HOMER'S ILIAD. BOOK XXIII.

THE ILIAD.

BOOK XXIII

ARGUMENT.

ACHILLES and the Myrmidons do honour to the
After the funeral feast, he
body of Patroclus.
retires to the sea shore, where, falling asleep,
the ghost of his friend appears to him, and de-
mands the rites of burial; the next morning the
soldiers are sent with mules and waggons to
fetch wood for the pyre. The funeral proces-
sion, and the offering their hair to the dead.
Achilles sacrifices several animals, and lastly
twelve Trojan captives, at the pile; then sets
fire to it. He pays libations to the winds, which
(at the instance of Iris) rise, and raise the
flames. When the pile has burned all night,
they gather the bones, place them in an urn of
gold, and raise the tomb. Achilles institutes the
funeral games: the chariot-race, the fight of
the cestus, the wrestling, the foot-race, the
single combat, the discus, the shooting with
arrows, the darting the javelin: the various de-
scriptions of which, and the various success of
the several antagonists, make the greatest part

of the book.

In this book ends the thirtieth day. The night following, the ghost of Patroclus appears to Achilles: the one and thirtieth day is employed in felling the timber for the pile; the two and thirtieth in burning it; and the three and thirtieth in the games. The scene is generally on the sea-shore.

Taus, humbled in the dust, the pensive train
Through the sad city mourn'd her hero slain.
The body soil'd with dust, and black with gore,
Lies on broad Hellespont's resounding shore:
The Grecians seek their ships, and clear the strand,
All, but the martial Myrmidonian band;
These yet assembled great Achilles holds,
And the stern purpose of his unind unfolds :

"Not yet, my brave companions of the war,
Release your smoking coursers from the car;
But, with his chariot cach in order led,
Perform due honours to Patroclus dead.
Ere yet from rest or food we seek relief,
Some rites remain. to glut our rage of grief."
The troops obey'd; and thrice in order led
(Achilles first) their coursers round the dead;
And thrice their sorrows and laments renew;
[flow.
Tears bathe their arms, and tears the sands bedew.
For such a warrior Thetis aids their woe,
Meits their strong hearts, and bids their eyes to
But chief, Pelides: thick succeeding sighs
Burst from his heart, and torrents from his eyes:
His slaughtering hands, yet red with blood, he laid
On his dead friend's cold breast, and thus he said:

"All bail, Patroclus! let thy honour'd ghost Hear, and rejoice, on Pluto's dreary coast;

Behold! Achilles' promise is complete;
The bloody Hector stretch'd before thy feet.
Lo! to the dogs his carcase I resign;
And twelve sad victims, of the Trojan line,
Sacred to vengeance, instant, shall expire;
Their lives effus'd around thy funeral pyre."

Gloomy he said, and (horrible to view)
Before the bier the bleeding Hector threw,
Prone on the dust. The Myrmidons around
Unbrac'd their armour, and the steeds unbound.
All to Achilles' sable ship repair,
Now from the well-fed swine black smokes aspire,
Frequent and full, the genial feast to share.
The bristly victims hissing o'er the fire:
The huge ox bellowing falls; with feebler cries
Expires the goat; the sheep in silence dies.
Around the hero's prostrate body flow'd,
In one promiscuous stream, the reeking blood.
And now a band of Argive monarchs brings
The glorious victor to the king of kings.
From his dead friend the pensive warrior went,
With steps unwilling, to the regal tent.
Th' attending heralds, as by office bound,
With kindled flames the tripod vase surround;
To cleanse his conquering hands from hostile gore,
They urg'd in vain; the chief refus'd, and swore:

"No drop shall touch me, by almighty Jove!
The first and greatest of the gods above!
Till on the pyre I place thee; till I rear
The grassy mound, and clip thy sacred hair:
Some ease at least those pious rites may give,
And soothe my sorrows while I bear to live.
Howe'er, reluctant as I am, I stay,
And share your feast; but, with the dawn of day,
(O king of men!) it claims thy royal care,
That Greece the warrior's funeral pile prepare.
And bid the forests fall (such rites are paid
To heroes slumbering in eternal shade).
Then, when his earthly part shall mount in fire,
Let the leagued squadrons to their post retire."
He spoke; they hear him, and the word obey;
The rage of hunger and of thirst allay,
Then ease in sleep the labours of the day.
But great Pelides stretch'd along the shore,
Where dash'd on rocks the broken billows roar,
Lies inly groaning; while on either hand
The martial Myrmidons confus'dly stand.
Along the grass his languid members fall,
Tir'd with his chase around the Trojan wall;
Hush'd by the murmurs of the rolling deep,
At length he sinks in the soft arms of sleep.
When, lo! the shade, before his closing eyes,
Of sad Patroclus rose, or seem'd to rise;
In the same robe he living wore, he came;
In stature, voice, and pleasing look, the same.
The form familiar hover'd o'er his head :
"And sleeps Achilles," (thus the phantom said)
"Sleeps my Achilles, his Patroclus dead?
Living, I seem'd his dearest, tenderest care,
But now forgot, I wander in the air.
Let my pale corpse the rites of burial know,
And give me entrance in the realms below:
Till then the spirit finds no resting place,
But here and there th' unbody'd spectres chase
The vagrant dead around the dark abode,
Forbid to cross th' irremeable flood.

When once we pass, the soul returns no more:
Now give thy hand: for to the farther shore
When once the last funereal flames ascend,
No more shall meet Achilles and his friend;

HOMER'S ILIAD.

Nor yet the pile where dead Patroclus lies,
Smokes, nor as yet the sullen flames arise;
But fast beside, Achilles stood in prayer,
Invok'd the gods, whose spirit moves the air,
And victims promis'd, and libations cast,
To gentle Zephyr and the Boreal blast:
He call'd th' aërial powers, along the skies
To breathe, and whisper to the fires to rise.
The winged Iris heard the hero's call,
And instant hasten'd to their airy hall,
Where, in old Zephyr's open courts on high,
Sat all the blustering brethren of the sky.
She shone amidst them, on her painted bow;
The rocky pavement glitter'd with the show.
All from the banquet rise, and each invites.
The various goddess to partake the rites:
"Not so" (the dame reply'd)" I haste to go
To sacred Ocean, and the floods below:
Ev'n now our solemn hecatombs attend,

And Heaven is feasting on the world's green end,
With righteous Ethiops (uncorrupted train!)
Far on th' extremest limits of the main."
But Peleus' son entreats, with sacrifice,
The Western spirit, and the North to rise;
"Let on Patroclus' pile your blast be driven,
And bear the blazing honours high to Heaven."
Swift as the word she vanish'd from their view:
Swift as the word the winds tumultuous flew;
Forth burst the stormy band with thundering roar,
And heaps on heaps the clouds are tost before.
To the aide main then stooping from the skies,
The heaving deeps in watery mountains rise:
Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls,
Till on the pile the gather'd tempest falls.
The structure crackles in the roaring fires,
And all the night the plenteous flame aspires.
All night Achilles bails Patroclus' soul,
With large libations from the golden bowl.
As a poor father, helpless and undone,
Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son,
Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
And pours in tears, ere yet they close the urn:
So stay'd Achilles, circling round the shore,
So watch'd the flames, 'till now they flame no more.
Twas when, emerging through the shades of night,
The morning planet told th' approach of light;
And fast behind, Aurora's warmer ray
O'er the broad ocean pour'd the golden day:
Then sunk the blaze, the pile no longer burn'd,
And to their caves the whistling winds return'd;
Across the Thracian seas their course they bore;
The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.

Then parting from the pile he ceas'd to weep,
And sunk to quiet in th' embrace of sleep,
Exhausted with his grief: meanwhile the crowd
Of thronging Grecians round Achilles stood;
The tumult wak'd him: from his eyes he shook
Unwilling slumber, and the chiefs bespoke:

"Ye kings and princes of th' Achaian name!
First let us quench the yet remaining flame
With sable wine; then (as the rites direct)
The hero's bones with careful view select:
(Apart, and easy to be known, they lie
Amidst the heap, and obvious to the eye:
The rest around the margin will be seen
Promiscuous, steeds and immolated men).
These, wrapt in double calls of fat, prepare;
And in the golden vase dispose with care;
There let them rest, with decent honour laid,
Till I shall follow to th' infernal shade.
VOL. XIX.

BOOK, XXIII.

Meantime erect the tomb with pious hands,
A common structure on the humble sands;
Hereafter Grecce some nobler work may raise,
And late posterity record our praise."

The Greeks obey; where yet the embers glow,
Wide o'er the pile the sable wine they throw,
And deep subsides the ashy heap below.
Next, the white bones his sad companions place,
With tears collected, in the golden vase.
The sacred relics to the tent they bore;
The urn a veil of linen cover'd o'er.
That done, they bid the sepulchre aspire,
And cast the deep foundations round the pyre;
High in the midst they heap the swelling bed
Of rising earth, memorial of the dead.

The swarming populace the chief detains,
And leads amidst a wide extent of plains;
There plac'd them round: then from the ships pro-
ceeds

A train of oxen, mules, and stately steeds,
Vases and tripods (for the funeral games)
Resplendent brass, and more resplendent dames.
First stood the prizes to reward the force
Of rapid racers in the dusty course:

A woman for the first in beauty's bloom,
Skill'd in the needle, and the labouring loom;
And a large vase, where two bright handles rise,
Of twenty measures its capacious size.
The second victor claims à mare unbroke,
Big with a mule unknowing of the yoke :
The third a charger yet untouch'd by flame;
Four ample measures held the shining frame;
Two golden talents for the fourth were plac'd;
An ample double bowl contents the last.
These in fair order rang'd upon the plain,
The hero, rising, thus addrest the train:
"Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed
To brave the rulers of the racing steed;
Prizes which none beside ourself could gain,
Should our immortal coursers take the plain
(A race unrival'd, which from ocean's god
Peleus receiv'd, and on his son bestow'd).
But this no time our vigour to display ;
Nor suit with them the games of this sad day;
Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck
Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck.
Sad, as they shar'd in human grief, they stand,
And trail those graceful honours on the sand;
Let others for the noble task prepare,
Who trust the courser, and the flying car."

Fir'd at his word, the rival racers rise;
But far the first, Eumelus, hopes the prize,
Fam'd through Pieria for the fleetest breed,
And skill'd to manage the high-bounding steed.
With equal ardour bold Tydides swell'd
The steeds of Tros beneath his yoke compell'a
(Which late obey'd the Dardan chief's command,
When scarce a god redeem'd him from his hand).
Then Menelaus his Podargus brings,
And the fam'd courser of the king of kings:
Whom rich Echepolus (more rich than brave)
To 'scape the wars, to Agamemnon gave,
(the her name) at home to end his days;
Base wealth preferring to eternal praise.
Next him Antilochus demands the course,
With beating heart, and cheers his Pylian horse.
Experienc'd Nestor gives his son the reins,
Directs his judgment, and his heat restrains;
Nor idly warns the hoary sire, nor hears
The prudent son with unattending ears:

L

My son though youthful ardour fire thy breast,
The gods have lov'd thee, and with arts have blest.
Neptune and Jove on thee conferr'd the skill,
Swift round the goal to turn the flying wheel.
To guide thy conduct, little precept needs;
But slow, and past their vigour, are my steeds.
Fear not thy rivals, though for swiftness known;
Compare those rivals' judgment, and thy own:
It is not strength, but art. obtains the prize,
And to be swift is less than to be wise.
'Tis more by art, than force of numerous strokes,
The dextrous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks;
By art the pilot, through the boiling deep
And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship;
And 'tis the artist wins the glorious course,
Not those who trusts in chariots and in horse.
In vain; unskilful, to the goal they strive,
And short, or wide, the ungovern'd courser drive:
While with sure skill, though with inferior steeds,
The knowing racer to his end proceeds;
Fix'd on the goal his eye fore-runs the course,
His hand unerring steers the steady horse,
And now contracts or now extends the rein,
Observing still the foremost on the plain.
Mark then the goal, 'tis easy to be found;
You aged trunk, a cubit from the ground,
Of some once stately oak the last remains,
Or hardy fir, unperish'd with the rains:
Enclos'd with stones, conspicuous from afar;
And round, a circle for the wheeling car
(Some tomb, perhaps, of old, the dead to grace;
Or then, as now, the limit of a race);
Bear close to this, and warily proceed,
A little bending to the left-hand steed:
But urge the right, and give him all the reins;
While thy strict hand his fellow's head restrains,
And turns him short; till, doubling as they roll,
The wheel's round naves appear to brush the goal.
Yet (not to break the car, or lame the horse)
Clear of the stony heap direct the course;
Lest, through incaution failing, thou may'st be
A joy to others, a reproach to me.

So shalt thou pass the goal, secure of mind,
And leave unskilful swiftness far behind;
Though thy fierce rival drove the matchless stced
Which bore Adrastus, of celestial breed ;
Or the fam'd race, through all the regions known,
That whirl'd the car of proud Laomedon."

Thus (nought unsaid) the much-advising sage
Concludes; then sate, stiff with unwieldy age.
Next bold Meriones was seen to rise,
The last, but not least ardent for the prize.
They mount their seats; the lots their place dis-
pose

(Roll'd in his helmet, these Achilles throws).
Young Nestor leads the race: Eumelus then;
And next, the brother of the king of men:
Thy lot, Meriones, the fourth was cast;
And far the bravest, Diomed, was last.
They stand in order, an impatient train;
Pelides points the barrier on the plain,
And sends before old Phoenix to the place,
To mark the racers, and to judge the race.
At once the coursers from the barrier bound;
The lifted scourges all at once resound;

Their hearts, their eyes, their voice, they send be

| Loose on their shoulders the long manes, reelin'd,
Float in their speed, and dance upon the wind:
The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound,
Now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground.
While, hot for fame, and conquest all their care,
(Each o'er his flying courser hung in air)
Erect with ardour, pois'd upon the rein,
They pant, they stretch, they shout along the plain.
Now (the last compass fetch'd around the goal)
At the near prize each gathers all his soul,
Each burns with double hope, with double pain,
Tears up the shore, and thunders toward the main.
First few Eumelus on Pheretian steeds;
With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds:
Close on Eumelus' back they puff the wind,
And seem just mounting on his car behind;
Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,
And, hovering o'er, their stretching shadow sees.
Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize :
But angry Phoebus to Tydides flies,
Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain
His matchless horses' labour on the plain.
Rage fills his eye, with anguish to survey,
Snatch'd from his hope, the glories of the day.
The fraud celestial Pallas sees with pain,
Springs to her knight, and gives the scourge again,
And fills his steeds with vigour. At a stroke,
She breaks his rival's chariot from the yoke;
Nor more their way the startled horses held;
The car revers'd came rattling on the field;
Shot headlong from his seat, beside the wheel,
Prone on the dust th' unhappy master fell;
His batter'd face and elbows strike the ground;
Nose, mouth, and front, one undistinguish'd wound:
Grief stops his voice, a torrent drowns his eyes;
Before him far the glad Tydides flies;-
Minerva's spirit drives his matchless pace,
And crowns him victor of the labour'd race.

The next, though distant, Menelaus succeeds;
While thus young Nestor animates his steeds :
"Now, now, my generous pair, exert your force;
Not that we hope to natch Tydides' horse,
Since great Minerva wings their rapid way,
And gives their lord the honours of the day.
But reach Atrides! shall his mare out-go
Your swiftness, vanquish'd by a female foe?
Through your neglect, if lagging on the plain
The last ignoble gift be all we gain;

No more shall Nestor's hand your food supply,
The old man's fury rises, and ye die.
Haste then; yon narrow road before our sight
Presents the occasion, could we use it right."

Thus he. The coursers, at their master's threat,
With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat.
And now Antilochus, with nice survey,

Observes the compass of the hollow way.
'Twas where, by force of wintery torrents torn,
Fast by the road a precipice was worn:

Here, where but one could pass to shun the throng,
The Spartan hero's chariot smok'd along.
Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep,
Still edging near, and bears him tow'rd the steep.
Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below,
And wonders at the rashness of his foe.

[to ride

Hold, stay your steeds!-What madness thus
This narrow way! Take larger field" he cry'd,
"Or both must fall."-Atrides cry'd in vain;
He flies more fast, and throws up all the rein.
Far as an able arm the disk can send,
When youthful rivals their full force extend,