce the winds with rising flames conspire

To whelm some city under waves of fire;

Now sink in gloomy clouds the proud abodes,

Now crack the blazing temples of the gods;

The rumbling torrent through the ruin rolls,

And sheets of smoke mount heavy to the poles.

The heroes sweat beneath their honour’d load:

As when two mules, along the rugged road,

From the steep mountain with exerted strength

Drag some vast beam, or mast’s unwieldy length;

Inly they groan, big drops of sweat distil,

The enormous timber lumbering down the hill:

So these—Behind, the bulk of Ajax stands,

And breaks the torrent of the rushing bands.

Thus when a river swell’d with sudden rains

Spreads his broad waters o’er the level plains,

Some interposing hill the stream divides.

And breaks its force, and turns the winding tides.

Still close they follow, close the rear engage;

Aeneas storms, and Hector foams with rage:

While Greece a heavy, thick retreat maintains,

Wedged in one body, like a flight of cranes,

That shriek incessant, while the falcon, hung

High on poised pinions, threats their callow young.

So from the Trojan chiefs the Grecians fly,

Such the wild terror, and the mingled cry:

Within, without the trench, and all the way,

Strow’d in bright heaps, their arms and armour lay;

Such horror Jove impress’d! yet still proceeds

The work of death, and still the battle bleeds.