From HOMER'S ILIAD [Footnote: One of the greatest poems that has ever been written is the Iliad, an epic of great length dealing with the siege of Troy. The author is generally considered to be the old Greek poet and singer Homer. although some authorities believe that the poem was not all written by any one man.

The selection from the Iliad which is given here is from the translation by Alexander Pope. The passage has been abridged somewhat.]

NOTE.—Of all the mythical or half-mythical events which the ancient Greeks believed formed a part of their early history, there is none about which more stories have grown up than the Trojan War. According to the Greek belief, this struggle took place somewhere in the twelfth century B. C., but it now seems entirely likely that there was really no such contest, and that the stories told about it were but myths.

To the marriage of Peleus with the sea-nymph Thetis, all the gods were invited except Eris, or Discord, who, angered at the slight, determined to have vengeance. She took, therefore, a most beautiful golden apple on which were inscribed the words For The Fairest, and tossed it into the midst of the merry wedding party. Instantly a dispute arose, Juno, queen of the gods, Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Venus, goddess of love and beauty, each claiming the fruit. Finally it was decided to leave the choice to an impartial judge, and Paris, son of Priam, the old king of Troy, was chosen.

Paris was utterly ignorant of the fact that he was the son of the king, having been banished from his home in his infancy because a prophecy had foretold that he should bring about the destruction of his native city. Rescued and brought up by a shepherd, he lived a simple shepherd's life on Mount Ida.

When the three radiant goddesses stood before him he was overcome with the difficulty of his task, and each of the three attempted to help him out by offering a bribe. Juno offered prosperity through life, Minerva wisdom and influence, but Venus, smiling slyly, promised him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. Moved not by this bribe, but by the unsurpassable beauty of Venus, Paris awarded her the apple, and thus gained for himself and for his people the hatred of Juno and Minerva.

Later Paris was received back into his father's palace, and was sent on an embassy to the home of Menelaus, king of Sparta, in Greece. While at the home of Menelaus, Paris fell in love with Helen, the wife of his host, the most beautiful woman in the world, and persuaded her to return to Troy with him. Thoroughly roused, Menelaus sought the aid of the other Grecian kings in his attempt to get back his wife and punish the Trojans for the treachery of their prince, and a huge expedition under the command of Agamemnon, brother of Menelaus, set out for Troy. The Grecian army could make no immediate head against the Trojans, and for nine years it encamped outside the city of Troy, attempting to bring about its downfall. Battles and contests between single champions were frequent, but neither side seemed able to win any permanent victory.

Achilles was the bravest and strongest of the Grecian heroes, and all looked to him as the man through whom success must come. However, he became angered at Agamemnon and withdrew from the contest, and victory seemed about to fall to the Trojans. One day Patroclus, the friend and kinsman of Achilles, distressed at the Greek fortunes, removed of Achilles his armor, and at the head of Achilles's own men, went forth to do battle with the Trojans. He was slain by Hector, the son of Priam, the bravest of the Trojan defenders, and in anger at his friend's death, Achilles returned to the conflict. The battle was waged outside the city, and owing to the prowess of Achilles, matters looked bad for the Trojans.

Apollo, god of light, who favored the Trojans, took upon himself the form of a Trojan warrior, and while appearing to flee, drew Achilles after him, and thus allowed the Trojans to gain the shelter of the city walls. The selection from the Iliad given here begins just as Apollo throws off his disguise and reveals his identity to Achilles.

Thus to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear,
The herded Ilians* rush like driven deer:
There safe they wipe the briny drops away,
And drown in bowls the labors of the day.
Close to the walls, advancing o'er the fields
Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields,
March, bending on, the Greeks' embodied powers,
Far stretching in the shade of Trojan towers.
Great Hector singly stay'd: chain'd down by fate
There fix'd he stood before the Scaean gate;
Still his bold arms determined to employ,
The guardian still of long-defended Troy.

*[Footnote: Ilium, or Ilion, was another name for Troy,
and the Ilians were Trojans.]

Apollo now to tired Achilles turns
(The power confess'd in all his glory burns):
"And what," he cries, "has Peleus'* son in view,
With mortal speed a godhead to pursue?
For not to thee to know the gods' is given,
Unskill'd to trace the latent marks of heaven.
What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain?
Vain thy past labor, and thy present vain:
Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow'd,
While here thy frantic rage attacks a god."

*[Footnote: Achilles was the son of Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.]

The chief incensed—"Too partial god of day!
To check my conquests in the middle way:
How few in Ilion else had refuge found!
What gasping numbers now had bit the ground!
Thou robb'st me of a glory justly mine,
Powerful of godhead, and of fraud divine:
Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain,
To cheat a mortal who repines in vain."

Then to the city, terrible and strong,
With high and haughty steps he tower'd along,
So the proud courser, victor of the prize,
To the near goal with double ardor flies.
Him, as he blazing shot across the field,
The careful eyes of Priam* first beheld
Not half so dreadful rises to the sight
Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night,
Orion's dog* (the year when autumn weighs),
And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays;
Terrific glory! for his burning breath
Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death,
So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage:
He strikes his reverend head, now white with age;
He lifts his wither'd arms; obtests* the skies;
He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries:
The son, resolved Achilles' force to dare,
Full at the Scaean gates expects* the war;
While the sad father on the rampart stands,
And thus adjures him with extended hands:

*[Footnote: Priam was the old king of Troy, father of Hector.]
*[Footnote: Orion's dog means Sirius, the dog star, which was
believed by the ancients to be a star of very bad omen.]
*[Footnote: Obtests means entreats.]
*[Footnote: Expects here means awaits.]

"Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone;
Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son!
Mehinks already I behold thee slain,
And stretch'd beneath that fury of the plain,
Implacable Achilles! might'st thou be
To all the gods no dearer than to me!
Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore,
And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore.
How many valiant sons I late enjoy'd,
Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy'd,
Or, worse than slaughter'd, sold in distant isles
To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils,
What sorrows then must their sad mother know,
What anguish I? unutterable woe!
Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me,
Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee.
Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall;
And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all!
Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave
Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save.
Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs;
While yet thy father feels the woes he bears,
Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage
(All trembling on the verge of helpless age)
Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain!
The bitter dregs of fortune's cup to drain:
To fill the scenes of death his closing eyes,
And number all his days by miseries!
Who dies in youth and vigor, dies the best,
Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast.
But when the Fates* in fulness of their rage
Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age,
In dust the reverend lineaments deform,
And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm:
This, this is misery! the last, the worst,
That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!"

*[Footnote: The Fates were thought of by the ancient peoples as
three old women, who spun the thread of human life, twisted it,
and cut it off whenever they thought it was long enough.]

He said, and acting what no words could say,
Rent from his head the silver locks away.
With him the mournful mother bears a part;
Yet all her sorrow turn not Hector's heart.
The zone unbraced, her bosom she display'd;
And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:

"Have mercy on me, O my son! revere
The words of age; attend a parent's prayer!
If ever thee in these fond arms I press'd,
Or still'd thy infant clamors at this breast;
Ah, do not thus our helpless years forego,
But, by our walls secured, repel the foe."

So they,* while down their cheeks the torrents roll;
But fix'd remains the purpose of his soul;
Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance
Expects the hero's terrible advance.
So, roll'd up in his den, the swelling snake
Beholds the traveller approach the brake;
When fed with noxious herbs his turgid veins
Have gather'd half the poisons of the plains;
He burns, he stiffens with collected ire,
And his red eyeballs glare with living fire.*
Beneath a turret, on his shield reclined,
He stood, and question'd thus his mighty mind:

*[Footnote: The word spoke is omitted here.]
*[Footnote: Homer is famous for such comparisons as these. If you
ever come across the term "Homeric simile," you may know that it
means such a long, carefully worked out comparison as this.]

"Where lies my way? to enter in the wall?
Honor and shame the ungenerous thought recall:
Shall proud Polydamas* before the gate
Proclaim, his counsels are obeyed too late,
Which timely follow'd but the former night
What numbers had been saved by Hector's flight?
That wise advice rejected with disdain,
I feel my folly in my people slain.
Methinks my suffering country's voice I hear,
But most her worthless sons insult my ear,
On my rash courage charge the chance of war,
And blame those virtues which they cannot share.
No—if I e'er return, return I must
Glorious, my country's terror laid in dust:
Or if I perish, let her see me fall
In field at least, and fighting for her wall."

*[Footnote: Polydamas, a Trojan hero and a friend of Hector's,
had previously advised prudence and retreat within the wall.]

Thus pondering, like a god the Greek drew nigh;
His dreadful plumage nodded from on high;
The Pelian* javelin, in his better hand,
Shot trembling rays that glitter'd o'er the land;
And on his breast the beamy splendor shone,
Like Jove's own lightning, o'er the rising sun.
As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise;
Struck by some god, he fears, recedes, and flies.
He leaves the gates, he leaves the wall behind:
Achilles follows like the winged wind.
Thus at the panting dove a falcon flies
(The swiftest racer of the liquid skies),
Just when he holds, or thinks he holds his prey,
Obliquely wheeling through the aerial way,
With open beak and shrilling cries he springs,
And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings:
No less fore-right* the rapid chase they held,
One urged by fury, one by fear impell'd:
Now circling round the walls their course maintain,
Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain;
Now where the fig-trees spread their umbrage broad,
(A wider compass), smoke along the road.
Next by Scamander's* double source they bound,
Where two famed fountains burst the parted ground;
This hot through scorching clefts is seen to rise,
With exhalations streaming to the skies;
That the green banks in summer's heat o'erflows,
Like crystal clear, and cold as winter snows:
Each gushing fount a marble cistern fills,
Whose polished bed receives the falling rills;
Where Trojan dames (ere yet alarm'd by Greece)
Wash'd their fair garments in the days of peace.*
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.

*[Footnote: Pelian is an adjective formed from Peleus,
the name of the father of Achilles.]
*[Footnote: Fore-right means straight forward.]
*[Footnote: The Scamander was a famous river that flowed near the
city of Troy. According to the Iliad, its source was two springs,
one a cold and one a hot spring.]
*[Footnote: It was not, in these very ancient times, thought beneath
the dignity of even a princess to wash her linen in some clear river
or spring.]

As when some hero's funerals are decreed
In grateful honor 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.*

*[Footnote: The favorite way, among the ancients, of doing honor to
a man after his death was to hold a sort of a funeral festival,
where contests in running, wrestling, boxing, and other feats of
strength and skill were held.]
*[Footnote: The gods play a very important part in the Iliad.
Sometimes, as here, they simply watch the struggle from their home
above Olympus; sometimes, as in the first lines of this selection,
they actually descend to the battlefield and take part in the
contest.]

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 vapor* 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 laboring heroes pant and strain:
While that but flies, and this pursues in vain.

*[Footnote: Vapor here means scent.]
*[Footnote: Dardan is an old word for Trojan.]

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 honors of the day.

*[Footnote: The Muses were nine sister goddesses who inspired poetry
and music. No ancient Greek poet ever undertook to write without
first seeking the aid of the Muse who presided over the particular
kind of poetry that he was writing. Homer here addresses Calliope,
the Muse of epic poetry.]
*[Footnote: Phoebus is Apollo, whom at the opening of this selection
we found aiding Hector by misleading Achilles.]

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.

*[Footnote: Jove, or Jupiter, was the king of gods and men.]

Then Phoebus left him. Fierce Minerva* flies
To stern Pelides,* and triumphing, cries:
"O loved of Jove! this day our labors 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."

*[Footnote: Minerva, goddess of wisdom, was the special protector of
the Greeks. Throughout the struggle she was anxious to take part
against the Trojans, but much of the time Jupiter would not let her
fight; he allowed her merely to advise.]
*[Footnote: The ending—ides means son of. Thus Pelides means
son of Peleus.]
*[Footnote: The god of light was Apollo.]

Her voice divine the chief with joyful mind
Obey'd; and rested, on his lance reclined,
While like DeÏphobus* the martial dame
(Her face, her gesture, and her arms the same),
In show and aid, by hapless Hector's side
Approach'd, and greets him thus with voice belied:

*[Footnote: DeÏphobus was one of the brothers of Hector. Minerva
assumes his form, and deceives Hector into thinking that his
brother has come to aid him.]

"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 honor'd more!
Since you, of all our numerous race alone
Defend my life, regardless of your own."

*[Footnote: Hecuba was the name of Hector's mother.]

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."

*[Footnote: Spoke, or said, is understood here.]

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 dishonor 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."*

*[Footnote: It meant more to an ancient Greek to have his body
given up to his family, that it might be buried with proper rite's,
than it does to a modern soldier, for the Greeks believed that the
soul could not find rest until the body was properly buried.
This makes the refusal of Achilles to agree to Hector's request
seem all the more cruel.]

"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 rancor and eternal hate:

No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife
Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life.
Rouse then my 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."

*[Footnote: Pallas was another name for Minerva.]

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."

*[Footnote: Or is here used instead of either.]

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 DeÏphobus, demands a spear—
In vain, for no DeÏphobus was there.
All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh:
"'Tis so—Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh!
I deem'd DeÏphobus 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 succor 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!"

*[Footnote: The armor of Achilles had been made for him by Vulcan,
god of fire.]
*[Footnote: This reference is to Apollo.]

[Illustration: BEFORE HIS BREAST THE FLAMING SHIELD HE BEARS]

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,
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
Gave entrance: through that penetrable part
Furious he drove the well-directed dart:
Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power
Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour.
Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies,
While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries:

*[Footnote: The eagle was sacred to Jove.]
*[Footnote: Hesper was the old name for Venus, the evening star,
the brightest of the planets.]
*[Footnote: Patroclus was the friend of Achilles, whom Hector had
killed. Hector had, after the usual custom, taken possession of
the armor of Patroclus, which had originally belonged to Achilles.]

"At last is Hector stretch'd upon the plain,
Who fear'd no vengeance for Patroclus slain:
Then, prince! you should have fear'd what now you feel;
Achilles absent was Achilles still:
Yet a short space the great avenger stayed,
Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid.
Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn'd,
Forever honor'd, and forever mourn'd:
While cast to all the rage of hostile power,
Thee birds shall mangle, and the dogs' devour."

Then Hector, fainting at the approach of death:
By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath!
By all the sacred prevalence of prayer;
Oh, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear!
The common rites of sepulture bestow,
To soothe a father's and a mother's woe:
Yet their large gifts procure an urn at least,
And Hector's ashes in his county rest."

"No, wretch accursed!" relentless he replies
(Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes);
"Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare,
For all the sacred prevalence of prayer,
Would I myself the bloody banquet join!
So—to the dogs that carcase I resign.
Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her store,
And giving thousands, offer thousands more;
Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame,
Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame:
Their Hector on the pile they should not see.
Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee."

Then thus the chief his dying accents drew:
"Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew:
The Furies* that relentless breast have steel'd,
And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield.
Yet think, a day will come, when fate's decree
And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on thee;
Phoebus and Paris shall avenge my fate,
And stretch thee here before the Scaean gate."

*[Footnote: The Furies were three hideous sisters who sometimes
drove people mad with rage and remorse.]

He ceased. The Fates suppress'd his laboring breath,
And his eyes stiffen'd at the hand of death;
To the dark realm the spirit wings its way
(The manly body left a load of clay),
And plaintive glides along the dreary coast,
A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Achilles, musing as he roll'd his eyes
O'er the dead hero, thus unheard, replies.
"Die thou the first! When Jove and heaven ordain,
I follow thee."—He said, and stripp'd the slain.
Then forcing backward from the gaping wound
The reeking javelin, cast it on the ground.
The thronging Greeks behold with wondering eyes
His manly beauty and superior size;
While some, ignobler, the great dead deface
With wounds ungenerous, or with taunts disgrace.

"How changed that Hector, who like Jove of late
Sent lightning on our fleets, and scatter'd fate!"

High o'er the slain the great Achilles stands,
Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands;
And thus aloud, while all the host attends:
"Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends!
Since now at length the powerful will of heaven
The dire destroyer to our arm has given,
Is not Troy fallen already? Haste, ye powers!
See, if already their deserted towers
Are left unmann'd; or if they yet retain
The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain.
But what is Troy, or glory what to me?
Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee,
Divine Patroclus! Death hath seal'd his eyes;
Unwept, unhonor'd, uninterr'd he lies!
Can his dear image from my soul depart,
Long as the vital spirit moves my heart?
If in the melancholy shades below,
The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow,
Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay'd,
Burn on through death, and animate my shade.
Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring
The corpse of Hector, and your paeans sing.
Be this the song, slow-moving toward the shore,
Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more."

Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred
(Unworthy of himself, and of the dead);
The nervous* ancles bored, his feet he bound
With thongs inserted through the double wound;
These fix'd up high behind the rolling wain,
His graceful head was trail'd along the plain.
Proud on his car the insulting victor stood,
And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood.
He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies;
The sudden clouds of circling dust arise.
Now lost is all that formidable air;
The face divine, and long-descending hair,
Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand;
Deform'd, dishonor'd, in his native land,
Given to the rage of an insulting throng,
And, in his parents' sight, now dragg'd along!

*[Footnote: Nervous here means strong, sinewy.]

The mother first beheld with sad survey;
She rent her tresses, venerable gray,
And cast, far off, the regal veils away.
With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans,
While the sad father answers groans with groans.
Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o'erflow,
And the whole city wears one face of woe:
No less than if the rage of hostile fires,
From her foundations curling to her spires,
O'er the proud citadel at length should rise,
And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies.