Home  »  Complete Poetical Works by Alexander Pope  »  The Iliad. Book XVIII. The Grief of Achilles, and New Armour Made Him by Vulcan

Alexander Pope (1688–1744). Complete Poetical Works. 1903.

Translations from Homer

The Iliad. Book XVIII. The Grief of Achilles, and New Armour Made Him by Vulcan

  • The Argument
  • The news of the death of Patroclus is brought to Achilles by Antilochus. Thetis, hearing his lamentations, comes with all her sea-nymphs to comfort him. The speeches of the mother and son on this occasion. Iris appears to Achilles by the command of Juno, and orders him to show himself at the head of the intrenchments. The sight of him turns the fortune of the day, and the body of Patroclus is carried off by the Greeks. The Trojans call a council, where Hector and Polydamas disagree in their opinions; but the advice of the former prevails, to remain encamped in the field. The grief of Achilles over the body of Patroclus.
  • Thetis goes to the palace of Vulcan, to obtain new arms for her son. The description of the wonderful works of Vulcan; and, lastly, that noble one of the shield of Achilles.
  • The latter part of the nine-and-twentieth day, and the night ensuing, take up this book. The scene is at Achilles’ tent on the seashore, from whence it changes to the palace of Vulcan.

  • THUS like the rage of fire the combat burns,

    And now it rises, now it sinks, by turns.

    Meanwhile, where Hellespont’s broad waters flow,

    Stood Nestor’s son, the messenger of woe.

    There sat Achilles, shaded by his sails,

    On hoisted yards extended to the gales;

    Pensive he sat; for all that Fate design’d

    Rose in sad prospect to his boding mind.

    Thus to his soul he said: ‘Ah what constrains

    The Greeks, late victors, now to quit the plains?

    Is this the day, which Heav’n so long ago

    Ordain’d, to sink me with the weight of woe

    (So Thetis warn’d), when, by a Trojan hand,

    The bravest of the Myrmidonian band

    Should lose the light? Fulfill’d is that decree?

    Fall’n is the warrior, and Patroclus he?

    In vain I charged him soon to quit the plain,

    And warn’d to shun Hectorean force in vain!’

    Thus while he thinks, Antilochus appears,

    And tells the melancholy tale with tears:

    ‘Sad tidings, son of Peleus! thou must hear;

    And wretched I, th’ unwilling messenger!

    Dead is Patroclus! for his corse they fight;

    His naked corse: his arms are Hector’s right.’

    A sudden horror shot thro’ all the Chief,

    And wrapt his senses in the cloud of grief;

    Cast on the ground, with furious hand he spread

    The scorching ashes o’er his graceful head;

    His purple garments, and his golden hairs,

    Those he deforms with dust, and these he tears:

    On the hard soil his groaning breast he threw,

    And roll’d and grovell’d, as to earth he grew.

    The virgin captives, with disorder’d charms

    (Won by his own, or by Patroclus’ arms),

    Rush’d from the tents with cries; and, gath’ring round,

    Beat their white breasts, and fainted on the ground:

    While Nestor’s son sustains a manlier part,

    And mourns the warrior with a warrior’s heart;

    Hangs on his arms, amidst his frantic woe,

    And oft prevents the meditated blow.

    Far in the deep abysses of the main,

    With hoary Nereus, and the wat’ry train,

    The Mother-Goddess from her crystal throne

    Heard his loud cries, and answered groan for groan.

    The circling Nereids with their mistress weep,

    And all the sea-green Sisters of the Deep.

    Thalia, Glauce (every wat’ry name),

    Nesæa mild, and silver Spio came:

    Cymothoë and Cymodoce were nigh,

    And the blue languish of soft Alia’s eye:

    Their locks Actæa and Limnoria rear,

    Then Proto, Doris, Panope appear,

    Thoa, Pherusa, Doto, Melita;

    Agave gentle, and Amphithoë gay;

    Next Callianira, Callianassa shew

    Their sister looks; Dexamene the slow,

    And swift Dynamene, now cut the tides:

    Iæra now the verdant wave divides:

    Nemertes with Apseudes lifts the head,

    Bright Galatea quits her pearly bed;

    These Orythia, Clymene, attend,

    Mæra, Amphinome, the train extend,

    And black Janira, and Janassa fair,

    And Amatheia with her amber hair.

    All these, and all that deep in ocean held

    Their sacred seats, the glimm’ring grotto fill’d;

    Each beat her iv’ry breast with silent woe,

    Till Thetis’ sorrows thus began to flow:

    ‘Hear me, and judge, ye Sisters of the Main!

    How just a cause has Thetis to complain!

    How wretched, were I mortal, were my fate!

    How more than wretched in th’ immortal state!

    Sprung from my bed a godlike Hero came,

    The bravest far that ever bore the name;

    Like some fair olive, by my careful hand

    He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.

    To Troy I sent him; but the Fates ordain

    He never, never must return again.

    So short a space the light of Heav’n to view,

    So short, alas! and fill’d with anguish too.

    Hear how his sorrows echo thro’ the shore!

    I cannot ease them, but I must deplore;

    I go at least to bear a tender part,

    And mourn my lov’d one with a mother’s heart.’

    She said, and left the caverns of the main.

    All bathed in tears, the melancholy train

    Attend her way. Wide-opening part the tides,

    While the long pomp the silver wave divides,

    Approaching now, they touch’d the Trojan land;

    Then, two by two, ascended up the strand.

    Th’ immortal mother, standing close beside

    Her mournful offspring, to his sighs replied;

    Along the coast their mingled clamours ran,

    And thus the Silver-footed Dame began:

    ‘Why mourns my son? thy late-preferr’d request

    The God has granted, and the Greeks distress’d:

    Why mourns my son? thy anguish let me share,

    Reveal the cause, and trust a parent’s care.’

    He, deeply groaning, ‘To this cureless grief

    Not ev’n the Thund’rer’s favour brings relief.

    Patroclus—Ah! say, Goddess, can I boast

    A pleasure now? Revenge itself is lost;

    Patroclus, lov’d of all my martial train,

    Beyond mankind, beyond myself, is slain!

    Lost are those arms the Gods themselves bestow’d

    On Peleus; Hector bears the glorious load.

    Curs’d be that day, when all the powers above

    Thy charms submitted to a mortal love:

    Oh hadst thou still, a sister of the main,

    Pursued the pleasures of the wat’ry reign;

    And happier Peleus, less ambitious, led

    A mortal beauty to his equal bed!

    Ere the sad fruit of thy unhappy womb

    Had caus’d such sorrows past, and woes to come.

    For soon, alas! that wretched offspring slain,

    New woes, new sorrows, shall create again.

    ’T is not in Fate th’ alternate now to give;

    Patroclus dead, Achilles hates to live.

    Let me revenge it on proud Hector’s heart,

    Let his last spirit smoke upon my dart;

    On these conditions will I breathe: till then,

    I blush to walk among the race of men.’

    A flood of tears, at this, the Goddess shed:

    ‘Ah then, I see thee dying, see thee dead!

    When Hector falls, thou diest.’—‘Let Hector die,

    And let me fall!’ (Achilles made reply.)

    ‘Far lies Patroclus from his native plain;

    He fell, and, falling, wish’d my aid in vain.

    Ah then, since from this miserable day

    I cast all hope of my return away;

    Since, unrevenged, a hundred ghosts demand

    The fate of Hector from Achilles’ hand;

    Since here, for brutal courage far renown’d,

    I live an idle burden to the ground

    (Others in council famed for nobler skill,

    More useful to preserve than I to kill);

    Let me—But oh! ye gracious Powers above!

    Wrath and revenge from men and Gods remove:

    Far, far too dear to ev’ry mortal breast,

    Sweet to the soul, as honey to the taste;

    Gath’ring like vapours of a noxious kind

    From fiery blood, and dark’ning all the mind.

    Me Agamemnon urged to deadly hate;

    ’T is past—I quell it; I resign to Fate.

    Yes—I will meet the murd’rer of my friend,

    Or (if the Gods ordain it) meet my end.

    The stroke of Fate the bravest cannot shun:

    The great Alcides, Jove’s unequall’d son,

    To Juno’s hate at length resign’d his breath,

    And sunk the victim of all-conquering death.

    So shall Achilles fall! stretch’d pale and dead,

    No more the Grecian hope, or Trojan dread!

    Let me, this instant, rush into the fields,

    And reap what glory life’s short harvest yields.

    Shall I not force some widow’d dame to tear,

    With frantic hands, her long dishevell’d hair?

    Shall I not force her breast to heave with sighs,

    And the soft tears to trickle from her eyes?

    Yes, I shall give the fair those mournful charms—

    In vain you hold me—Hence! my arms, my arms!

    Soon shall the sanguine torrent spread so wide,

    That all shall know Achilles swells the tide.’

    ‘My son’ (cœrulean Thetis made reply,

    To Fate submitting with a secret sigh),

    ‘The host to succour and thy friends to save,

    Is worthy thee; the duty of the brave.

    But canst thou, naked, issue to the plains?

    Thy radiant arms the Trojan foe detains.

    Insulting Hector bears the spoils on high,

    But vainly glories, for his fate is nigh.

    Yet, yet, awhile, thy gen’rous ardour stay,

    Assured I meet thee at the dawn of day,

    Charged with refulgent arms (a glorious load),

    Vulcanian arms, the labour of a God.’

    Then turning to the Daughters of the Main,

    The Goddess thus dismiss’d her azure train:

    ‘Ye sister Nereids! to your deeps descend;

    Haste, and our father’s sacred seat attend;

    I go to find the architect divine,

    Where vast Olympus’ starry summits shine:

    So tell our hoary Sire.’ This charge she gave:

    The sea-green Sisters plunge beneath the wave:

    Thetis once more ascends the blest abodes,

    And treads the brazen threshold of the Gods.

    And now the Greeks, from furious Hector’s force,

    Urge to broad Hellespont their headlong course:

    Nor yet their Chiefs Patroclus’ body bore

    Safe thro’ the tempest, to the tented shore.

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

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

    And like a flame thro’ 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 th’ Ajaces his assault sustain;

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

    With fiercer shouts his ling’ring 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 carcass slain.

    Ev’n yet, Patroclus had he borne away,

    And all the glories of th’ 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-coloured 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 with 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 th’ ethereal skies?’

    Achilles thus: and Iris thus replies:

    ‘I come, Pelides, from the Queen of Jove,

    Th’ immortal Empress of the realms above:

    Unknown to him who sits remote on high,

    Unknown to all the Synod of the Sky.’

    ‘Thou com’st 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 Menœtius’ son,

    And does what his Achilles should have done.’

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

    But, tho’ 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 ægis 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 Heav’n’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 rais’d 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 th’ 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 dropt 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 eye-balls from the flashing ray.

    Thrice from the trench his dreadful voice he raised:

    And thrice they fled, confounded and amazed.

    Twelve in the tumult wedg’d, untimely rush’d

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

    While, shielded from the darts, the Greeks obtain

    The long-contended carcass 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 heav’nly way,

    In ocean’s waves th’ unwilling light of day

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

    And from their labours eas’d th’ 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.

    ’T was 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 confin’d,

    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 fav’ring night

    Detains those 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 Heav’n permits 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 council 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 Mæonia 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;

    ’T is better gen’rously 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 slaught’ring 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 thro’ 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 clam’rous grief the bell’wing 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 Menœtius’ feeble age,

    I vow’d his much-lov’d offspring to restore,

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

    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 bid the sad attendants round

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

    A massy cauldron of stupendous frame

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

    Then heap 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?’ (th’ 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,

    Heav’n’s Queen, and Consort of the thund’ring 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 Heav’n’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 bellows 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 blest abodes,

    Self-mov’d, 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),

    Observ’d her ent’ring; her soft hand she press’d,

    And, smiling, thus the wat’ry Queen address’d:

    ‘What, Goddess! this unusual favour draws?

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

    Till now a stranger, in a happy hour

    Approach, and taste the dainties of the bower.’

    High on a throne, with stars of silver graced,

    And various artifice, the Queen she placed;

    A footstool at her feet: then, calling, said,

    ‘Vulcan, draw near, ’t is Thetis asks your aid.’

    ‘Thetis’ (replied the God) ‘our powers may claim,

    An ever-dear, an ever-honour’d name!

    When my proud mother hurl’d me from the sky

    (My awkward form, it seems, displeas’d her eye),

    She, and Eurynome, my griefs redress’d,

    And soft receiv’d me on their silver breast.

    Ev’n then, these arts employ’d my infant thought;

    Chains, bracelets, pendants, all their toys I wrought.

    Nine years kept secret in the dark abode,

    Secure I lay, conceal’d from man and God:

    Deep in a cavern’d rock my days were led;

    The rushing ocean murmur’d o’er my head.

    Now since her presence glads our mansion, say,

    For such desert what service can I pay?

    Vouchsafe, O Thetis! at our board to share

    The genial rites, and hospitable fare;

    While I the labours of the forge forego,

    And bid the roaring bellows cease to blow.’

    Then from his anvil the lame artist rose;

    Wide with distorted legs oblique he goes,

    And stills the bellows, and (in order laid)

    Locks in their chests his instruments of trade:

    Then with a sponge the sooty workman dress’d

    His brawny arms imbrown’d, and hairy breast.

    With his huge sceptre graced, and red attire,

    Came halting forth the Sov’reign of the Fire:

    The Monarch’s steps two female forms uphold,

    That mov’d, and breathed, in animated gold;

    To whom was voice, and sense, and science giv’n

    Of works divine (such wonders are in Heav’n!):

    On these supported, with unequal gait,

    He reach’d the throne where pensive Thetis sat;

    There placed beside her on the shining frame,

    He thus address’d the Silver-footed Dame:

    ‘Thee, welcome Goddess! what occasion calls

    (So long a stranger) to these honour’d walls?

    ’T is thine, fair Thetis, the command to lay,

    And Vulcan’s joy and duty to obey.’

    To whom the mournful mother thus replies

    (The crystal drops stood trembling in her eyes):

    ‘Oh Vulcan! say, was ever breast divine

    So pierc’d with sorrows, so o’erwhelm’d as mine?

    Of all the Goddesses, did Jove prepare

    For Thetis only such a weight of care?

    I, only I, of all the wat’ry race,

    By force subjected to a man’s embrace,

    Who, sinking now with age and sorrow, pays

    The mighty fine imposed on length of days.

    Sprung from my bed, a godlike Hero came,

    The bravest sure that ever bore the name;

    Like some fair plant, beneath my careful hand,

    He grew, he flourish’d, and he graced the land:

    To Troy I sent him; but his native shore

    Never, ah never, shall receive him more!

    Ev’n while he lives, he wastes with secret woe,

    Nor I, a Goddess, can retard the blow!

    Robb’d of the prize the Grecian suffrage gave,

    The King of Nations forc’d his royal slave:

    For this he griev’d; and, till the Greeks oppress’d

    Required his arm, he sorrow’d unredress’d.

    Large gifts they promise, and their elders send;

    In vain—he arms not, but permits his friend

    His arms, his steeds, his forces, to employ;

    He marches, combats, almost conquers Troy:

    Then slain by Phœbus (Hector had the name),

    At once resigns his armour, life, and fame.

    But thou, in pity, by my prayer be won;

    Grace with immortal arms this short-lived son,

    And to the field in martial pomp restore,

    To shine with glory, till he shines no more!’

    To her the Artist-God: ‘Thy griefs resign,

    Secure, what Vulcan can, is ever thine.

    O could I hide him from the Fates as well,

    Or with these hands the cruel stroke repel,

    As I shall forge most envied arms, the gaze

    Of wond’ring ages, and the world’s amaze!’

    Thus having said, the Father of the Fires

    To the black labours of his forge retires.

    Soon as he bade them blow, the bellows turn’d

    Their iron mouths, and, where the furnace burn’d

    Resounding breathed: at once the blast expires,

    And twenty forges catch at once the fires;

    Just as the God directs, now loud, now low,

    They raise a tempest, or they gently blow.

    In hissing flames huge silver bars are roll’d,

    And stubborn brass, and tin, and solid gold:

    Before, deep fix’d, th’ eternal anvils stand;

    The pond’rous hammer loads his better hand,

    His left with tongs turns the vex’d metal round;

    And thick strong strokes the doubling vaults rebound.

    Then first he form’d th’ immense and solid shield;

    Rich various artifice emblazed the field;

    Its utmost verge a threefold circle bound;

    A silver chain suspends the massy round:

    Five ample plates the broad expanse compose,

    And godlike labours on the surface rose.

    There shone the image of the master-mind:

    There Earth, there Heav’n, there Ocean, he design’d;

    Th’ unwearied sun, the moon completely round;

    The starry lights that Heav’n’s high convex crown’d;

    The Pleiads, Hyads, with the Northern Team;

    And great Orion’s more refulgent beam;

    To which, around the axle of the sky,

    The Bear revolving points his golden eye;

    Still shines exalted on th’ ethereal plain,

    Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main.

    Two cities radiant on the shield appear,

    The image one of peace, and one of war.

    Here sacred pomp and genial feast delight,

    And solemn dance, and Hymeneal rite;

    Along the street the new-made brides are led,

    With torches flaming, to the nuptial bed:

    The youthful dancers in a circle bound

    To the soft flute, and cittern’s silver sound:

    Thro’ the fair streets, the matrons in a row

    Stand in their porches, and enjoy the show.

    There, in the Forum swarm a numerous train;

    The subject of debate, a townsman slain:

    One pleads the fine discharged, which one denied,

    And bade the public and the laws decide:

    The witness is produced on either hand:

    For this, or that, the partial people stand:

    Th’ appointed heralds still the noisy bands,

    And form a ring, with sceptres in their hands;

    On seats of stone, within the sacred place,

    The rev’rend elders nodded o’er the case;

    Alternate, each th’ attending sceptre took,

    And, rising solemn, each his sentence spoke.

    Two golden talents lay amidst, in sight,

    The prize of him who best adjudg’d the right.

    Another part (a prospect diff’ring far)

    Glow’d with refulgent arms, and horrid war.

    Two mighty hosts a leaguer’d town embrace,

    And one would pillage, one would burn, the place.

    Meantime the townsmen, arm’d with silent care,

    A secret ambush on the foe prepare:

    Their wives, their children, and the watchful band

    Of trembling parents, on the turrets stand.

    They march, by Pallas and by Mars made bold;

    Gold were the Gods, their radiant garments gold,

    And gold their armour; these the squadron led,

    August, divine, superior by the head!

    A place for ambush fit they found, and stood

    Cover’d with shields, beside a silver flood.

    Two spies at distance lurk, and watchful seem

    If sheep or oxen seek the winding stream.

    Soon the white flocks proceeded o’er the plains,

    And steers slow-moving, and two shepherd swains;

    Behind them, piping on their reeds, they go,

    Nor fear an ambush, nor suspect a foe.

    In arms the glitt’ring squadron rising round,

    Rush sudden; hills of slaughter heap the ground:

    Whole flocks and herds lie bleeding on the plains,

    And, all amidst them, dead, the shepherd swains!

    The bell’wing oxen the besiegers hear;

    They rise, take horse, approach, and meet the war;

    They fight, they fall, beside the silver flood;

    The waving silver seem’d to blush with blood.

    There tumult, there contention, stood confess’d;

    One rear’d a dagger at a captive’s breast,

    One held a living foe, that freshly bled

    With new-made wounds; another dragg’d a dead;

    Now here, now there, the carcasses they tore:

    Fate stalk’d amidst them, grim with human gore.

    And the whole war came out, and met the eye:

    And each bold figure seem’d to live, or die.

    A field deep furrow’d next the God design’d,

    The third time labour’d by the sweating hind;

    The shining shares full many ploughmen guide,

    And turn their crooked yokes on ev’ry side.

    Still as at either end they wheel around,

    The master meets them with his goblet crown’d;

    The hearty draught rewards, renews their toil;

    Then back the turning ploughshares cleave the soil:

    Behind, the rising earth in ridges roll’d,

    And sable look’d, tho’ form’d of molten gold.

    Another field rose high with waving grain;

    With bended sickles stand the reaper-train.

    Here stretch’d in ranks the levell’d swaths are found,

    Sheaves, heap’d on sheaves, here thicken up the ground.

    With sweeping stroke the mowers strew the lands;

    The gath’rers follow, and collect in bands;

    And last the children, in whose arms are borne

    (Too short to gripe them) the brown sheaves of corn.

    The rustic Monarch of the Field descries,

    With silent glee, the heaps around him rise.

    A ready banquet on the turf is laid,

    Beneath an ample oak’s expanded shade.

    The victim ox the sturdy youth prepare;

    The reaper’s due repast, the women’s care.

    Next ripe, in yellow gold, a vineyard shines,

    Bent with the pond’rous harvest of its vines;

    A deeper dye the dangling clusters shew,

    And, curl’d on silver props, in order glow:

    A darker metal mix’d, intrench’d the place;

    And pales of glitt’ring tin th’ enclosure grace.

    To this, one pathway gently winding leads,

    Where march a train with baskets on their heads

    (Fair maids and blooming youths), that smiling bear

    The purple product of th’ autumnal year.

    To these a youth awakes the warbling strings,

    Whose tender lay the fate of Linus sings;

    In measured dance behind him move the train,

    Tune soft the voice, and answer to the strain.

    Here, herds of oxen march, erect and bold,

    Rear high their horns, and seem to low in gold,

    And speed to meadows, on whose sounding shores

    A rapid torrent thro’ the rushes roars:

    Four golden herdsmen as their guardians stand,

    And nine sour dogs complete the rustic band.

    Two lions rushing from the wood appear’d;

    And seized a bull, the master of the herd;

    He roar’d: in vain the dogs, the men, withstood;

    They tore his flesh, and drank the sable blood.

    The dogs (oft cheer’d in vain) desert the prey,

    Dread the grim terrors, and at distance bay.

    Next this, the eye the art of Vulcan leads

    Deep thro’ fair forests, and a length of meads;

    And stalls, and folds, and scatter’d cots between;

    And fleecy flocks, that whiten all the scene.

    A figured dance succeeds: such once was seen

    In lofty Gnossus, for the Cretan Queen,

    Form’d by Dædalean art: A comely band

    Of youths and maidens, bounding hand in hand;

    The maids in soft cymars of linen dress’d;

    The youths all graceful in the glossy vest;

    Of those the locks with flowery wreaths inroll’d,

    Of these the sides adorn’d with swords of gold,

    That, glitt’ring gay, from silver belts depend.

    Now all at once they rise, at once descend,

    With well-taught feet: now shape, in oblique ways,

    Confusedly regular, the moving maze:

    Now forth at once, too swift for sight, they spring,

    And undistinguish’d blend the flying ring:

    So whirls a wheel, in giddy circle toss’d,

    And, rapid as it runs, the single spokes are lost.

    The gazing multitudes admire around;

    Two active tumblers in the centre bound;

    Now high, now low, their pliant limbs they bend,

    And gen’ral songs the sprightly revel end.

    Thus the broad shield complete the artist crown’d

    With his last hand, and pour’d the ocean round:

    In living silver seem’d the waves to roll,

    And beat the buckler’s verge, and bound the whole.

    This done, whate’er a warrior’s use requires

    He forged; the cuirass that outshines the fires,

    The greaves of ductile tin, the helm impress’d

    With various sculpture, and the golden crest.

    At Thetis’ feet the finish’d labour lay;

    She, as a falcon, cuts th’ aërial way,

    Swift from Olympus’ snowy summit flies,

    And bears the blazing present thro’ the skies.