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Yet what a race, ere Greece to Ilion came,
The pledge of many a loved and loving dame!
Nineteen one mother bore-Dead, all are dead!
How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled!
Still one was left, their loss to recompense;
His father's hope, his country's last defence.
Him too thy rage has slain! beneath thy steel
Unhappy in his country's cause he fell!
For him, through hostile camps I bend my way,
For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay;
Large gifts proportion'd to thy wrath I bear;
Oh hear the wretched, and the gods revere!
Think of thy father, and this face behold!
See him in me, as helpless and as old,

Though not so wretched: there he yields to me,
The first of men in sovereign misery!

See him, in Troy, the pious care decline,
Of his weak age, to live the curse of thine!
Thou too, old man, hast happier days beheld,
In riches once, in children once excell'd;
Extended Phrygia own'd thy ample reign,
And all fair Lesbos' blissful seats contain,
620 And all wide Hellespont's unmeasured main.
But since the god his hand has pleased to turn,
And fill thy measures from his bitter urn,
What sees the sun, but hapless heroes' falls?
War and the blood of men surround thy walls!
What must be, must be. Bear thy lot nor shed
These unavailing sorrows o'er the dead:
Thou canst not call him from the Stygian shore,
But thou, alas! may'st live, to suffer more!
To whom the king: Oh favour'd of the skies!

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On the bare beach deprived of obsequies.
Oh give me Hector! to my eyes restore
His corse, and take the gifts; I ask no more.
Thou, as thou may'st, these boundless stores enjoy;
Safe may'st thou sail, and turn thy wrath from
Troy ;

So shall thy pity and forbearance give

Thus forced to kneel, thus groveling to embrace 630 Here let me grow to earth! since Hector lies
The scourge and ruin of my realm and race;
Suppliant my children's murderer to implore,
And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore!
These words soft pity in the chief inspire,
Touch'd with the dear remembrance of his sire;
Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay)
The old man's cheek he gently turn'd away.
Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe;
And now the mingled tides together flow;
This low on earth, that gently bending o'er,
A father one, and one a son deplore:
But great Achilles different passions rend,
And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend.
The infectious softness through the heroes ran;
One universal solemn shower began;
They bore as heroes, but they felt as man

Satiate at length with unavailing woes,
From the high throne divine Achilles rose;
The reverend monarch by the hand he raised;
On his white beard and form majestic gazed,
Not unrelenting: then serene began
With words to soothe the miserable man.

710

A weak old man to see the light and live!
Move me no more (Achilles thus replies,
640 While kindling anger sparkled in his eyes ;)
Nor seek by tears my steady soul to bend ;
To yield thy Hector I myself intend:
For know, from Jove my goddess-mother came
(Old Ocean's daughter, silver footed dame;)
Nor com'st thou but by heaven; nor com'st alone;
Some god impels with courage not thy own;
No human hand the weighty gates unbarr'd,
Nor could the boldest of our youth have dared
To pass our out-works, or elude the guard.
650 Cease; lest neglectful of high Jove's command,
I show thee, king! thou tread'st on hostile land;
Release my knees, thy suppliant art give o'er,
And shake the purpose of my soul no more.

The sire obey'd him, trembling and o'erawed, 720
Achilles, like a lion, rush'd abroad;
Automedon and Alcimus attend

(Whom most he honour'd since he lost his friend)
These to unyoke the mules and horses went,
And led the hoary herald to the tent;
660 Next heap'd on high the numerous presents bear
(Great Hector's ransom) from the polish'd car.
Two splendid mantles, and a carpet spread,
They leave, to cover and enwrap the dead.
Then call the handmaids, with assistant toil
To wash the body, and anoint with oil,
Apart from Priam; lest the unhappy sire,
Provoked to passion, once more rouse to ire
The stern Pelides; and nor sacred age,

Alas! what weight of anguish hast thou known!
Unhappy prince! thus guardless and alone
To pass through foes, and thus undaunted face
The man whose fury has destroy'd thy race!
Heaven sure has arm'd thee with a heart of steel,
A strength proportion'd to the woes you feel.
Rise then let reason mitigate your care;
To mourn avails not; man is born to bear;
Such is, alas! the gods' severe decree;
They, only they, are blest, and only free.
Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood,
The source of evil one, and one of good;
From thence the cup of mortal man he fills,
Blessings to these, to those distributes ills;
To most, he mingles both. The wretch decreed
To taste the bad, unmix'd, is curst indeed;
Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven,
He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.
The happiest taste not happiness sincere,
But find the cordial draught is dash'd with care.
Who more than Peleus shone in wealth and
power!

What stars concurring blest his natal hour!
A realm, a goddess to his wishes given;
Graced by the gods with all the gifts of heaven:
One evil yet o'ertakes his latest day:
No race succeeding to imperial sway:
An only son; and he (alas !) ordain'd,
To fall untimely in a foreign land.

730

Nor Jove's command should check the rising rage. 670 This done, the garments o'er the corse they spread: Achilles lifts it to the funeral bed;

Then, while the body on the car they laid,
He groans, and calls on loved Patroclus' shade :
If, in that gloom which never light must know, 740
The deeds of mortals touch the ghosts below;
O friend! forgive me, that I thus fulfil
(Restoring Hector) Heaven's unquestion'd will.
The gifts the father gave, be ever thine,
To grace thy manes, and adorn thy shrine.

He said, and, entering, took his seat of state, 680 Where full before him reverend Priam sate:

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To whom, composed, the godlike chief begun :
Lo! to thy prayer restored, thy breathless son;
Extended on the funeral couch he lies;
And soon as morning paints the eastern skies,
The sight is granted to thy longing eyes.
But now the peaceful hours of sacred night
Demand refection, and to rest invite;

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760

Then he : Now, father, sleep, but sleep not here;
Consult thy safety, and forgive my fear;

820

750 Lest any Argive (at this hour awake,
To ask our counsel, or our orders take)
Approaching sudden to our open'd tent,
Perchance behold thee, and our grace prevent
Should such report thy honour'd person here,
The king of men the ransom might defer:
But say with speed, if aught of thy desire
Remains unask'd; what time the rites require
To inter thy Hector? For, so long we stay
Our slaughtering arm, and bid the hosts obey
If then thy will permit (the monarch said,)
To finish all due honours to the dead,
This, of thy grace accord: to thee are known
The fears of Ilion, closed within her town;
And at what distance from our walls aspire
The hills of Ide, and forests for the fire.
Nine days to vent our sorrows I request,
The tenth shall see the funeral and the feast;
The next to raise his monument be given:
The twelfth we war, if war be doom'd by Heaven.
This thy request (replied the chief) enjoy:
Till then, our arms suspend the fall of Troy.

770

Nor thou, O father! thus consumed with woe,
The common cares that nourish life forego.
Not thus did Niobe, of form divine,
A parent once, whose sorrows equall'd thine:
Six youthful sons, as many blooming maids,
In one sad day beheld the Stygian shades ;
These by Apollo's silver bow were slain,
Those Cynthia's arrows stretch'd upon the plain :
So was her pride chastised by wrath divine,
Who match'd her own with bright Latona's line;
But two the goddess, twelve the queen enjoy'd;
Those boasted twelve the avenging two destroy'd.
Steep'd in their blood, and in the dust out-spread,
Nine days, neglected, lay exposed the dead:
None by to weep them, to inhume them none
(For Jove had turn'd the nation all to stone ;)
The gods themselves at length, relenting, gave
The unhappy race the honours of a grave.
Herself a rock (for such was Heaven's high will)
Through deserts wild now pours a weeping rill;
Where round the bed whence Acheldus springs,
The watery fairies dance in mazy rings,
There high on Sipylus's shaggy brow
She stands, her own sad monument of woe;
The rock for ever lasts, the tears for ever flow.
Such griefs, O king! have other parents known;
Remember theirs, and mitigate thy own.
The care of Heaven thy Hector has appear'd,
Nor shall he lie unwept and uninterr'd;
Soon may thy aged cheeks in tears be drown'd,
And all the eyes of Ilion stream around.

He said; and, rising, chose the victim ewe
With silver fleece, which his attendants slew.
The limbs they sever from the reeking hide,
With skill prepare them, and in parts divide:
Each on the coals the separate morsels lays,
And, hasty, snatches from the rising blaze.
With bread the glittering canisters they load,
Which round the board Automedon bestow'd:
The chief himself to each his portion placed,
And each indulging shared in sweet repast.
When now the rage of hunger was represt,
The wondering hero eyes his royal guest:
No less the royal guest the hero eyes,
His godlike aspect and majestic size;
Here, youthful grace and noble fire engage;
And there, the mild benevolence of age.
Thus gazing long, the silence neither broke
(A solemn scene!) at length the father spoke:
Permit me now, beloved of Jove! to steep
My careful temples in the dew of sleep:
For, since the day that number'd with the dead
My hapless son, the dust has been my bed;
Soft sleep a stranger to my weeping eyes;
My only food, my sorrows and my sighs;
Till now, encouraged by the grace you give,
I share thy banquet, and consent to live.

With that, Achilles bade prepare the bed,
With purple soft, and shaggy carpets spread;
Forth, by the flaming lights, they bend their way,
And place the couches, and the coverings lay.

Then gave his hand at parting, to prevent
The old man's fears, and turn'd within the tent:
Where fair Briseïs, bright in blooming charms,
Expects her hero with desiring arms.
But in the porch the king and herald rest;
Sad dreams of care yet wandering in their breast,
Now gods and men the gifts of sleep partake
Industrious Hermes only was awake,
The king's return revolving in his mind,
780 To pass the ramparts, and the watch to blind.
The power descending hover'd o'er his head:
And sleep'st thou, father! (thus the vision said ;)
Now dost thou sleep, when Hector is restored?
Nor fear the Grecian foes, or Grecian lord?
Thy presence here should stern Atrides see,
Thy still-surviving sons may sue for thee;
May offer all thy treasures yet contain,
To spare thy age; and offer all in vain.

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830

840

850

Waked with the word, the trembling sire arose,
And raised his friend: the god before him goes:
He joins the mules, directs them with his hand, 860
And moves in silence through the hostile land.
When now to Xanthus' yellow stream they drove
(Xanthus, immortal progeny of Jove,)
The winged deity forsook their view,
And in a moment to Olympus flew.

870

Now shed Aurora round her saffron ray,
Sprung through the gates of light, and gave the day:
800 Charged with their mournful load, to Ilion go
The sage and king, majestically slow.
Cassandra first beholds, from Ilion's spire,
The sad procession of her hoary sire;
Then as the pensive pomp advanced more near
(Her breathless brother stretch'd upon the bier,)
A shower of tears o'erflows her beauteous eyes,
Alarming thus all Ilion with her cries;

Turn here your steps, and here your eyes employ,
Ye wretched daughters, and ye sons of Troy!
810 If e'er ye rush'd in crowds, with vast delight,
To hail your hero glorious from the fight;
Now meet him dead, and let your sorrows flow! 88€
Your common triumph, and your common woe.
In thronging crowds they issue to the plains;
Nor man, nor woman, in the walls remains:

In every face the self-same grief is shown;
And Troy sends forth one universal groan.
At Scæa's gates they meet the mourning wain,
Hang on the wheels, and grovel round the slain
The wife and mother, frantic with despair,
Kiss his pale cheek, and rend their scatter'd hair:
Thus wildly wailing at the gates they lay;
And there had sigh'd and sorrow'd out the day:
But godlike Priam from the chariot rose :
Forbear (he cried) this violence of woes;
First to the palace let the car proceed,
Then pour your boundless sorrows o'er the dead.
The waves of people at his word divide,
Slow rolls the chariot through the following tide:
E'en to the palace the sad pomp they wait :
They weep, and place him on the bed of state.
A melancholy choir attend around,
With plaintive sighs, and music's solemn sound:
Alternately they sing, alternate flow

The obedient tears, melodious in their woe.
While deeper sorrows groan from each full heart,
And nature speaks at every pause of art.

First to the corse the weeping consort flew;
Around his neck her milk-white arms she threw-
And, oh, my Hector! oh, my lord! she cries,
Snatch'd in thy bloom from these desiring eyes!
Thou to the dismal realms for ever gone!
And I abandon'd, desolate, alone!
An only son, once comfort of our pains,
Sad product now of hapless love, remains!
Never to manly age that son shall rise,
Or with increasing graces glad my eyes;
For Ilion now (her great defender slain)
Shall sink a smoking ruin on the plain.
Who now protects her wives with guardian care?
Who saves her infants from the rage of war?
Now hostile fleets must waft those infants o'er
(Those wives must wait them) to a foreign shore!
Thou too, my son! to barbarous climes shall go,
The sad companion of thy mother's woe;
Driven hence a slave before the victor's sword;
Condemn'd to toil for some inhuman lord:

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890

950

960

Sentenced, 'tis true, by his inhuman doom,
Thy noble corse was dragg'd around the tomb
(The tomb of him thy warlike arm had slain ;)
Ungenerous insult, impotent and vain!
Yet glow'st thou fresh with every living grace;
No mark of pain or violence of face;
Rosy and fair, as Phoebus' silver bow
Dismiss'd thee gently to the shades below!
Thus spoke the dame, and melted into tears.
Sad Helen next in pomp of grief appears :
Fast from the shining sluices of her eyes
Fall the round crystal drops, while thus she cries:
Ah, dearest friend! in whom the gods had join'd
The mildest manners with the bravest mind;
Now twice ten years (unhappy years) are o'er,
Since Paris brought me to the Trojan shore.
900 (O had I perish'd ere that form divine
Seduced this soft, this easy heart of mine!)
Yet was it ne'er my fate, from thee to find
A deed ungentle, or a word unkind:
When others cursed the authoress of their woe, 970
Thy pity check'd my sorrows in their flow.
If some proud brother eyed me with disdain,
Or scornful sister with her sweeping train;
Thy gentle accents soften'd all my pain.
For thee I mourn; and mourn myself in thee,
910 The wretched source of all this misery!
The fate I caused for ever I bemoan;
Sad Helen has no friend, now thou art gone!
Through Troy's wide streets abandon'd shall I roam.
In Troy deserted, as abhorr'd at home!

920

So spoke the fair, with sorrow-streaming eye:
Distressful beauty melts each stander-by;
On all around the infectious sorrow glows;
But Priam check'd the torrent as it rose.
Perform, ye Trojans! what the rites require,
And fell the forest for a funeral pyre;
Twelve days, nor foes nor secret ambush dread;
Achilles grants these honours to the dead.

980

He spoke and, at his word, the Trojan train, Their mules and oxen harness to the wain, 990 Pour through the gates, and, fell'd from Ida's crown,

Or else some Greek whose father press'd the plain, Roll back the gather'd forests to the town.

Or son, or brother, by great Hector slain,
In Hector's blood his vengeance shall enjoy,
And hurl thee headlong from the towers of Troy.
For thy stern father never spared a foe:
Thence all these tears, and all this scene of woe!
Thence many evils his sad parents bore,
His parents many, but his consort more.
Why gav'st thou not to me thy dying hand?
And why received not I thy last command?

These toils continue nine succeeding days,
And high in air a sylvan structure raise.

But when the tenth fair morn began to shine,

930 Forth to the pile was borne the man divine,
And placed aloft: while all, with streaming eyes,
Beheld the flames and rolling smokes arise.
Soon as Aurora, daughter of the dawn,
With rosy lustre streak'd the dewy lawn;
Again the mournful crowds surround the pyre,

Some word thou wouldst have spoke, which, sadly And quench with wine the yet remaining fire.

dear,

My soul might keep, or utter with a tear;
Which never, never, could be lost in air,
Fix'd in my heart, and oft repeated there!

The snowy bones his friends and brothers place (With tears collected) in a golden vase; The golden vase in purple palls they roll'd, Of softest texture, and inwrought with gold. Last o'er the urn the sacred earth they spread, 940 And raised the tomb, memorial of the dead.

Thus to her weeping maids she makes her moan.
Her weeping handmaids echo groan for groan.
The mournful mother next sustains her part.
O thou, the best, the dearest to my heart!
Of all my race thou most by heaven approved,
And by the immortals e'en in death beloved!
While all my other sons in barbarous bands
Achilles bound, and sold to foreign lands,
This felt no chains, but went a glorious ghost,
Free and a hero, to the Stygian coast.

1000

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land, at last returned in safety to Ithaca, which is the subject of Homer's Odyssey.

WE have now passed through the Riad, and seen the anger of Achilles, and the terrible effects of it, at an end. As that only was the subject of the poem, I must end these remarks by discharging my duty and the nature of epic poetry would not permit our to two of my friends, which is the more an indispenauthor to proceed to the event of the war, it may, sable piece of justice, as the one of them is since perhaps, be acceptable to the common reader, to dead: the merit of their kindness to me will appear give a short account of what happened to Troy infinitely the greater, as the task they undertook was and the chief actors of this poem, after the conclusion in its own nature, of much more labour than either of it. pleasure or reputation. The larger part of the exI need not mention that Troy was taken soon after tracts from Eustathius together with several excellent the death of Hector, by the stratagem of the wooden observations, were sent me by Mr. Broome; and the horse, the particulars of which are described by Vir- whole essay upon Homer was written, upon such gil in the second book of the Æneis.

Achilles fell before Troy, by the hand of Paris, by the shot of an arrow in his heel, as Hector had prophesied at his death, Book xxii.

memoirs as I had collected, by the late Dr. Parnell, archdeacon of Clogher in Ireland: how very much that gentleman's friendship prevailed over his genius, in detaining a writer of his spirit in the drudgery of

The unfortunate Priam was killed by Pyrrhus the removing the rubbish of past pedants, will soon apson of Achilles.

Ajax, after the death of Achilles, had a contest with Ulysses for the armour of Vulcan; but, being defeated in his aim, he slew himself through indig

nation.

pear to the world, when they shall see those beautiful pieces of poetry, the publication of which he left to my charge, almost with his dying breath.

For what remains, I beg leave to be excused from the ceremonies of taking leave at the end of my work; Helen, after the death of Paris, married Deïphobus and from embracing myself or others with any dehis brother, and at the taking of Troy, betrayed him, fences or apologies about it. But instead of raising a in order to reconcile herself to Menelaüs, her first vain monument to myself, of the merits or difficulties husband, who received her again into favour. of it (which must be left to the world, to truth, and Agamemnon at his return was barbarously mur-to posterity,) let me leave behind me a memorial of dered by Ægysthus, at the instigation of Clytemnes- my friendship, with one of the most valuable men, as tra, his wife, who, in his absence, had dishonoured well as finest writers, of my age and country: one his bed with Egysthus.

Diomed, after the fall of Troy, was expelled his own country, and scarce escaped with life from his adulterous wife Ægiale; but at last was received by Daunus in Apulia, and shared his kingdom: it is un

certain how he died.

Nestor lived in peace, with his children, in Pylos, his native country.

Ulysses also, after innumerable troubles by sea and 363

who has tried, and knows by his own experience how
hard an undertaking it is to do justice to Homer: and
one who, I am sure, sincerely rejoices with me at the
period of my labours. To him, therefore, having
brought this long work to a conclusion, I desire to
dedicate it; and to have the honour and satisfaction
of placing together in this manner, the names of Mr.
CONGREVE, and of
March 25, 1720.

A POPE.

THE END.

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