The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (32 page)

Nor hadst the habit of discourse, that makes men so renown’d.

In all which I was set by him t’instruct thee as my son,

That thou might’st speak, when speech was fit, and do, when deeds were done:

Not sit as dumb, for want of words; idle, for skill to move.

I would not then be left by thee, dear son, begot in love,

No, not if god would promise me to raze the prints of time

Carv’d in my bosom and my brows, and grace me with the prime

Of manly youth, as when at first I left sweet Helle’s shore,

Deck’d with fair dames, and fled the grudge my angry father bore;

Who was the fair Amyntor call’d, surnam’d Ormenides,

And for a fair-hair’d harlot’s sake, that his affects could please,

Contemn’d my mother, his true wife; who ceaseless urged me

To use his harlot Clytia, and still would clasp my knee

To do her will, that so my sire might turn his love to hate

Of that lewd dame, converting it to comfort her estate.

At last I was content to prove to do my mother good,

And reconcile my father’s love; who straight suspicious stood,

Pursuing me with many a curse, and to the Furies pray’d

No dame might love, nor bring me seed: the deities obey’d

That govern hell, infernal Jove, and stern Proserpiné.

Then durst I in no longer date with my stern father be;

Yet did my friends and near allies inclose me with desires

Not to depart; kill’d sheep, boars, beeves; roast them at solemn fires;

And from my father’s tuns we drunk exceeding store of wine.

Nine nights they guarded me by turns, their fires did ceaseless shine,

One in the porch of his strong hall, and in the portal one

Before my chamber. But when day beneath the tenth night shone,

I brake my chamber’s thick-fram’d doors, and through the hall’s guard pass’d,

Unseen of any man or maid. Through Greece then, rich and vast,

I fled to Phthia, nurse of sheep, and came to Peleus’ court,

Who entertain’d me heartily, and in as gracious sort

As any sire his only son, born when his strength is spent,

And bless’d with great possessions, to leave to his descent.

He made me rich, and to my charge did much command commend.

I dwelt in th’ utmost region rich Pthia doth extend,

And govern’d the Dolopians, and made thee what thou art.

O thou that like the gods art fram’d, since, dearest to my heart,

I us’d thee so, thou lov’dst none else; nor anywhere wouldst eat,

Till I had crown’d my knee with thee, and carv’d thee tend’rest meat,

And giv’n thee wine so much, for love, that in thy infancy

(Which still discretion must protect, and a continual eye)

My bosom lovingly sustain’d the wine thine could not bear:

Then, now my strength needs thine as much, be mine to thee as dear:

Much have I suffer’d for thy love, much labour’d, wished much,

Thinking, since I must have no heir (the gods’ decrees are such),

I would adopt thyself my heir: to thee my heart did give

What any sire could give his son; in thee I hop’d to live.

O mitigate thy mighty spirits: it fits not one that moves

The hearts of all, to live unmov’d; and succour hates for loves.

The gods themselves are flexible, whose virtues, honours, pow’rs,

Are more than thine; yet they will bend their breasts as we bend ours.

Perfumes, benign devotions, savours of of
f
’rings burn’d,

And holy rites, the engines are with which their hearts are turn’d

By men that pray to them, whose faith their sins have falsified.

For Prayers are daughters of great Jove; lame, wrinkled, ruddy-ey’d,

And ever following Injury; who, strong and sound of feet,

Flies through the world afflicting men, believing Prayers yet

(To all that love that seed of Jove) the certain blessing get

To have Jove hear, and help them too. But if he shall refuse,

And stand inflexible to them, they fly to Jove, and use

Their pow’rs against him, that the wrongs he doth to them may fall

On his own head, and pay those pains whose cure he fails to call.

Then, great Achilles, honour thou this sacred seed of Jove,

And yield to them, since other men of greatest minds they move.

If Agamemnon would not give the selfsame gifts he vows,

But offer other afterwards, and in his still-bent brows

Entomb his honour and his word, I would not thus exhort

(With wrath appeas’d) thy aid to Greece, though plagu’d in heaviest sort.

But much he presently will give, and after yield the rest,

T’ assure which he hath sent to thee the men thou lovest best,

And most renown’d of all the host, that they might soften thee:

Then let not both their pains and prayers lost and despised be;

Before which, none could reprehend the tumult of thy heart,

But now to rest inexpiate were much too rude a part.

Of ancient worthies we have heard, when they were more displeas’d,

(To their high fames) with gifts and prayers they have been still appeas’d.

For instance, I remember well a fact perform’d of old,

Which to you all, my friends, I’ll tell: the Curets wars did hold

With the well-fought Aetolians, where mutual lives had end

About the city Calydon; th’ Aetolians did defend

Their flourishing country, which to spoil the Curets did contend.

Diana with the golden throne, with Oeneus much incens’d,

Since with his plenteous land’s first fruits she was not reverenc’d,

Yet other gods, with hecatombs, had feasts; and she alone

(Great Jove’s bright daughter) left unserv’d – or by oblivion,

Or undue knowledge of her dues – much hurt in heart she swore,

And she, enrag’d, excited much: she sent a sylvan boar

From their green groves, with wounding tusks, who usually did spoil

King Oeneus’ fields, his lofty woods laid prostrate on the soil,

Rent by the roots trees fresh adorn’d with fragrant apple flow’rs:

Which Meleager (Oeneus’ son) slew with assembled pow’rs

Of hunters, and of fiercest hounds from many cities brought:

For such he was that with few lives his death could not be bought.

Heaps of dead humans, by his rage, the funeral piles applied.

Yet, slain at last, the goddess stirr’d about his head and hide

A wondrous tumult, and a war betwixt the Curets wrought

And brave Aetolians. All the while fierce Meleager fought,

Ill far’d the Curets: near the walls none durst advance his crest,

Though they were many; but when wrath inflam’d his haughty breast

(Which oft the firm mind of the wise with passion doth infest),

Since ’twixt his mother queen and him arose a deadly strife,

He left the court, and privately liv’d with his lawful wife –

Fair Cleopatra, female birth of bright Marpissa’s pain

And of Idaeus, who of all terrestrial men did reign

At that time king of fortitude; and for Marpissa’s sake,

’Gainst wanton Phoebus, king of flames, his bow in hand did take,

Since he had ravish’d her, his joy; whom her friends after gave

The surname of Alcyone, because they could not save

Their daughter from Alcyone’s fate. In Cleopatra’s arms

Lay Meleager, feeding on his anger, for the harms

His mother pray’d might fall on him; who for her brother slain

By Meleager, griev’d and pray’d the gods to wreak her pain,

With all the horror could be pour’d upon her furious birth.

Still knock’d she with her impious hands the many-feeding earth,

To urge stern Pluto and his queen t’incline their vengeful ears,

Fell on her knees, and all her breast dew’d with her fiery tears,

To make them massacre her son, whose wrath enrag’d her thus:

Erynnis, wand’ring through the air, heard, out of Erebus,

Pray’rs fit for her unpleased mind. Yet Meleager lay

Obscur’d in fury; then the bruit of the tumultuous fray

Rung through the turrets as they scal’d; then came the Aetolian peers

To Meleager with low suits, to rise and free their fears:

Then sent they the chief priests of gods, with offer’d gifts t’ atone

His differing fury; bade him choose in sweet-soil’d Calydon,

Of the most fat and yieldy soil, what with an hundred steers

Might in an hundred days be plough’d – half that rich vintage bears,

And half of naked earth to plough: yet yielded not his ire.

Then to his lofty chamber-door ascends his royal sire,

With ruthful plaints, shook the strong bars: then came his sisters’ cries,

His mother then, and all intreat – yet still more stiff he lies.

His friends, most rev’rend, most esteem’d – yet none impression took,

Till the high turrets where he lay, and his strong chamber, shook

With the invading enemy, who now forc’d dreadful way

Along the city; then his wife, in pitiful dismay,

Besought him, weeping, telling him the miseries sustain’d

By all the citizens, whose town the enemy had gain’d:

Men slaughter’d, children bondslaves made, sweet ladies forc’d with lust,

Fires climbing tow’rs, and turning them to heaps of fruitless dust.

These dangers soft’ned his steel heart; up the stout prince arose,

Indu’d his body with rich arms, and freed th’ Aetolians’ woes,

His smother’d anger giving air, which gifts did not assuage,

But his own peril. And because he did not disengage

Their lives for gifts, their gifts he lost. But for my sake, dear friend,

Be not thou bent to see our plights to these extremes descend,

Ere thou assist us; be not so by thy ill angel turn’d

From thine own honour: it were shame to see our navy burn’d,

And then come with thy timeless aid. For offer’d presents come,

And all the Greeks will honour thee, as of celestial room:

But if without these gifts thou fight, forc’d by thy private woe,

Thou wilt be nothing so renown’d, though thou repel the foe.’

Achilles answer’d the last part of his oration thus:

‘Phoenix, renown’d and reverend, the honours urg’d on us

We need not: Jove doth honour me, and to my safety sees,

And will whiles I retain a spirit, or can command my knees.

Then do not thou with tears and woes impassion my affects,

Becoming gracious to my foe: nor fits it the respects

Of thy vow’d love, to honour him that hath dishonour’d me,

Lest such loose kindness lose his heart that yet is firm to thee.

It were thy praise to hurt with me the hurter of my state,

Since half my honour and my realm thou mayst participate.

Let these lords then return th’ event, and do thou here repose;

And when dark sleep breaks with the day, our counsels shall disclose

The course of our return or stay.’ This said, he with his eye

Made to his friend a covert sign, to hasten instantly

A good soft bed, that the old prince, soon as the peers were gone,

Might take his rest. When, soldier-like, brave Ajax Telamon

Spake to Ulysses, as with thought Achilles was not worth

The high direction of his speech, that stood so sternly forth,

Unmov’d with th’ other orators; and spake, not to appease

Pelides’ wrath, but to depart. His arguments were these:

‘High-issued Laertiades, let us insist no more

On his persuasion; I perceive the world would end before

Our speeches end in this affair: we must with utmost haste

Return his answer, though but bad: the peers are elsewhere plac’d,

And will not rise till we return. Great Thetis’ son hath stor’d

Proud wrath within him, as his wealth, and will not be implor’d,

Rude that he is; nor his friends’ love respects, do what they can –

Wherein past all we honour’d him. O unremorseful man!

Another for his brother slain, another for his son,

Accepts of satisfaction; and he the deed hath done

Lives in belov’d society long after his amends,

To which his foe’s high heart, for gifts, with patience condescends:

But thee a wild and cruel spirit the gods for plague have giv’n –

And for one girl, of whose fair sex we come to offer sev’n,

The most exempt for excellence, and many a better prize.

Then put a sweet mind in thy breast, respect thy own allies,

Though others make thee not remiss: a multitude we are,

Sprung of thy royal family, and our supremest care

Is to be most familiar, and hold most love with thee

Of all the Greeks, how great an host soever here there be.’

He answer’d: ‘Noble Telamon, prince of our soldiers here,

Out of thy heart I know thou speak’st, and as thou hold’st me dear:

But still as often as I think how rudely I was us’d,

And like a stranger, for all rites fit for our good refus’d,

My heart doth swell against the man that durst be so profane

To violate his sacred place; not for my private bane,

But since wrack’d virtue’s general laws he shameless did infringe,

For whose sake I will loose the reins, and give mine anger swinge,

Without my wisdom’s least impeach. He is a fool, and base,

That pities vice-plagu’d minds, when pain, not love of right, gives place.

And therefore tell your king, my lords, my just wrath will not care

For all his cares, before my tents and navy charged are

By warlike Hector, making way through flocks of Grecian lives,

Enlight’ned by their naval fire: but when his rage arrives

About my tent, and sable bark, I doubt not but to shield

Them and myself, and make him fly the there-strong-bounded field.’

This said, each one but kiss’d the cup, and to the ships retir’d,