“Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spotWhere sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave,And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,The lover’s refuge and the Lesbian’s grave.Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal saveThat breast imbued with such immortal fire?“ ’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eveChilde Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;” etc.
“Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spotWhere sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave,And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,The lover’s refuge and the Lesbian’s grave.Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal saveThat breast imbued with such immortal fire?“ ’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eveChilde Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;” etc.
“Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spotWhere sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave,And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,The lover’s refuge and the Lesbian’s grave.Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal saveThat breast imbued with such immortal fire?
“Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spot
Where sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave,
And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
The lover’s refuge and the Lesbian’s grave.
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
“ ’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eveChilde Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;” etc.
“ ’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;” etc.
Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her “leap” are referred to the “Spectator,” Nos. 223 and 229. See also Moore’s “Evenings in Greece.”
————
Endymionwas a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos. One calm, clear night Diana, the moon, looked down and saw him sleeping. The cold heart of the virgin goddess was warmed by his surpassing beauty, and she came down to him, kissed him, and watched over him while he slept.
Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we can have but few adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life, for she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs from the wild beasts.
The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning which it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young poet, his fancy and his heart seeking in vain for that which can satisfy them, finding his favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, and nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent witness the melancholy and the ardor which consumes him. The story suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life spent more in dreams than in reality, and an early and welcome death.—S. G. B.
The “Endymion” of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing some exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon:
“. . . The sleeping kineCouched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,And yet thy benediction passeth notOne obscure hiding-place, one little spotWhere pleasure may be sent; the nested wrenHas thy fair face within its tranquil ken;” etc., etc.
“. . . The sleeping kineCouched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,And yet thy benediction passeth notOne obscure hiding-place, one little spotWhere pleasure may be sent; the nested wrenHas thy fair face within its tranquil ken;” etc., etc.
“. . . The sleeping kineCouched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,And yet thy benediction passeth notOne obscure hiding-place, one little spotWhere pleasure may be sent; the nested wrenHas thy fair face within its tranquil ken;” etc., etc.
“. . . The sleeping kine
Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;” etc., etc.
Dr. Young, in the “Night Thoughts,” alludes to Endymion thus:
“. . . These thoughts, O night, are thine;From thee they came like lovers’ secret sighs,While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured lessThan I of thee.”
“. . . These thoughts, O night, are thine;From thee they came like lovers’ secret sighs,While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured lessThan I of thee.”
“. . . These thoughts, O night, are thine;From thee they came like lovers’ secret sighs,While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured lessThan I of thee.”
“. . . These thoughts, O night, are thine;
From thee they came like lovers’ secret sighs,
While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,
In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured less
Than I of thee.”
Fletcher, in the “Faithful Shepherdess,” tells:
“How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyesShe took eternal fire that never dies;How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,His temples bound with poppy, to the steepHead of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,To kiss her sweetest.”
“How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyesShe took eternal fire that never dies;How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,His temples bound with poppy, to the steepHead of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,To kiss her sweetest.”
“How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyesShe took eternal fire that never dies;How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,His temples bound with poppy, to the steepHead of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,To kiss her sweetest.”
“How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,
To kiss her sweetest.”
Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a mighty hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through the depths of the sea, or, as others say, of walking on its surface.
Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Œnopion, king of Chios, and sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts, and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved; but as Œnopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at this conduct, having made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight and cast him out on the seashore. The blinded hero followed the sound of a Cyclops’ hammer till he reached Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking pity on him, gave him Kedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun.Placing Kedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam.
After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a favorite, and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her brother was highly displeased and often chid her, but to no purpose. One day, observing Orion wading through the sea with his head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his sister and maintained that she could not hit that black thing on the sea. The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim. The waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion’s skin, and club. Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him.
The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana’s train. One day Orion saw them and became enamoured and pursued them. In their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form, and Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, and then made them a constellation in the sky. Though their number was seven, only six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it is said left her place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy, for that city was founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an effect on her sisters that they have looked pale ever since.
Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the “Occultation of Orion.” The following lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic story. We must premise that on the celestial globe Orion is represented as robed in a lion’s skin and wielding a club. At the moment the stars of the constellation, one by one, were quenched in the light of the moon, the poet tells us
“Down fell the red skin of the lionInto the river at his feet.His mighty club no longer beatThe forehead of the bull; but heReeled as of yore beside the sea,When blinded by ŒnopionHe sought the blacksmith at his forge,And climbing up the narrow gorge,Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.”
“Down fell the red skin of the lionInto the river at his feet.His mighty club no longer beatThe forehead of the bull; but heReeled as of yore beside the sea,When blinded by ŒnopionHe sought the blacksmith at his forge,And climbing up the narrow gorge,Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.”
“Down fell the red skin of the lionInto the river at his feet.His mighty club no longer beatThe forehead of the bull; but heReeled as of yore beside the sea,When blinded by ŒnopionHe sought the blacksmith at his forge,And climbing up the narrow gorge,Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.”
“Down fell the red skin of the lion
Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; but he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
When blinded by Œnopion
He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
And climbing up the narrow gorge,
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.”
Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads:
“Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”—Locksley Hall.
“Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”—Locksley Hall.
“Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”—Locksley Hall.
“Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”—Locksley Hall.
“Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”
—Locksley Hall.
Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”
See also Mrs. Hemans’s verses on the same subject.
The goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at times inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away, and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but, forgetting to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old. When his hair was quite white she left his society; but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was clad in celestial raiment. At length he lost the power of using his limbs, and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally she turned him into a grasshopper.
Memnon was the son of Aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the Æthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of Ocean. He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his father in the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great honors, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the wonders of the ocean shore.
The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led his troops to the field. Antilochus, thebrave son of Nestor, fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when Achilles appeared and restored the battle. A long and doubtful contest ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length victory declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled in dismay.
Aurora, who from her station in the sky had viewed with apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall, directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the Dawn. The Æthiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the flame. Every year at the anniversary of his death they return and celebrate his obsequies in like manner. Aurora remains inconsolable for the loss of her son. Her tears still flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops on the grass.
Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there still exist some memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in Egypt, are two colossal statues, one of which is said to be the statue of Memnon. Ancient writers record that when the first rays of the rising sun fall upon this statue a sound is heard to issue from it, which they compare to the snapping of a harp-string. There is some doubt about the identification of the existing statue with the one described by the ancients, and the mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there are not wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible. It has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making its escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given some ground for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late traveller, of the highest authority, examined the statueitself, and discovered that it was hollow, and that “in the lap of the statue is a stone, which on being struck emits a metallic sound, that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who was predisposed to believe its powers.”
The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with the poets. Darwin, in his “Botanic Garden,” says:
“So to the sacred Sun in Memnon’s faneSpontaneous concords choired the matin strain;Touched by his orient beam responsive ringsThe living lyre and vibrates all its strings;Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,And holy echoes swell the adoring song.”Book I., 1. 182.
“So to the sacred Sun in Memnon’s faneSpontaneous concords choired the matin strain;Touched by his orient beam responsive ringsThe living lyre and vibrates all its strings;Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,And holy echoes swell the adoring song.”Book I., 1. 182.
“So to the sacred Sun in Memnon’s faneSpontaneous concords choired the matin strain;Touched by his orient beam responsive ringsThe living lyre and vibrates all its strings;Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,And holy echoes swell the adoring song.”Book I., 1. 182.
“So to the sacred Sun in Memnon’s faneSpontaneous concords choired the matin strain;Touched by his orient beam responsive ringsThe living lyre and vibrates all its strings;Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,And holy echoes swell the adoring song.”Book I., 1. 182.
“So to the sacred Sun in Memnon’s fane
Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
And holy echoes swell the adoring song.”
Book I., 1. 182.
Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs. She had many suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she was persecuted. One day the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the story, and then replied, “Yet, maiden, your persecutors are of the not ungentle race of men, whom, if you will, you can repel; but I, the daughter of Nereus, and protected by such a band of sisters, found no escape from the passion of the Cyclops but in the depths of the sea;” and tears stopped her utterance, which when the pitying maiden had wiped away with her delicate finger, and soothed the goddess, “Tell me, dearest,” said she, “the cause of your grief.” Galatea then said, “Acis was the son of Faunus and a Naiad. His father and mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal to mine. For the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and he was just sixteen years old, the down just beginning to darken his cheeks. As much as I sought his society, so much did the Cyclops seek mine; and if you ask me whether my love for Acis or my hatred of Polyphemus was the stronger, I cannot tell you; they were in equal measure. O Venus, how great is thy power! this fierce giant, the terror of the woods, whom no hapless strangerescaped unharmed, who defied even Jove himself, learned to feel what love was, and, touched with a passion for me, forgot his flocks and his well-stored caverns. Then for the first time he began to take some care of his appearance, and to try to make himself agreeable; he harrowed those coarse locks of his with a comb, and mowed his beard with a sickle, looked at his harsh features in the water, and composed his countenance. His love of slaughter, his fierceness and thirst of blood prevailed no more, and ships that touched at his island went away in safety. He paced up and down the seashore, imprinting huge tracks with his heavy tread, and, when weary, lay tranquilly in his cave.
“There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on either side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat down while his flocks spread themselves around. Laying down his staff, which would have served for a mast to hold a vessel’s sail, and taking his instrument compacted of numerous pipes, he made the hills and the waters echo the music of his song. I lay hid under a rock by the side of my beloved Acis, and listened to the distant strain. It was full of extravagant praises of my beauty, mingled with passionate reproaches of my coldness and cruelty.
“When he had finished he rose up, and, like a raging bull that cannot stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I thought no more of him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which gave him a view of us as we sat. ‘I see you,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I will make this the last of your love-meetings.’ His voice was a roar such as an angry Cyclops alone could utter. Ætna trembled at the sound. I, overcome with terror, plunged into the water. Acis turned and fled, crying, ‘Save me, Galatea, save me, my parents!’ The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from the side of the mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner of it touched him, it overwhelmed him.
“All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him with the honors of his grandfather, the river-god. The purple blood flowed out from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler and looked like thestream of a river rendered turbid by rains, and in time it became clear. The rock cleaved open, and the water, as it gushed from the chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur.”
Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the name of Acis.
Dryden, in his “Cymon and Iphigenia,” has told the story of a clown converted into a gentleman by the power of love, in a way that shows traces of kindred to the old story of Galatea and the Cyclops.
“What not his father’s care nor tutor’s artCould plant with pains in his unpolished heart,The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strifeSoon taught the sweet civilities of life.”
“What not his father’s care nor tutor’s artCould plant with pains in his unpolished heart,The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strifeSoon taught the sweet civilities of life.”
“What not his father’s care nor tutor’s artCould plant with pains in his unpolished heart,The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strifeSoon taught the sweet civilities of life.”
“What not his father’s care nor tutor’s art
Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,
The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,
As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.
Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife
Soon taught the sweet civilities of life.”
————
Minervawas the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a very foolish thing; she entered into competition with Juno and Venus for the prize of beauty. It happened thus: At the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis all the gods were invited with the exception of Eris, or Discord. Enraged at her exclusion, the goddess threw a golden apple among the guests, with the inscription, “For the fairest.” Thereupon Juno, Venus, and Minerva each claimed the apple. Jupiter, not willing to decide in so delicate a matter, sent the goddesses to Mount Ida, where the beautiful shepherd Paris was tending his flocks, and to him was committed the decision. The goddesses accordingly appeared before him. Juno promised him power and riches, Minerva glory and renown in war, and Venus the fairest of women for his wife, each attempting to bias his decision in her own favor. Paris decided infavor of Venus and gave her the golden apple, thus making the two other goddesses his enemies. Under the protection of Venus, Paris sailed to Greece, and was hospitably received by Menelaus, king of Sparta. Now Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was the very woman whom Venus had destined for Paris, the fairest of her sex. She had been sought as a bride by numerous suitors, and before her decision was made known, they all, at the suggestion of Ulysses, one of their number, took an oath that they would defend her from all injury and avenge her cause if necessary. She chose Menelaus, and was living with him happily when Paris became their guest. Paris, aided by Venus, persuaded her to elope with him, and carried her to Troy, whence arose the famous Trojan war, the theme of the greatest poems of antiquity, those of Homer and Virgil.
Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to fulfil their pledge, and join him in his efforts to recover his wife. They generally came forward, but Ulysses, who had married Penelope, and was very happy in his wife and child, had no disposition to embark in such a troublesome affair. He therefore hung back and Palamedes was sent to urge him. When Palamedes arrived at Ithaca Ulysses pretended to be mad. He yoked an ass and an ox together to the plough and began to sow salt. Palamedes, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the plough, whereupon the father turned the plough aside, showing plainly that he was no madman, and after that could no longer refuse to fulfil his promise. Being now himself gained for the undertaking, he lent his aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs, especially Achilles. This hero was the son of that Thetis at whose marriage the apple of Discord had been thrown among the goddesses. Thetis was herself one of the immortals, a sea-nymph, and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if he went on the expedition, she endeavored to prevent his going. She sent him away to the court of King Lycomedes, and induced him to conceal himself in the disguise of a maiden among the daughters of the king. Ulysses, hearing he was there, went disguised as a merchant to thepalace and offered for sale female ornaments, among which he had placed some arms. While the king’s daughters were engrossed with the other contents of the merchant’s pack, Achilles handled the weapons and thereby betrayed himself to the keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great difficulty in persuading him to disregard his mother’s prudent counsels and join his countrymen in the war.
Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer of Helen, was his son. Paris had been brought up in obscurity, because there were certain ominous forebodings connected with him from his infancy that he would be the ruin of the state. These forebodings seemed at length likely to be realized, for the Grecian armament now in preparation was the greatest that had ever been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenæ, and brother of the injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief. Achilles was their most illustrious warrior. After him ranked Ajax, gigantic in size and of great courage, but dull of intellect; Diomede, second only to Achilles in all the qualities of a hero; Ulysses, famous for his sagacity; and Nestor, the oldest of the Grecian chiefs, and one to whom they all looked up for counsel. But Troy was no feeble enemy. Priam, the king, was now old, but he had been a wise prince and had strengthened his state by good government at home and numerous alliances with his neighbors. But the principal stay and support of his throne was his son Hector, one of the noblest characters painted by heathen antiquity. He felt, from the first, a presentiment of the fall of his country, but still persevered in his heroic resistance, yet by no means justified the wrong which brought this danger upon her. He was united in marriage with Andromache, and as a husband and father his character was not less admirable than as a warrior. The principal leaders on the side of the Trojans, besides Hector, were Æneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus and Sarpedon.
After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army assembled in the port of Aulis in Bœotia. Here Agamemnon in hunting killed a stag which was sacredto Diana, and the goddess in return visited the army with pestilence, and produced a calm which prevented the ships from leaving the port. Calchas, the soothsayer, thereupon announced that the wrath of the virgin goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin on her altar, and that none other but the daughter of the offender would be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his consent, and the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the pretence that she was to be married to Achilles. When she was about to be sacrificed the goddess relented and snatched her away, leaving a hind in her place, and Iphigenia, enveloped in a cloud, was carried to Tauris, where Diana made her priestess of her temple.
Tennyson, in his “Dream of Fair Women,” makes Iphigenia thus describe her feelings at the moment of sacrifice:
“I was cut off from hope in that sad place,Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;My father held his hand upon his face;I, blinded by my tears,
“I was cut off from hope in that sad place,Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;My father held his hand upon his face;I, blinded by my tears,
“I was cut off from hope in that sad place,Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;My father held his hand upon his face;I, blinded by my tears,
“I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;
My father held his hand upon his face;
I, blinded by my tears,
“Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,As in a dream. Dimly I could descryThe stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,Waiting to see me die.
“Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,As in a dream. Dimly I could descryThe stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,Waiting to see me die.
“Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,As in a dream. Dimly I could descryThe stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,Waiting to see me die.
“Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry
The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,
Waiting to see me die.
“The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,The temples and the people and the shore;One drew a sharp knife through my tender throatSlowly,—and—nothing more.”
“The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,The temples and the people and the shore;One drew a sharp knife through my tender throatSlowly,—and—nothing more.”
“The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,The temples and the people and the shore;One drew a sharp knife through my tender throatSlowly,—and—nothing more.”
“The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,
The temples and the people and the shore;
One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat
Slowly,—and—nothing more.”
The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the forces to the coast of Troy. The Trojans came to oppose their landing, and at the first onset Protesilaus fell by the hand of Hector. Protesilaus had left at home his wife, Laodamia, who was most tenderly attached to him. When the news of his death reached her she implored the gods to be allowed to converse with him only three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led Protesilaus back to the upper world, and when he died a second time Laodamia died with him. There was a story that the nymphs plantedelm trees round his grave which grew very well till they were high enough to command a view of Troy, and then withered away, while fresh branches sprang from the roots.
Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia for the subject of a poem. It seems the oracle had declared that victory should be the lot of that party from which should fall the first victim to the war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on his brief return to earth, as relating to Laodamia the story of his fate:
“ ‘The wished-for wind was given; I then revolvedThe oracle, upon the silent sea;And if no worthier led the way, resolvedThat of a thousand vessels mine should beThe foremost prow impressing to the strand,—Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
“ ‘The wished-for wind was given; I then revolvedThe oracle, upon the silent sea;And if no worthier led the way, resolvedThat of a thousand vessels mine should beThe foremost prow impressing to the strand,—Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
“ ‘The wished-for wind was given; I then revolvedThe oracle, upon the silent sea;And if no worthier led the way, resolvedThat of a thousand vessels mine should beThe foremost prow impressing to the strand,—Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
“ ‘The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved
The oracle, upon the silent sea;
And if no worthier led the way, resolved
That of a thousand vessels mine should be
The foremost prow impressing to the strand,—
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
“ ‘Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pangWhen of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!On thee too fondly did my memory hang,And on the joys we shared in mortal life,The paths which we had trod,—these fountains, flowers;My new planned cities and unfinished towers.
“ ‘Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pangWhen of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!On thee too fondly did my memory hang,And on the joys we shared in mortal life,The paths which we had trod,—these fountains, flowers;My new planned cities and unfinished towers.
“ ‘Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pangWhen of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!On thee too fondly did my memory hang,And on the joys we shared in mortal life,The paths which we had trod,—these fountains, flowers;My new planned cities and unfinished towers.
“ ‘Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
The paths which we had trod,—these fountains, flowers;
My new planned cities and unfinished towers.
“ ‘But should suspense permit the foe to cry,“Behold they tremble! haughty their array,Yet of their number no one dares to die?”In soul I swept the indignity away:Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thoughtIn act embodied my deliverance wrought.’
“ ‘But should suspense permit the foe to cry,“Behold they tremble! haughty their array,Yet of their number no one dares to die?”In soul I swept the indignity away:Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thoughtIn act embodied my deliverance wrought.’
“ ‘But should suspense permit the foe to cry,“Behold they tremble! haughty their array,Yet of their number no one dares to die?”In soul I swept the indignity away:Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thoughtIn act embodied my deliverance wrought.’
“ ‘But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
“Behold they tremble! haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die?”
In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought
In act embodied my deliverance wrought.’
. . . . . . .
“. . . upon the sideOf Hellespont (such faith was entertained)A knot of spiry trees for ages grewFrom out the tomb of him for whom she died;And ever when such stature they had gainedThat Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight,A constant interchange of growth and blight!”
“. . . upon the sideOf Hellespont (such faith was entertained)A knot of spiry trees for ages grewFrom out the tomb of him for whom she died;And ever when such stature they had gainedThat Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight,A constant interchange of growth and blight!”
“. . . upon the sideOf Hellespont (such faith was entertained)A knot of spiry trees for ages grewFrom out the tomb of him for whom she died;And ever when such stature they had gainedThat Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight,A constant interchange of growth and blight!”
“. . . upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever when such stature they had gained
That Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,
The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight,
A constant interchange of growth and blight!”
The war continued without decisive results for nine years. Then an event occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the cause of the Greeks, and that was aquarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. It is at this point that the great poem of Homer, “The Iliad,” begins. The Greeks, though unsuccessful against Troy, had taken the neighboring and allied cities, and in the division of the spoil a female captive, by name Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of Agamemnon. Chryses came bearing the sacred emblems of his office, and begged the release of his daughter. Agamemnon refused. Thereupon Chryses implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks till they should be forced to yield their prey. Apollo granted the prayer of his priest, and sent pestilence into the Grecian camp. Then a council was called to deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the plague. Achilles boldly charged their misfortunes upon Agamemnon as caused by his withholding Chryseis. Agamemnon, enraged, consented to relinquish his captive, but demanded that Achilles should yield to him in her stead Briseis, a maiden who had fallen to Achilles’ share in the division of the spoil. Achilles submitted, but forthwith declared that he would take no further part in the war. He withdrew his forces from the general camp and openly avowed his intention of returning home to Greece.
The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this famous war as the parties themselves. It was well known to them that fate had decreed that Troy should fall, at last, if her enemies should persevere and not voluntarily abandon the enterprise. Yet there was room enough left for chance to excite by turns the hopes and fears of the powers above who took part with either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence of the slight put upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans; Venus for the opposite cause favored them. Venus enlisted her admirer Mars on the same side, but Neptune favored the Greeks. Apollo was neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the other, and Jove himself, though he loved the good King Priam, yet exercised a degree of impartiality; not, however, without exceptions.
Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury done to her son. She repaired immediately toJove’s palace and besought him to make the Greeks repent of their injustice to Achilles by granting success to the Trojan arms. Jupiter consented, and in the battle which ensued the Trojans were completely successful. The Greeks were driven from the field and took refuge in their ships.
Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest chiefs. Nestor advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles to persuade him to return to the field; that Agamemnon should yield the maiden, the cause of the dispute, with ample gifts to atone for the wrong he had done. Agamemnon consented, and Ulysses, Ajax, and Phœnix were sent to carry to Achilles the penitent message. They performed that duty, but Achilles was deaf to their entreaties. He positively refused to return to the field, and persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece without delay.
The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and now instead of besieging Troy they were in a manner besieged themselves, within their rampart. The next day after the unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, a battle was fought, and the Trojans, favored by Jove, were successful, and succeeded in forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart, and were about to set fire to the ships. Neptune, seeing the Greeks so pressed, came to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the prophet, encouraged the warriors with his shouts, and appealed to each individually till he raised their ardor to such a pitch that they forced the Trojans to give way. Ajax performed prodigies of valor, and at length encountered Hector. Ajax shouted defiance, to which Hector replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior. It was well aimed and struck Ajax, where the belts that bore his sword and shield crossed each other on the breast. The double guard prevented its penetrating and it fell harmless. Then Ajax, seizing a huge stone, one of those that served to prop the ships, hurled it at Hector. It struck him in the neck and stretched him on the plain. His followers instantly seized him and bore him off, stunned and wounded.
While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the Trojans, Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his attention had been drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno. That goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and to crown all had borrowed of Venus her girdle, called “Cestus,” which had the effect to heighten the wearer’s charms to such a degree that they were quite irresistible. So prepared, Juno went to join her husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle. When he beheld her she looked so charming that the fondness of his early love revived, and, forgetting the contending armies and all other affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle go as it would.
But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon turning his eyes downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the plain almost lifeless from pain and bruises, he dismissed Juno in a rage, commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him. When Iris came he sent her with a stern message to Neptune, ordering him instantly to quit the field. Apollo was despatched to heal Hector’s bruises and to inspirit his heart. These orders were obeyed with such speed that, while the battle still raged, Hector returned to the field and Neptune betook himself to his own dominions.
An arrow from Paris’s bow wounded Machaon, son of Æsculapius, who inherited his father’s art of healing, and was therefore of great value to the Greeks as their surgeon, besides being one of their bravest warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his chariot and conveyed him from the field. As they passed the ships of Achilles, that hero, looking out over the field, saw the chariot of Nestor and recognized the old chief, but could not discern who the wounded chief was. So calling Patroclus, his companion and dearest friend, he sent him to Nestor’s tent to inquire.
Patroclus, arriving at Nestor’s tent, saw Machaon wounded, and having told the cause of his coming would have hastened away, but Nestor detained him, to tell him the extent of the Grecian calamities. He reminded him also how, at the time of departing for Troy, Achillesand himself had been charged by their respective fathers with different advice: Achilles to aspire to the highest pitch of glory, Patroclus, as the elder, to keep watch over his friend, and to guide his inexperience. “Now,” said Nestor, “is the time for such influence. If the gods so please, thou mayest win him back to the common cause; but if not let him at least send his soldiers to the field, and come thou, Patroclus, clad in his armor, and perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the Trojans.”
Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened back to Achilles, revolving in his mind all he had seen and heard. He told the prince the sad condition of affairs at the camp of their late associates: Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, all wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships preparing to burn them, and thus to cut off all means of return to Greece. While they spoke the flames burst forth from one of the ships. Achilles, at the sight, relented so far as to grant Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons (for so were Achilles’ soldiers called) to the field, and to lend him his armor, that he might thereby strike more terror into the minds of the Trojans. Without delay the soldiers were marshalled, Patroclus put on the radiant armor and mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth the men ardent for battle. But before he went, Achilles strictly charged him that he should be content with repelling the foe. “Seek not,” said he, “to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add still more to the disgrace already mine.” Then exhorting the troops to do their best he dismissed them full of ardor to the fight.
Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where it raged hottest; at the sight of which the joyful Grecians shouted and the ships reëchoed the acclaim. The Trojans, at the sight of the well-known armor, struck with terror, looked everywhere for refuge. First those who had got possession of the ship and set it on fire left and allowed the Grecians to retake it and extinguish the flames. Then the rest of the Trojans fled in dismay. Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons of Nestorperformed prodigies of valor. Hector was forced to turn his horses’ heads and retire from the enclosure, leaving his men entangled in the fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove them before him, slaying many, none daring to make a stand against him.
At last Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in fight to Patroclus. Jupiter looked down upon him and would have snatched him from the fate which awaited him, but Juno hinted that if he did so it would induce all others of the inhabitants of heaven to interpose in like manner whenever any of their offspring were endangered; to which reason Jove yielded. Sarpedon threw his spear, but missed Patroclus, but Patroclus threw his with better success. It pierced Sarpedon’s breast and he fell, and, calling to his friends to save his body from the foe, expired. Then a furious contest arose for the possession of the corpse. The Greeks succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his armor; but Jove would not allow the remains of his son to be dishonored, and by his command Apollo snatched from the midst of the combatants the body of Sarpedon and committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death and Sleep, by whom it was transported to Lycia, the native land of Sarpedon, where it received due funeral rites.
Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in repelling the Trojans and relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted him. Patroclus threw a vast stone at Hector, which missed its aim, but smote Cebriones, the charioteer, and knocked him from the car. Hector leaped from the chariot to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also descended to complete his victory. Thus the two heroes met face to face. At this decisive moment the poet, as if reluctant to give Hector the glory, records that Phœbus took part against Patroclus. He struck the helmet from his head and the lance from his hand. At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded him in the back, and Hector, pressing forward, pierced him with his spear. He fell mortally wounded.
Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body ofPatroclus, but his armor was at once taken possession of by Hector, who retiring a short distance divested himself of his own armor and put on that of Achilles, then returned to the fight. Ajax and Menelaus defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors struggled to capture it. The battle raged with equal fortunes, when Jove enveloped the whole face of heaven with a dark cloud. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking round for some one whom he might despatch to Achilles to tell him of the death of his friend, and of the imminent danger that his remains would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no suitable messenger. It was then that he exclaimed in those famous lines so often quoted,
“Father of heaven and earth! deliver thouAchaia’s host from darkness; clear the skies;Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,Destruction with it; but, O, give us day.”—Cowper.
“Father of heaven and earth! deliver thouAchaia’s host from darkness; clear the skies;Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,Destruction with it; but, O, give us day.”—Cowper.
“Father of heaven and earth! deliver thouAchaia’s host from darkness; clear the skies;Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,Destruction with it; but, O, give us day.”—Cowper.
“Father of heaven and earth! deliver thouAchaia’s host from darkness; clear the skies;Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,Destruction with it; but, O, give us day.”—Cowper.
“Father of heaven and earth! deliver thou
Achaia’s host from darkness; clear the skies;
Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,
Destruction with it; but, O, give us day.”
—Cowper.
Or, as rendered by Pope,
“. . . Lord of earth and air!O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;If Greece must perish we thy will obey,But let us perish in the face of day.”
“. . . Lord of earth and air!O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;If Greece must perish we thy will obey,But let us perish in the face of day.”
“. . . Lord of earth and air!O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;If Greece must perish we thy will obey,But let us perish in the face of day.”
“. . . Lord of earth and air!
O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!
Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;
Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;
If Greece must perish we thy will obey,
But let us perish in the face of day.”
Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Then Ajax sent Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus’s death, and of the conflict raging for his remains. The Greeks at last succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely pursued by Hector and Æneas and the rest of the Trojans.
Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that Antilochus feared for a while that he would destroy himself. His groans reached the ears of his mother, Thetis, far down in the deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to him to inquire the cause. She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach that he had indulged his resentment so far, and suffered his friend to fall a victim to it. But his only consolationwas the hope of revenge. He would fly instantly in search of Hector. But his mother reminded him that he was now without armor, and promised him, if he would but wait till the morrow, she would procure for him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to that he had lost. He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan’s palace. She found him busy at his forge making tripods for his own use, so artfully constructed that they moved forward of their own accord when wanted, and retired again when dismissed. On hearing the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately laid aside his work and hastened to comply with her wishes. He fabricated a splendid suit of armor for Achilles, first a shield adorned with elaborate devices, then a helmet crested with gold, then a corselet and greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to his form, and of consummate workmanship. It was all done in one night, and Thetis, receiving it, descended with it to earth, and laid it down at Achilles’ feet at the dawn of day.
The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death of Patroclus was at the sight of this splendid armor. And now, arrayed in it, he went forth into the camp, calling all the chiefs to council. When they were all assembled he addressed them. Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly lamenting the miseries that had resulted from it, he called on them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon made a suitable reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of discord; and thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the heroes.
Then Achilles went forth to battle inspired with a rage and thirst for vengeance that made him irresistible. The bravest warriors fled before him or fell by his lance. Hector, cautioned by Apollo, kept aloof; but the god, assuming the form of one of Priam’s sons, Lycaon, urged Æneas to encounter the terrible warrior. Æneas, though he felt himself unequal, did not decline the combat. He hurled his spear with all his force against the shield the work of Vulcan. It was formed of five metal plates; two were of brass, twoof tin, and one of gold. The spear pierced two thicknesses, but was stopped in the third. Achilles threw his with better success. It pierced through the shield of Æneas, but glanced near his shoulder and made no wound. Then Æneas seized a stone, such as two men of modern times could hardly lift, and was about to throw it, and Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him, when Neptune, who looked out upon the contest, moved with pity for Æneas, who he saw would surely fall a victim if not speedily rescued, spread a cloud between the combatants, and lifting Æneas from the ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to the rear of the battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away, looked round in vain for his adversary, and acknowledging the prodigy, turned his arms against other champions. But none dared stand before him, and Priam looking down from the city walls beheld his whole army in full flight towards the city. He gave command to open wide the gates to receive the fugitives, and to shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the enemy should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit that that would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the form of Agenor, Priam’s son, encountered Achilles for a while, then turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city. Achilles pursued and had chased his supposed victim far from the walls, when Apollo disclosed himself, and Achilles, perceiving how he had been deluded, gave up the chase.
But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without determined to await the combat. His old father called to him from the walls and begged him to retire nor tempt the encounter. His mother, Hecuba, also besought him to the same effect, but all in vain. “How can I,” said he to himself, “by whose command the people went to this day’s contest, where so many have fallen, seek safety for myself against a single foe? But what if I offer him to yield up Helen and all her treasures and ample of our own beside? Ah, no! it is too late. He would not even hear me through, but slay me while I spoke.” While he thus ruminated, Achillesapproached, terrible as Mars, his armor flashing lightning as he moved. At that sight Hector’s heart failed him and he fled. Achilles swiftly pursued. They ran, still keeping near the walls, till they had thrice encircled the city. As often as Hector approached the walls Achilles intercepted him and forced him to keep out in a wider circle. But Apollo sustained Hector’s strength and would not let him sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the form of Deiphobus, Hector’s bravest brother, appeared suddenly at his side. Hector saw him with delight, and thus strengthened stopped his flight and turned to meet Achilles. Hector threw his spear, which struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back. He turned to receive another from the hand of Deiphobus, but Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood his doom and said, “Alas! it is plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at hand, but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will not fall inglorious.” So saying he drew his falchion from his side and rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secured behind his shield, waited the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his spear, Achilles choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the armor leaves the neck uncovered, aimed his spear at that part and Hector fell, death-wounded, and feebly said, “Spare my body! Let my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites from the sons and daughters of Troy.” To which Achilles replied, “Dog, name not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have brought such dire distress. No! trust me, naught shall save thy carcass from the dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were offered, I would refuse it all.”
So saying he stripped the body of its armor, and fastening cords to the feet tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body to trail along the ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed the steeds and so dragged the body to and fro before the city. What words can tell the grief of King Priam and Queen Hecuba at this sight! His people could scarce restrain the old king from rushing forth. He threw himself in the dust and besought them each by name to give him way. Hecuba’sdistress was not less violent. The citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of the mourning reached the ears of Andromache, the wife of Hector, as she sat among her maidens at work, and anticipating evil she went forth to the wall. When she saw the sight there presented, she would have thrown herself headlong from the wall, but fainted and fell into the arms of her maidens. Recovering, she bewailed her fate, picturing to herself her country ruined, herself a captive, and her son dependent for his bread on the charity of strangers.
When Achilles and the Greeks had taken their revenge on the killer of Patroclus they busied themselves in paying due funeral rites to their friend. A pile was erected, and the body burned with due solemnity; and then ensued games of strength and skill, chariot races, wrestling, boxing, and archery. Then the chiefs sat down to the funeral banquet and after that retired to rest. But Achilles neither partook of the feast nor of sleep. The recollection of his lost friend kept him awake, remembering their companionship in toil and dangers, in battle or on the perilous deep. Before the earliest dawn he left his tent, and joining to his chariot his swift steeds, he fastened Hector’s body to be dragged behind. Twice he dragged him around the tomb of Patroclus, leaving him at length stretched in the dust. But Apollo would not permit the body to be torn or disfigured with all this abuse, but preserved it free from all taint or defilement.
While Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing brave Hector, Jupiter in pity summoned Thetis to his presence. He told her to go to her son and prevail on him to restore the body of Hector to his friends. Then Jupiter sent Iris to King Priam to encourage him to go to Achilles and beg the body of his son. Iris delivered her message, and Priam immediately prepared to obey. He opened his treasuries and took out rich garments and cloths, with ten talents in gold and two splendid tripods and a golden cup of matchless workmanship. Then he called to his sons and bade them draw forth his litter and place in it the various articles designed for a ransomto Achilles. When all was ready, the old king with a single companion as aged as himself, the herald Idæus, drove forth from the gates, parting there with Hecuba, his queen, and all his friends, who lamented him as going to certain death.
But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king, sent Mercury to be his guide and protector. Mercury, assuming the form of a young warrior, presented himself to the aged couple, and while at the sight of him they hesitated whether to fly or yield, the god approached, and grasping Priam’s hand offered to be their guide to Achilles’ tent. Priam gladly accepted his offered service, and he, mounting the carriage, assumed the reins and soon conveyed them to the tent of Achilles. Mercury’s wand put to sleep all the guards, and without hinderance he introduced Priam into the tent where Achilles sat, attended by two of his warriors. The old king threw himself at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those terrible hands which had destroyed so many of his sons. “Think, O Achilles,” he said, “of thy own father, full of days like me, and trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Perhaps even now some neighbor chief oppresses him and there is none at hand to succor him in his distress. Yet doubtless knowing that Achilles lives he still rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy face again. But no comfort cheers me, whose bravest sons, so late the flower of Ilium, all have fallen. Yet one I had, one more than all the rest the strength of my age, whom, fighting for his country, thou hast slain. I come to redeem his body, bringing inestimable ransom with me. Achilles! reverence the gods! recollect thy father! for his sake show compassion to me!” These words moved Achilles, and he wept; remembering by turns his absent father and his lost friend. Moved with pity of Priam’s silver locks and beard, he raised him from the earth, and thus spake: “Priam, I know that thou hast reached this place conducted by some god, for without aid divine no mortal even in his prime of youth had dared the attempt. I grant thy request, moved thereto by the evident will of Jove.” So saying he arose, and went forth with his two friends, and unloaded of its chargethe litter, leaving two mantles and a robe for the covering of the body, which they placed on the litter, and spread the garments over it, that not unveiled it should be borne back to Troy. Then Achilles dismissed the old king with his attendants, having first pledged himself to allow a truce of twelve days for the funeral solemnities.
As the litter approached the city and was descried from the walls, the people poured forth to gaze once more on the face of their hero. Foremost of all, the mother and the wife of Hector came, and at the sight of the lifeless body renewed their lamentations. The people all wept with them, and to the going down of the sun there was no pause or abatement of their grief.
The next day preparations were made for the funeral solemnities. For nine days the people brought wood and built the pile, and on the tenth they placed the body on the summit and applied the torch; while all Troy thronging forth encompassed the pile. When it had completely burned, they quenched the cinders with wine, collected the bones and placed them in a golden urn, which they buried in the earth, and reared a pile of stones over the spot.