The horse, the foot, with equal fury join’d,

Pour’d on the rear, and thunder’d close behind:

And like a flame through fields of ripen’d corn,

The rage of Hector o’er the ranks was borne.

Thrice the slain hero by the foot he drew;

Thrice to the skies the Trojan clamours flew:

As oft the Ajaces his assault sustain;

But check’d, he turns; repuls’d, attacks again.

With fiercer shouts his lingering troops he fires,

Nor yields a step, nor from his post retires:

So watchful shepherds strive to force, in vain,

The hungry lion from a carcase slain.

Even yet Patroclus had he borne away,

And all the glories of the extended day,

Had not high Juno from the realms of air,

Secret, despatch’d her trusty messenger.

The various goddess of the showery bow,

Shot in a whirlwind to the shore below;

To great Achilles at his ships she came,

And thus began the many-colour’d dame:

“Rise, son of Peleus! rise, divinely brave!

Assist the combat, and Patroclus save:

For him the slaughter to the fleet they spread,

And fall by mutual wounds around the dead.

To drag him back to Troy the foe contends:

Nor with his death the rage of Hector ends:

A prey to dogs he dooms the corse to lie,

And marks the place to fix his head on high.

Rise, and prevent (if yet you think of fame)

Thy friend’s disgrace, thy own eternal shame!”

“Who sends thee, goddess, from the ethereal skies?”

Achilles thus. And Iris thus replies:

“I come, Pelides! from the queen of Jove,

The immortal empress of the realms above;

Unknown to him who sits remote on high,

Unknown to all the synod of the sky.”

“Thou comest in vain (he cries, with fury warm’d);

Arms I have none, and can I fight unarm’d?

Unwilling as I am, of force I stay,

Till Thetis bring me at the dawn of day

Vulcanian arms: what other can I wield,

Except the mighty Telamonian shield?

That, in my friend’s defence, has Ajax spread,

While his strong lance around him heaps the dead:

The gallant chief defends Menoetius’ son,

And does what his Achilles should have done.”

“Thy want of arms (said Iris) well we know;

But though unarm’d, yet clad in terrors, go!

Let but Achilles o’er yon trench appear,

Proud Troy shall tremble, and consent to fear;

Greece from one glance of that tremendous eye

Shall take new courage, and disdain to fly.”

She spoke, and pass’d in air. The hero rose:

Her aegis Pallas o’er his shoulder throws;

Around his brows a golden cloud she spread;

A stream of glory flamed above his head.

As when from some beleaguer’d town arise

The smokes, high curling to the shaded skies;

(Seen from some island, o’er the main afar,

When men distress’d hang out the sign of war;)

Soon as the sun in ocean hides his rays,

Thick on the hills the flaming beacons blaze;

With long-projected beams the seas are bright,

And heaven’s high arch reflects the ruddy light:

So from Achilles’ head the splendours rise,

Reflecting blaze on blaze against the skies.

Forth march’d the chief, and distant from the crowd,

High on the rampart raised his voice aloud;

With her own shout Minerva swells the sound;

Troy starts astonish’d, and the shores rebound.

As the loud trumpet’s brazen mouth from far

With shrilling clangour sounds the alarm of war,

Struck from the walls, the echoes float on high,

And the round bulwarks and thick towers reply;

So high his brazen voice the hero rear’d:

Hosts dropp’d their arms, and trembled as they heard:

And back the chariots roll, and coursers bound,

And steeds and men lie mingled on the ground.

Aghast they see the living lightnings play,

And turn their eyeballs from the flashing ray.

Thrice from the trench his dreadful voice he raised,

And thrice they fled, confounded and amazed.

Twelve in the tumult wedged, untimely rush’d

On their own spears, by their own chariots crush’d:

While, shielded from the darts, the Greeks obtain

The long-contended carcase of the slain.

A lofty bier the breathless warrior bears:

Around, his sad companions melt in tears.

But chief Achilles, bending down his head,

Pours unavailing sorrows o’er the dead,

Whom late triumphant, with his steeds and car,

He sent refulgent to the field of war;

(Unhappy change!) now senseless, pale, he found,

Stretch’d forth, and gash’d with many a gaping wound.

Meantime, unwearied with his heavenly way,

In ocean’s waves the unwilling light of day

Quench’d his red orb, at Juno’s high command,

And from their labours eased the Achaian band.

The frighted Trojans (panting from the war,

Their steeds unharness’d from the weary car)

A sudden council call’d: each chief appear’d

In haste, and standing; for to sit they fear’d.

’Twas now no season for prolong’d debate;

They saw Achilles, and in him their fate.

Silent they stood: Polydamas at last,

Skill’d to discern the future by the past,

The son of Panthus, thus express’d his fears

(The friend of Hector, and of equal years;

The self-same night to both a being gave,

One wise in council, one in action brave):

“In free debate, my friends, your sentence speak;

For me, I move, before the morning break,

To raise our camp: too dangerous here our post,

Far from Troy walls, and on a naked coast.

I deem’d not Greece so dreadful, while engaged

In mutual feuds her king and hero raged;

Then, while we hoped our armies might prevail

We boldly camp’d beside a thousand sail.

I dread Pelides now: his rage of mind

Not long continues to the shores confined,

Nor to the fields, where long in equal fray

Contending nations won and lost the day;

For Troy, for Troy, shall henceforth be the strife,

And the hard contest not for fame, but life.

Haste then to Ilion, while the favouring night

Detains these terrors, keeps that arm from fight.

If but the morrow’s sun behold us here,

That arm, those terrors, we shall feel, not fear;

And hearts that now disdain, shall leap with joy,

If heaven permit them then to enter Troy.

Let not my fatal prophecy be true,

Nor what I tremble but to think, ensue.

Whatever be our fate, yet let us try

What force of thought and reason can supply;

Let us on counsel for our guard depend;

The town her gates and bulwarks shall defend.

When morning dawns, our well-appointed powers,

Array’d in arms, shall line the lofty towers.

Let the fierce hero, then, when fury calls,

Vent his mad vengeance on our rocky walls,

Or fetch a thousand circles round the plain,

Till his spent coursers seek the fleet again:

So may his rage be tired, and labour’d down!

And dogs shall tear him ere he sack the town.”

“Return! (said Hector, fired with stern disdain)

What! coop whole armies in our walls again?

Was’t not enough, ye valiant warriors, say,

Nine years imprison’d in those towers ye lay?

Wide o’er the world was Ilion famed of old

For brass exhaustless, and for mines of gold:

But while inglorious in her walls we stay’d,

Sunk were her treasures, and her stores decay’d;

The Phrygians now her scatter’d spoils enjoy,

And proud Maeonia wastes the fruits of Troy.

Great Jove at length my arms to conquest calls,

And shuts the Grecians in their wooden walls,

Darest thou dispirit whom the gods incite?

Flies any Trojan? I shall stop his flight.

To better counsel then attention lend;

Take due refreshment, and the watch attend.

If there be one whose riches cost him care,

Forth let him bring them for the troops to share;

’Tis better generously bestow’d on those,

Than left the plunder of our country’s foes.

Soon as the morn the purple orient warms,

Fierce on yon navy will we pour our arms.

If great Achilles rise in all his might,

His be the danger: I shall stand the fight.

Honour, ye gods! or let me gain or give;

And live he glorious, whosoe’er shall live!

Mars is our common lord, alike to all;

And oft the victor triumphs, but to fall.”

The shouting host in loud applauses join’d;

So Pallas robb’d the many of their mind;

To their own sense condemn’d, and left to choose

The worst advice, the better to refuse.

While the long night extends her sable reign,

Around Patroclus mourn’d the Grecian train.

Stern in superior grief Pelides stood;

Those slaughtering arms, so used to bathe in blood,

Now clasp his clay-cold limbs: then gushing start

The tears, and sighs burst from his swelling heart.

The lion thus, with dreadful anguish stung,

Roars through the desert, and demands his young;

When the grim savage, to his rifled den

Too late returning, snuffs the track of men,

And o’er the vales and o’er the forest bounds;

His clamorous grief the bellowing wood resounds.

So grieves Achilles; and, impetuous, vents

To all his Myrmidons his loud laments.

“In what vain promise, gods! did I engage,

When to console Menoetius’ feeble age,

I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore,

Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia’s shore?²⁵²

But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,

The long, long views of poor designing man!

One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike,

And Troy’s black sands must drink our blood alike:

Me too a wretched mother shall deplore,

An aged father never see me more!

Yet, my Patroclus! yet a space I stay,

Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way.

Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid,

Shall Hector’s head be offer’d to thy shade;

That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine;

And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line,

Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire;

Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre.

Thus let me lie till then! thus, closely press’d,

Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast!

While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay,

Weep all the night and murmur all the day:

Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide,

Our swords kept time, and conquer’d side by side.”

He spoke, and bade the sad attendants round

Cleanse the pale corse, and wash each honour’d wound.

A massy caldron of stupendous frame

They brought, and placed it o’er the rising flame:

Then heap’d the lighted wood; the flame divides

Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides:

In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream;

The boiling water bubbles to the brim.

The body then they bathe with pious toil,

Embalm the wounds, anoint the limbs with oil,

High on a bed of state extended laid,

And decent cover’d with a linen shade;

Last o’er the dead the milk-white veil they threw;

That done, their sorrows and their sighs renew.

Meanwhile to Juno, in the realms above,

(His wife and sister,) spoke almighty Jove.

“At last thy will prevails: great Peleus’ son

Rises in arms: such grace thy Greeks have won.

Say (for I know not), is their race divine,

And thou the mother of that martial line?”

“What words are these? (the imperial dame replies,

While anger flash’d from her majestic eyes)

Succour like this a mortal arm might lend,

And such success mere human wit attend:

And shall not I, the second power above,

Heaven’s queen, and consort of the thundering Jove,

Say, shall not I one nation’s fate command,

Not wreak my vengeance on one guilty land?”

So they. Meanwhile the silver-footed dame

Reach’d the Vulcanian dome, eternal frame!

High-eminent amid the works divine,

Where heaven’s far-beaming brazen mansions shine.

There the lame architect the goddess found,

Obscure in smoke, his forges flaming round,

While bathed in sweat from fire to fire he flew;

And puffing loud, the roaring billows blew.

That day no common task his labour claim’d:

Full twenty tripods for his hall he framed,

That placed on living wheels of massy gold,

(Wondrous to tell,) instinct with spirit roll’d

From place to place, around the bless’d abodes

Self-moved, obedient to the beck of gods:

For their fair handles now, o’erwrought with flowers,

In moulds prepared, the glowing ore he pours.

Just as responsive to his thought the frame

Stood prompt to move, the azure goddess came:

Charis, his spouse, a grace divinely fair,

(With purple fillets round her braided hair,)

Observed her entering; her soft hand she press’d,

And, smiling, thus the watery queen address’d:

“What, goddess! this unusual favour draws?

All hail, and welcome! whatsoe’er the cause;