He fued to all, but chief implor'd for grace
The brother-kings, of Atreus' royal race.

Ye kings and warriors! may your vows be crown'd, And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground.

May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er,
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.
But oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain,
And give Chryfeïs to these arms again;

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If mercy fail, yet let my presents move,

And dread avenging Phoebus, fon of Jove.

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The Greeks in fhouts their joint affent declare,

The priest to reverence, and release the fair.
Not fo Atrides: he, with kingly pride,
Repuls'd the facred fire, and thus reply'd :

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Hence on thy life, and fly these hostile plains,
Nor afk, prefumptuous, what the king detains;
Hence, with thy laurel crown, and golden rod,
Nor truft too far those ensigns of thy God.
Mine is thy daughter, priest, and shall remain;
And prayers, and tears, and bribes, shall plead in vain ;
Till time shall rifle every youthful grace,

And age difmifs her from my cold embrace,
In daily labours of the loom employ'd,
Or doom'd to deck the bed fhe once enjoy'd.
Hence then, to Argos fhall the maid retire,
Far from her native foil, and weeping fire.
The trembling prieft along the shore return'd,
And in the anguish of a father moura'd,
Difconfolate, not daring to complain,
Silent he wander'd by the founding main :

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Till,

Till, fafe at diftance, to his God he prays,
The God who darts around the world his rays.
O Smintheus! fprung from fair Latona's line,
Thou guardian power of Cilla the divine,
Thou fource of light! who Tenedos adores,
And whose bright presence gilds thy Chryfa's fhore
If e'er with wreaths I hung thy facred fane,

Or fed the flames with fat of oxen flain;

God of the filver bow! thy fhafts employ,
Avenge thy fervant, and the Greeks destroy.

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Thus Chryfes pray'd: The favouring power attends, And from Olympus' lofty tops descends. Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to wound; Fierce as he mov'd, his filver shafts refound. Breathing revenge, a fudden night he spread, And gloomy darknefs roll'd about his head. The fleet in view, he twang'd his deadly bow, And hiffing fly the feather'd fates below, On mules and dogs th' infection first began; And last, the vengeful arrows fix'd in man. For nine long nights through all the dusky air The pyres thick-flaming shot a dismal glare. But ere the tenth revolving day was run, Infpir'd by Juno, Thetis' god-like fon Conven'd to council all the Grecian train

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For much the Goddefs mourn'd her heroes flain.

Th' aflembly feated, rifing o'er the rest,

Achilles thus the king of men addreft :

Why leave we not the fatal Trojan shore, And measure back the feas we croft before?

The plague deftroying whom the fword would fpare, "
"Tis time to fave the few remains of war.
But let fome prophet, or fome facred sage,
Explore the cause of great Apollo's rage;
Or learn the wasteful vengeance to remove,

By myftic dreams, for dreams defcend from Jove.
If broken vows this heavy curfe have laid,
Let altars fmoke, and hecatombs be paid.

So Heaven aton'd fhall dying Greece restore,

And Phoebus dart his burning fhafts no more.

He faid, and fat: when Chalcas thus reply'd:

Chalcas the wife, the Grecian priest and guide,
That facred feer, whofe comprehenfive view
The paft, the present, and the future knew:
Uprising flow, the venerable fage

Thus fpoke the prudence and the fears of age.
Belov'd of Jove, Achilles! would'st thou know
Why angry Phoebus bends his fatal bow?
First give thy faith, and plight a prince's word
Of fure protection, by thy power and fword.
For I muft fpeak what wisdom would conceal,
And truths, invidious to the great, reveal.
Bold is the task, when fubjects, grown too wife,
Inftruct a monarch where his error lies;
For though we deem the short-liv'd fury past,

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'Tis fure, the Mighty will revenge at last.

To whom Pelides: From thy inmost foul

Speak what thou know'ft, and fpeak without control...
Ev'n by that God I fwear, who rules the day,
To whom thy hands the vows of Greece convey,

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And

And whose bleft oracles thy lips declare;
Long as Achilles breathes this vital air,
No daring Greek of all the numerous band
Against his priest fhall lift an impious hand:
Not ev'n the chief by whom our hofts are led,
The king of kings, fhall touch that facred head.
Encourag'd thus, the blameless man replies:

Nor vows unpaid, nor flighted facrifice,
But he, our chief, provok'd the raging pest,
Apollo's vengeance for his injur'd priest,
Nor will the gods awaken'd fury ceafe.

But plagues fhall spread, and funeral fires increase,
Till the great king, without a ranfom paid,
To her own Chryfa fend the black-ey'd maid.
Perhaps, with added facrifice and prayer,
The priest may pardon, and the God may spare.
The prophet spoke; when with a gloomy frown
The monarch started from his fhining throne;
Black choler fill'd his breaft that boil'd with ire,
And from his eye-balls flath'd the living fire.
Augur accurft! denouncing mischiefs still,
Prophet of plagues, for ever boding ill!

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Still muft that tongue fome wounding meffage bring, And ftill thy prieftly pride provoke thy king?

For this are Phœbus' oracles explor'd,

To teach the Greeks to murmur at their Lord?
For this with falfehoods is my honour stain'd,
Is Heaven offended, and a prieft profan'd;
Because my prize, my beauteous maid I hold,
And heavenly charms prefer to proffer'd gold?

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A maid,

A maid, unmatch'd in manners as in face,
Skill'd in each art, and crown'd with every grace.
Not half fo dear were Clytemnestra's charms,
When first her blooming beauties bleft my arms.
Yet if the Gods demand her, let her fail;
Our cares are only for the public weal:
Let me be deem'd the hateful caufe of all,
And fuffer, rather than my people fall.
The prize, the beauteous prize, I will refign,
So dearly valued, and fo juftly mine.

But fince for common good I yield the fair,
My private lofs let grateful Greece repair;
Nor unrewarded let your prince complain,
That he alone has fought and bled in vain.

Infatiate king! (Achilles thus replies)

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Fond of the power, but fonder of the prize!
Would'st thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield,
The due reward of many a well-fought field?
The fpoils of cities raz'd, and warriours slain,

We fhare with juftice, as with toil we gain :

But to refume whate'er thy avarice craves,

(That trick of tyrants) may be borne by flaves. Yet if our chief for plunder only fight,

The spoils of Ilion fhall thy lofs requite,

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Whene'er by Jove's decree our conquering powers 165 Shall humble to the duft her lofty towers.

Then thus the king: Shall I my prize refign With tame content, and thou poffeft of thine? Great as thou art, and like a God in fight, Think not to rob me of a foldier's right..

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