Book XXIII: The Funeral of Patroclus

So mourned they in the city; but the Greeks,When they had reached the fleet and Hellespont,Dispersed, repairing each one to his ship,Save that Achilles suffered not his bandOf Myrmidons to part in disarray.And thus the chief enjoined his warrior friends:—

“Myrmidons, gallant knights, my cherished friends!Let us not yet unyoke our firm-paced steeds,But bring them with the chariots, and bewailPatroclus with the honors due the dead,And, when we have indulged in grief, releaseOur steeds and take our evening banquet here.”

He spake, and led by him the host broke forthIn lamentation. Thrice around the dead,Weeping, they drave their steeds with stately manes,While Thetis in their hearts awoke the senseOf hopeless loss; their tears bedewed the sands,And dropped upon their arms, so brave was heFor whom they sorrowed. Peleus’ son beganThe mourning; on the breast of his dead friendHe placed his homicidal hands, and said:—

“Hail thou, Patroclus, even amid the shades!For now shall I perform what once I vowed:That, dragging Hector hither, I will giveHis corse to dogs, and they shall rend his flesh;And at thy funeral pile there shall be slainTwelve noble Trojan youths, to avenge thy death.”

So spake he, meditating outragesTo noble Hector’s corse, which he had flungBeside the bier of Menoetiades,Amid the dust. The Myrmidons unbracedTheir shining brazen armor, and unyokedTheir neighing steeds, and sat in thick arrayBeside the ship of swift Aeacides,While he set forth a sumptuous funeral feast.Many a white ox, that day, beneath the axeFell to the earth, and many bleating goatsAnd sheep were slain, and many fattened swine,White-toothed, were stretched to roast before the flameOf Vulcan, and around the corse the earthFloated with blood. Meantime the Grecian chiefsTo noble Agamemnon’s royal tentLed the swift son of Peleus, though he wentUnwillingly, such anger for the deathOf his companion burned within his heart.As soon as they had reached his tent, the kingBade the clear-throated heralds o’er the firePlace a huge tripod, that Pelides thereMight wash away the bloody stains he bore.Yet would he not, and with an oath replied:—

“No! By the greatest and the best of gods,By Jupiter, I may not plunge my headInto the bath before I lay my friendPatroclus on the fire, and heap his mound,And till my hair is shorn; for never moreIn life will be so great a sorrow mine.But now attend we to this mournful feast.And with the morn, O king of men, commandThat wood be brought, and all things duly doneWhich may beseem a warrior who goes downInto the lower darkness. Let the flamesSeize fiercely and consume him from our sight,And leave the people to the tasks of war.”

He spake; they hearkened and obeyed, and allPrepared with diligent hands the meal, and eachSat down and took his portion of the feast.And when their thirst and hunger were allayed,Most to their tents betook them and to rest.But Peleus’ son, lamenting bitterly,Lay down among his Myrmidons, besideThe murmuring ocean, in the open space,Where plashed the billows on the beach. And there,When slumber, bringing respite from his cares,Came softly and enfolded him—for muchHis shapely limbs were wearied with the chaseOf Hector round the windy Ilium’s walls—The soul of his poor friend Patroclus came,Like him in all things—stature, beautiful eyes,And voice, and garments which he wore in life.Beside his head the vision stood and spake:—

“Achilles, sleepest thou, forgetting me?Never of me unmindful in my life,Thou dost neglect me dead. O, bury meQuickly, and give me entrance through the gatesOf Hades; for the souls, the forms of thoseWho live no more, repulse me, suffering notThat I should join their company beyondThe river, and I now must wander roundThe spacious portals of the House of Death.Give me thy hand, I pray; for never moreShall I return to earth when once the fireShall have consumed me. Never shall we takeCounsel together, living, as we sitApart from our companions; the hard fateAppointed me at birth hath drawn me down.Thou too, O godlike man, wilt fall beneathThe ramparts of the noble sons of Troy.Yet this I ask, and if thou wilt obey,This I command thee—not to let my bonesBe laid apart from thine. As we were rearedUnder thy roof together, from the timeWhen first Menoetius brought thee, yet a boy,From Opus, where I caused a sorrowful death;—For by my hand, when wrangling at the dice,Another boy, son of Amphidamas,Was slain without design—and Peleus madeHis halls my home, and reared me tenderly,And made me thy companion;—so at lastMay one receptacle, the golden vaseGiven by thy gracious mother, hold our bones.”

The swift Achilles answered: “O most lovedAnd honored, wherefore art thou come, and whyDost thou command me thus? I shall fulfilObediently thy wish; yet draw thou near,And let us give at least a brief embrace,And so indulge our grief.” He said, and stretchedHis longing arms to clasp the shade. In vain;Away like smoke it went, with gibbering cry,Down to the earth. Achilles sprang upright,Astonished, clapped his hands, and sadly said:—

“Surely there dwell within the realm belowBoth soul and form, though bodiless. All nightHath stood the spirit of my hapless friendPatroclus near me, sad and sorrowful,And asking many duties at my hands,A marvellous semblance of the living man.”

He spake, and moved the hearts of all to griefAnd lamentation. Rosy-fingered MornDawned on them as around the hapless deadThey stood and wept. Then Agamemnon sentIn haste from all the tents the mules and menTo gather wood, and summoned to the taskMeriones, himself a gallant chief,Attendant on the brave Idomeneus.These went with woodmen’s axes and with ropesWell twisted, and before them went the mules.O’er steep, o’er glen, by straight, by winding ways,They journeyed till they reached the woodland wildsOf Ida fresh with springs, and quickly felledWith the keen steel the towering oaks that cameCrashing to earth. Then, splitting the great trunk.They bound them on the mules, that beat the earthWith hasty footsteps through the tangled wood,Impatient for the plain. Each woodcutterShouldered a tree, for so Meriones,Companion of the brave Idomeneus,Commanded, and at last they laid them downIn order on the shore, where Peleus’ sonPlanned that a mighty sepulchre should riseBoth for his friend Patroclus and himself.

So brought they to the spot vast heaps of wood,And sat them down, a numerous crowd. But thenAchilles bade his valiant MyrmidonsPut on their brazen mail and yoke their steeds.At once they rose, and put their harness on,And they who fought from chariots climbed their seatsWith those who reined the steeds. These led the van,And after them a cloud of men on footBy thousands followed. In the midst was bornePatroclus by his comrades. Cutting offTheir hair, they strewed it, covering the dead.Behind the corpse, Achilles in his handsSustained the head, and wept, for on that dayHe gave to Hades his most cherished friend.Now when they reached the spot which Pelcus’ sonHad chosen, they laid down the dead, and piledThe wood around him, while the swift of foot,The great Achilles, bent on other thoughts,Standing apart, cut off his amber hair,Which for the river Sperchius he had longNourished to ample growth, and, sighing, turnedHis eyes upon the dark-blue sea, and said:—

“Sperchius, in vain my father made a vowThat I, returning to my native shore,Should bring my hair, an offering to thee,And slay a consecrated hecatomb,And burn a sacrifice of fifty rams,Beside the springs where in a sacred fieldThy fragrant altar stands. Such was the vowMade by the aged man, yet hast thou notFulfilled his wish. And now, since I no moreShall see my native land, the land I love,Let the slain hero bear these locks away.”

He spake, and in his dear companion’s handsHe placed the hair, and all around were movedTo deeper grief; the setting sun had leftThe host lamenting, had not Peleus’ sonAddressed Atrides, standing at his side:—

“Atrides, thou whose word the Greeks obeyMost readily, all mourning has an end.Dismiss the people from the pyre to takeTheir evening meal, while we with whom it restsTo pay these mournful duties to the deadWill close the rites; but let the chiefs remain.”

This when the monarch Agamemnon heard,Instantly he dismissed to their good shipsThe people. They who had the dead in chargeRemained, and heaped the wood, and built a pyreA hundred feet each way from side to side.With sorrowful hearts they raised and laid the corseUpon the summit. Then they flayed and dressedBefore it many fatlings of the flock,And oxen with curved feet and crooked horns.From these magnanimous Achilles tookThe fat, and covered with it carefullyThe dead from head to foot. Beside the bier,And leaning toward it, jars of honey and oilHe placed, and flung, with many a deep-drawn sigh,Twelve high-necked steeds upon the pile. Nine houndsThere were, which from the table of the princeWere daily fed; of these Achilles struckThe heads from two, and laid them on the wood,And after these, and last, twelve gallant sonsOf the brave Trojans, butchered by the sword;For he was bent on evil. To the pileHe put the iron violence of fire,And, wailing, called by name the friend he loved:—

“Rejoice, Patroclus, even in the landOf souls. Lo! I perform the vow I made;Twelve gallant sons of the brave men of TroyThe fire consumes with thee. For Hector’s corse,The flames shall not devour it, but the dogs.”

Such was his threat; but Hector was not madeThe prey of dogs, for Venus, born to Jove,Drave off by night and day the ravenous tribe,And with a rosy and ambrosial oilAnointed him, that he might not be tornWhen dragged along the earth. Above the spotAnd all around it, where the body lay,Phoebus Apollo drew a veil of cloudsReaching from heaven, that on his limbs the fleshAnd sinews might not stiffen in the sun.

The flame seized not upon the funeral pileOf the dead chief. Pelides, swift of foot,Bethought him of another rite. He stoodApart, and offered vows to the two winds,Boreas and Zephyr. Promising to bringFair offerings to their shrines, and pouring outLibations from a golden cup, he prayedThat they would haste and wrap the pile in flames,And burn the dead to ashes. At his prayerFleet Iris on a message to the WindsTook instant wing. They sat within the hallsOf murmuring Zephyr, at a solemn feast.There Iris lighted on the threshold-stone.As soon as they beheld her, each aroseAnd bade her sit beside him. She refusedTo seat her at the banquet, and replied:—

“Not now; for I again must take my wayOver the ocean currents to the landWhere dwell the Ethiopians, who adoreThe gods with hecatombs, to take my shareOf sacrifice. Achilles supplicates,With promise of munificent offerings,Boreas and sounding Zephyrus to comeAnd blow the funeral structure into flamesOn which, bewailed by all the Grecian host,Patroclus lies, and waits to be consumed.”

So spake she, and departed. SuddenlyArose the Winds with tumult, driving onThe clouds before them. Soon they reached the deep;Beneath the violence of their sounding breathThe billows heaved. They swept the fertile fieldsOf Troas, and descended on the pyre,And mightily it blazed with fearful roar.All night they howled and tossed the flames. All nightStood swift Achilles, holding in his handA double beaker; from a golden jarHe dipped the wine, and poured it forth, and steepedThe earth around, and called upon the soulOf his unhappy friend. As one lamentsA newly married son upon whose corseThe flames are feeding, and whose death has madeHis parents wretched, so did Peleus’ son,Burning the body of his comrade, mourn,As round the pyre he moved with frequent sighs.

Now when the star that ushers in the dayAppeared, and after it the morning, cladIn saffron robes, had overspread the sea,The pyre sank wasted, and the flames aroseNo longer, and the Winds, departing, flewHomeward across the Thracian sea, which tossedAnd roared with swollen billows as they went.And now Pelides from the pyre apartWeary lay down, and gentle slumber soonCame stealing over him. Meantime the GreeksGathered round Agamemnon, and the stirAnd bustle of their coming woke the chief,Who sat upright and thus addressed his friends:—

“Atrides, and all ye who lead the hostsOf Greece! Our task is, first to quench the pyreWith dark red wine where’er the flames have spread,And next to gather, with discerning care,The bones of Menoetiades. And theseMay well be known; for in the middle spaceHe lay, and round about him, and apartUpon the border, were the rest consumed—The bodies of the captives and the steeds.Be his enclosed within a golden vase,And wrapped around with caul, a double fold,Till I too pass into the realm of Death.And be a tomb not over-spacious reared,But of becoming size, which afterwardYe whom we leave behind in our good ships,When we are gone, will build more broad and high.”

So spake the swift Pelides, and the chiefsComplied; and first they quenched with dark red wineThe pyre, where’er the flames had spread, and whereLay the deep ashes; then, with many tears,Gathered the white bones of their gentle friend,And laid them in a golden vase, wrapped roundWith caul, a double fold. Within the tentsThey placed them softly, wrapped in delicate lawn,Then drew a circle for the sepulchre,And, laying its foundations to encloseThe pyre, they heaped the earth, and, having rearedA mound, withdrew. Achilles yet detainedThe multitude, and made them all sit down,A vast assembly. From the ships he broughtThe prizes—cauldrons, tripods, steeds, and mules,Oxen in sturdy pairs, and graceful maids,And shining steel. Then for the swiftest steedsA princely prize he offered first—a maidOf peerless form, and skilled in household arts,And a two-handled tripod of a sizeFor two-and-twenty measures. He gave outThe second prize—a mare unbroken yet,Of six years old, and pregnant with a mule.For the third winner in the race he stakedA cauldron that had never felt the fire,Holding four measures, beautiful, and yetUntarnished. For the fourth, he offered gold,Two talents. For the fifth, and last, remainedA double vessel never touched by fire.He rose and stood, and thus addressed the Greeks:—

“Atrides, and ye other well-armed Greeks,These prizes lie within the chariot-course,And wait the charioteers. Were but these gamesIn honor of another, then would IContend, and win and carry to my tentThe first among these prizes. For my steeds,Ye know, surpass the rest in speed, since theyAre of immortal birth, by Neptune givenTo Peleus, and by him in turn bestowedOn me his son. But I and they will keepAloof; they miss their skilful charioteer,Who washed in limpid water from the fountTheir manes, and moistened them with softening oil.And now they mourn their friend, and sadly standWith drooping heads and manes that touch the ground.Let such of you as trust in their swift steedsAnd their strong cars prepare to join the games.”

Pelides spake: the abler charioteersArose, and, first of all, the king of men,Eumelus, eminent in horsemanship,The dear son of Admetus. Then aroseThe valiant son of Tydeus, Diomed,And led beneath the yoke the Trojan steedsWon from Aeneas when Apollo savedThat chief from death. The son of Atreus next,The noble Menelaus, yellow-haired,Brought two swift coursers underneath the yoke,King Agamemnon’s Aethè, and with herHis own Podargus. Echepolus once,Anchises’ son, sent Aethè as a giftTo Agamemnon, that he might be freeFrom following with the army to the heightsOf Ilium, and enjoy the ease he loved;For Jove had given him wealth, and he abodeOn Sicyon’s plains. Now, eager for the race,She took the yoke. Antilochus, the fourth,The gallant son of the magnanimous king,Neleian Nestor, harnessed next his steedsWith stately manes. Swift coursers that were foaledAt Pylus drew his chariot. To his side asHis father came and stood, and spake and gaveWise counsels, though the youth himself was wise:—

“Antilochus, I cannot doubt that JoveAnd Neptune both have loved thee, teaching thee,Young as thou art, all feats of horsemanship.Small is the need to instruct thee. Thou dost knowWell how to turn the goal, and yet thy steedsAre slow, and ill for thee may be the event.Their steeds are swift, yet have they never learnedTo govern them with greater skill than thou.Now then, dear son, bethink thee heedfullyOf all precautions, lest thou miss the prize.By skill the woodman, rather than by strength,Brings down the oak; by skill the pilot guidesHis wind-tossed galley over the dark sea;And thus by skill the charioteer o’ercomesHis rival. He who trusts too much his steedsAnd chariot lets them veer from side to sideAlong the course, nor keeps a steady reinStraight on, while one expert in horsemanship,Though drawn by slower horses, carefullyObserves the goal, and closely passes it,Nor fails to know how soon to turn his course,Drawing the leathern reins, and steadilyKeeps on, and watches him who goes before.Now must I show the goal which, easilyDiscerned, will not escape thine eye. It standsAn ell above the ground, a sapless post,Of oak or larch—a wood of slow decayBy rain, and at its foot on either sideLies a white stone; there narrow is the way,But level is the race-course all around.The monument it is of one long dead,Or haply it has been in former daysA goal, as the swift-footed Peleus’ sonHas now appointed it. Approach it near,Driving thy chariot close upon its foot,Then in thy seat lean gently to the leftAnd cheer the right-hand horse, and ply the lash,And give him a loose rein, yet firmly keepThe left-hand courser close beside the goal—So close that the wheel’s nave may seem to touchThe summit of the post; yet strike thou notThe stone beside it, lest thou lame thy steedsAnd break the chariot, to thy own disgraceAnd laughter of the others. My dear son,Be on thy guard; for if thou pass the goalBefore the rest, no man in the pursuitCan overtake or pass thee, though he draveThe noble courser of Adrastus, namedArion the swift-footed, which a godBade spring to life, or those of matchless speedReared here in Ilium by Laomedon.”

Neleian Nestor spake, and, having thusGiven all the needful cautions, took his seatIn his own place. Meriones, the fifth,Harnessed his steeds with stately manes, and allMounted their chariots. Lots were cast; the sonOf Peleus shook the helmet, and the lotOf Nestor’s son, Antilochus, leaped forth;And next the lot of King Eumelus came;And Menelaus, mighty with the spear,Had the third lot; Meriones was next;And to the bravest of them all, the sonOf Tydeus, fell the final lot and place.They stood in order, while Achilles showedThe goal far off upon the level plain,And near it, as the umpire of the race,He placed the godlike Phoenix, who had beenHis father’s armor-bearer, to observeWith judging eye, and bring a true report.

All raised at once the lash above their steeds,And smote them with the reins, and cheered them onWith vehement cries. Across the plain they swept,Far from the fleet; beneath them rose the dust,A cloud, a tempest, and their tossing manesWere lifted by the wind. And now the carsTouched earth, and now were flung into the air.Erect the drivers stood, with beating hearts,Eager for victory, each encouragingHis steeds, that flew beneath the shroud of dust.

But when they turned their course, and swiftly ranBack to the hoary deep to close the course,Well did the skill of every chief appear.They put their horses to the utmost speed,And then did the quick-footed steeds that drewEumelus bear him on beyond the rest.But with his Trojan coursers DiomedCame next, so near it seemed that they would mountThe car before them, and upon the back.And ample shoulders of Eumelus smoteTheir steaming breath; for as they ran their headsLeaned over him. And then would DiomedHave passed him by, or would at least have madeThe victory doubtful, had not Phoebus struck,In his displeasure, from the hero’s handThe shining scourge. It fell, and to his eyesStarted indignant tears; for now he sawThe others gaining on him, while the speedOf his own steeds, which feared the lash no more,Was slackened. Yet Apollo’s stratagemWas not unseen by Pallas, who o’ertookThe shepherd of the people, and restoredThe scourge he dropped, and put into his steedsNew spirit. In her anger she approachedEumelus, snapped his yoke, and caused his maresTo start asunder from the track; the poleWas dashed into the ground, and from the seatThe chief was flung beside the wheel, his mouth,Elbows, and nostrils torn, his forehead bruised.Grief filled his eyes with tears and choked his voice,While Diomed drave by his firm-paced steeds,Outstripping all the rest; for Pallas nervedTheir limbs with vigor, and bestowed on himAbundant glory. After him the sonOf Atreus, fair-haired Menelaus, came,While Nestor’s son cheered on his father’s steeds:—

“On, on! Press onward with your utmost speed!Not that I bid you strive against the steedsOf warlike Diomed, for Pallas givesSwiftness to them and glory to the manWho holds the reins; but let us overtakeThe horses of Atrides, nor submitTo be thus distanced, lest the victoryOf the mare Aethè cover you with shame.Fleet as ye are, why linger? This at leastI tell you, and my words will be fulfilled:Look not for kindly care at Nestor’s hands,That shepherd of the people, but for deathWith the sharp steel, if through your fault we takeA meaner prize. Then onward and away,With all your strength, for this is my design—To pass by Menelaus where the wayIs narrow, and he cannot thwart my plan.”

He spake, and they who feared their master’s threatMended their speed awhile. The warlike sonOf Nestor saw just then the narrow passWithin the hollow way, a furrow ploughedBy winter floods, which there had torn the courseAnd deepened it. Atrides, to avoidThe clash of wheels, drave thither; thither tooAntilochus—who turned his firm-paced steedsA little from the track in which they ran—Followed him close. Atrides saw with fear,And shouted to Antilochus aloud:—

“Antilochus, thou drivest rashly; reinThy horses in. The way is narrow here,But soon will broaden, and thou then canst pass.Beware lest with thy chariot-wheels thou dashAgainst my own, and harm befall us both.”

He spake; but all the more AntilochusUrged on his coursers with the lash, as ifHe had not heard. As far as flies a quoitThrown from the shoulder of a vigorous youthWho tries his strength, so far they ran abreast.The horses of Atrides then fell back;He slacked the reins; for much he feared the steedsWould dash against each other in the way,And overturn the sumptuous cars, and flingThe charioteers contending for the prizeUpon the dusty track. With angry wordsThe fair-haired Menelaus chided thus:—

“Antilochus, there is no man so proneAs thou to mischief, and we greatly err,We Greeks, who call thee wise. Go now, and yetThou shalt not take the prize without an oath.”

Again he spake, encouraging his steeds:“Check not your speed, nor sorrowfully stand:Their feet and knees will fail with wearinessBefore your own; they are no longer young.”

He spake; the coursers, honoring his voice.Ran with fresh speed, and soon were near to thoseOf Nestor’s son. Meantime the assembled GreeksSat looking where the horses scoured the plainAnd filled the air with dust. Idomeneus,The lord of Crete, descried the coursers first,For on a height he sat above the crowd.He heard the chief encouraging his steeds,And knew him, and he marked before the restA courser, chestnut-colored save a spotUpon the middle of the forehead, white,And round as the full moon. And then he stoodUpright, and from his place harangued the Greeks:—

“O friends, the chiefs and leaders of the Greeks,Am I the sole one that descries the steeds,Or do ye also? Those who lead the race,I think, are not the same, and with them comesA different charioteer. The mares, which lateWere foremost, may have somewhere come to harm.I saw them first to turn the goal, and nowI can no more discern them, though my sightSweeps the whole Trojan plain from side to side.Either the charioteer has dropped the reins,And could not duly round the goal, or elseMet with disaster at the turn, o’erthrown,His chariot broken, and the affrighted maresDarting, unmastered, madly from the way.But rise: look forth yourselves. I cannot wellDiscern, but think the charioteer is oneWho, born of an Aetolian stock, commandsAmong the Argives—valiant Diomed,A son of Tydeus, tamer of wild steeds.”

And Ajax, swift of foot, Oileus’ son,Answered with bitter words: “Idomeneus,Why this perpetual prating? Far awayThe mares with rapid hoofs are traversingThe plain, and thou art not the youngest hereAmong the Argives, nor hast such sharp eyesBeneath thy brows, yet must thou chatter still.Among thy betters here it ill becomesA man like thee to be so free of tongue.The coursers of Eumelus, which at firstOutran the rest, are yet before them all,And he is drawing near and holds the reins.”

The Cretan leader angrily rejoined:“Ajax, thou railer, first in brawls, yet knownAs in all else below the other Greeks,A man of brutal mood, come, let us stakeA tripod or a cauldron, and appointAs umpire Agamemnon, to decideWhich horses are the foremost in the race,That when thou losest thou mayst be convinced.”

He spake: Oilean Ajax, swift of foot,Started in anger from his seat, to castReproaches back, and long and fierce had beenThe quarrel if Achilles had not risen,And said: “No longer let this strife go on,Idomeneus and Ajax! Ill such wordsBecome you; ye would blame in other menWhat now ye do. Sit then among the rest,And watch the race; for soon the charioteersContending for the victory will be here,And each of you—for well ye know the steedsOf the Greek chieftains—for himself will seeWhose hold the second place, and whose are first.”

He spake: Tydides rapidly drew near,Lashing the shoulders of his steeds, and theySeemed in the air as, to complete the course,They flew along, and flung the dust they trodBack on the charioteer. All bright with tinAnd gold, the car rolled after them; its tiresMade but a slender trace in the light dust,So rapidly they ran. And now he stoppedWithin the circle, while his steeds were steepedIn sweat, that fell in drops from neck and breast.Then from his shining seat he leaped, and laidHis scourge against the yoke. Brave SthenelusCame forward, and at once received the prizeFor Diomed, and bade his comrades leadThe maid away, and in their arms bear offThe tripod, while himself unyoked the steeds.

Next the Neleian chief, Antilochus,Came with his coursers. More by fraud than speedHe distanced Menelaus, yet that chiefDrave his fleet horses near him. Just so farAs runs the wheel behind a steed that drawsHis master swiftly o’er the plain, his tailTouching the tire with its long hairs, and smallThe space between them as the spacious plainIs traversed, Menelaus just so far asWas distanced by renowned Antilochus.For though at first he fell as far behindAs a quoit’s cast, yet was he gaining groundRapidly, now that Agamemnon’s mare,Aethè the stately-maned, increased her speed,And Menelaus, had the race for bothBeen longer, would have passed his rival by,Nor left the victory doubtful. After him,A spear’s throw distant, came Meriones,The gallant comrade of Idomeneus,Whose full-maned steeds were slower than the rest,And he unskilled in contests such as these.And last of all Eumelus came. He drewHis showy chariot after him, and draveHis steeds before him. Great Achilles sawWith pity, and from where he stood amongThe Greeks addressed him thus with wingèd words:—

“The ablest horseman brings his steeds the last,But let us, as is just, confer on himThe second prize; Tydides takes the first.”

He spake, and all approved his words; and nowThe mare, to please the Greeks, had been bestowedUpon Eumelus, if Antilochus,Son of magnanimous Nestor, had not risenTo plead for justice with Achilles thus:—

“Achilles, I shall deem it grave offenceIf thou fulfil thy word; for thou wilt takeMy prize, because thou seest that this man’s carAnd his fleet steeds have suffered injury,Though he be skilful. Yet he should have prayedTo the good gods; then had he not been seenBringing his steeds the last. But if thou feelCompassion for him, and if so thou please,Large store of brass and gold is in thy tent,And thine are cattle, and handmaidens thine,And firm-paced steeds; hereafter give of theseA nobler largess, or bestow it now,And hear the Greeks applaud thee. But this prizeI yield not; let the warrior who may claimTo take it try with me his strength of arm.”

He ceased: the noble son of Peleus smiled,And, pleased to see Antilochus succeed—For he was a beloved friend—he spakeThese wingèd words: “Since, then, Antilochus,Thou wilt that I bestow some recompenseUpon Eumelus from my store, I giveThe brazen corselet which my arm in warTook from Asteropaeus, edged aroundWith shining tin—a gift of no mean price.”

He ceased, and sent his friend AutomedonTo bring it from the tent. He went and broughtThe corselet, and Eumelus joyfullyReceived it from Achilles. Then arose,Among them Menelaus, ill at ease,And angry with Antilochus. He tookThe sceptre from a herald’s hand, who hushedThe crowd to silence, and the hero spake:—

“Antilochus, who wert till now discreet,What hast thou done? Thou hast disgraced my skillAnd wronged my steeds by thrusting in thine own,Which were less fleet, before them. Now, ye chiefsAnd leaders of the Achaians, judge betweenThis man and me, and judge impartially,Lest that some warrior of the Greeks should sayThat Menelaus, having overcomeAntilochus by falsehood, led awayThe mare a prize; for his were slower steeds,But he the mightier man in feats of arms.Nay, I myself will judge; and none of allThe Greeks will censure me, for what I doWill be but just. Antilochus, step forth,Illustrious as thou art, and in due form,Standing before thy horses and thy car,And taking in thy hand the pliant scourgeWhich thou just now hast wielded, touch thy steeds,And swear by Neptune, whose embrace surroundsThe earth, that thou hast wittingly employedNo stratagem to break my chariot’s speed.”

And thus discreet Antilochus replied:“Have patience with me: I am younger farThan thou, King Menelaus; thou art bothMy elder and my better. Thou dost knowThe faults to which the young are ever prone;The will is quick to act, the judgment weak.Bear with me then. The mare which I receivedI cheerfully make over to thy hands.And if thou wilt yet more of what I have,I give it willingly and instantly,Rather, O loved of Jove, than lose a placeIn thy good-will, and sin against the gods.”

The son of large-souled Nestor, speaking thus,Led forth the mare, and gave her to the handOf Menelaus, o’er whose spirit cameA gladness. As upon a field of wheatBristling with ears gathers the freshening dew,So was his spirit gladdened in his breast,And he bespake the youth with wingèd words:—

“Antilochus, now shall my anger cease,For hitherto thou hast not shown thyselfFoolish or fickle, though the heat of youthJust now hath led thee wrong. In time to come,Beware to practise stealthy arts on menOf higher rank than thou. No other GreekWould easily have made his peace with me.But thou hast suffered much, and much hast done—Thou, and thy worthy father, and his son,Thy brother—for my sake. I therefore yieldTo thy petition; yet I give to theeThe mare, though mine she be, that these who standAround us may perceive that I am notOf unforgiving or unyielding mood.”

He spake, and to Noëmon gave the mare—Noëmon, comrade of Antilochus—To lead her thence, while for himself he tookThe shining cauldron. Then Meriones,Fourth in the race, received the prize of gold—Two talents. But the fifth prize and the last,The double goblet, still was left unclaimed;And this Achilles carried through the crowdOf Greeks, and placed in Nestor’s hands, and said:—

“Receive thou this, O ancient man, to keepIn memory of the funeral honors paidPatroclus, whom thou never more shalt seeAmong the Greeks. I give this prize, which thouHast not contended for, since thou wilt wieldNo more the cestus, nor wilt wrestle more,Nor hurl the javelin at the mark, nor joinThe foot-race; age lies heavy on thy limbs.”

He spake, and gave the prize, which Nestor took,Well pleased, and thus with wingèd words replied:—

“Son, thou hast spoken rightly, for these limbsAre strong no longer; neither feet nor handsMove on each side with vigor as of yore.Would I were but as young, with strength as great,As when the Epeians in Buprasium laidKing Amarynceus in the sepulchre,And funeral games were offered by his sons!Then of the Epeians there was none like me.Nor of the Pylian youths, nor yet amongThe brave Aetolians. In the boxing-matchI took the prize from Clytomedes, sonOf Enops, and in wrestling overcameAncaeus the Pleuronian, who rose upAgainst me. In the foot-race I outstripped,Fleet as he was, Iphiclus, and beyondPhyleus and Polydore I threw the spear.Only the sons of Actor won the raceAgainst me with their chariot, and they wonThrough force of numbers. Much they envied me,And feared lest I should bear away the prize;For largest in that contest of the steedsWas the reward, and they were two—one held,Steadily held, the reins, the other swungThe lash. Such was I once. Now feats like theseBelong to other, younger men, and I,Though eminent among the heroes once,Must do as sad old age admonishes.Go thou, and honor thy friend’s funeralWith games. Thy gift I willingly accept,Rejoicing that thy thoughts revert to oneWho loves thee, and that thou forgettest notTo pay the honor due to me amongThe Greeks. The gods will give thee thy reward.”

He ceased. The son of Peleus, having heardThis praise from Nestor, left him, and passed throughThe mighty concourse of the Greeks. He laidBefore them prizes for the difficult strifeBetween the boxers. To the middle spaceHe led a mule, and bound him, six years oldAnd strong for toil, unbroken and most hardTo break, while to the vanquished he assignedA goblet. Rising, he addressed the host:—

“Ye sons of Atreus and ye well-armed Greeks,We call for two of the most skilled to striveFor these, by striking with the lifted fist;And he to whom Apollo shall decreeThe victory, acknowledged by you all,Shall have this sturdy mule to lead away.The vanquished takes this goblet as his meed.”

He spake. A warrior strong and huge of limb,Skilled in the cestus, named Epeius, sonOf Panopeus, rose at the word, and laidHis hand upon the sturdy mule, and said:—

“Let him appear whose lot will be to takeThe goblet. No man of the Grecian hostWill get the mule by overcoming meIn combat with the cestus—so I deem.In that I claim to be the best man here.And should it not suffice that in the warOthers surpass me? All cannot excelIn everything alike. I promise this,And shall fulfil my word—that I will crushHis body, and will break his bones. His friendShould all remain upon the ground to bearTheir comrade off when beaten by my hand.”

He spake, and all were silent. Only roseEuryalus, whose father was the kingMecisteus of Talaion’s line, the sameWho went to Thebes and overcame, of old,In all the funeral games of Oedipus,The sons of Cadmus. To EuryalusCame Diomed, the spearman, bidding himExpect the victory which he greatly wishedHis friend might gain. Around his waist he drewA girdle, adding straps that from the hideOf a wild bull were cut with dextrous care.And, fully now arrayed, the twain stepped forthInto the middle space, and both beganThe combat. Lifting their strong arms, they broughtTheir heavy hands together. FearfullyWas heard the crash of jaws; from every limbThe sweat was streaming. As EuryalusLooked round, his noble adversary sprangAnd smote him on the cheek—too rude a blowTo be withstood; his shapely limbs gave wayBeneath him. As upon the weedy shore,When the fresh north wind stirs the water’s face,A fish leaps forth to light, and then againThe dark wave covers it, so sprang and fellThe chief. Magnanimous Epeius gaveHis hands and raised him up; his friends came roundAnd led him thence with dragging feet, and headThat drooped from side to side, while from his mouthCame clotted blood. They placed him in the midst,Unconscious still, and sent and took the cup.

Then, third in order, for the wrestling-matchThe son of Peleus brought and showed the GreeksYet other prizes. To the conquerorA tripod for the hearth, of ample size,He offered; twice six oxen, as the GreeksEsteemed it, were its price. And next he placedIn view a damsel for the vanquished, trainedIn household arts; four beeves were deemed her price.

Then rose Achilles, and addressed the Greeks:“Ye who would try your fortune in this strife,Arise.” He spake, and mighty Ajax rose,The son of Telamon, and after himThe wise Ulysses, trained to stratagems.They, girding up their loins, came forth and stoodIn the mid space, and there with vigorous armsThey clasped each other, locked like rafters framedBy some wise builder for the lofty roofOf a great mansion proof against the winds.Then their backs creaked beneath the powerful strainOf their strong hands; the sweat ran down their limbs;Large whelks upon their sides and shoulders rose,Crimson with blood. Still eagerly they stroveFor victory and the tripod. Yet in vainUlysses labored to supplant his foe,And throw him to the ground, and equallyDid Ajax strive in vain, for with sheer strengthUlysses foiled his efforts. When they sawThat the Greeks wearied of the spectacle,The mighty Telamonian Ajax said:—

“Son of Laertes, nobly born and trainedTo wise expedients, lift me up, or IWill lift up thee; and leave the rest to Jove.”

He spake, and raised Ulysses from the ground,Who dealt, with ready stratagem, a blowUpon the ham of Ajax, and the limbGave way; the hero fell upon his back,And on his breast Ulysses, while the hostStood wondering and amazed. Ulysses strove,In turn, to lift his rival, but prevailedOnly to move him from his place; he caughtThe knee of Ajax in his own, and bothCame to the ground together, soiled with dust.They rose to wrestle still, but from his seatAchilles started, and forbade them thus:—

“Contend no longer, nor exhaust your strengthWith struggling; there is victory for both,And equal prizes. Now depart, and leaveThe field of contest to the other Greeks.”

He spake: they listened and obeyed, and wipedThe dust away, and put their garments on.And then the son of Peleus placed in sightPrizes of swiftness—a wrought silver cupThat held six measures, and in beauty farExcelled all others known; the cunning handsOf the Sidonian artisans had givenIts graceful shape, and over the dark seaMen of Phoenicia brought it, with their wares,To the Greek harbors; they bestowed it thereOn Thoas. Afterward Euneüs, sonOf Jason, gave it to the hero-chief,Patroclus, to redeem a captive friend,Lycaon, Priam’s son. Achilles nowBrought it before the assembly as a prize,For which, in honor of the friend he loved,The swiftest runners of the host should strive.Next, for the second in the race, he showedA noble fatling ox; and for the last,Gold, half a talent. Then he stood and saidTo the Achaians: “Those who would contendFor these rewards, rise up.” And then aroseOilean Ajax, fleet of foot; and nextUlysses the sagacious; last upstoodAntilochus, the son of Nestor, knownAs swiftest of the youths. In due arrayThey stood; Achilles showed the goal. At onceForward they sprang. Oilean Ajax soonGained on the rest, but close behind him ranThe great Ulysses. As a shapely maidFlinging the shuttle draws with careful handThe thread that fills the warp, and so brings nearThe shuttle to her bosom, just so nearTo Ajax ran Ulysses, in the printsMade by his rival’s feet, before the dustFell back upon them. As he ran, his breathSmote on the head of Ajax. All the GreeksShouted applause to him, encouragingHis ardor for the victory; but when nowThey neared the goal, Ulysses silentlyPrayed thus to Pallas: “Goddess, hear my prayer,And help these feet to win.” The goddess heard,And lightened all his limbs, his feet, his hands;And just as they were rushing on the prize,Ajax, in running, slipped and fell—the workOf Pallas—where in heaps the refuse layFrom entrails of the bellowing oxen slainIn honor of Patroclus by the handOf swift Achilles. Mouth and nostrils bothWere choked with filth. The much-enduring manUlysses, coming first, received the cup,While Ajax took the ox, and as he stoodHolding the animal’s horn and spitting forthThe dirt, he said to those around: “ ’Tis plainThe goddess caused my feet to slide; she aidsUlysses like a mother.” So he said,And the Greeks laughed. And then AntilochusReceived the third reward, and with a smileSaid to the Greeks: “I tell you all, my friends,What you must know already, that the godsHonor the aged ever. Ajax standsSomewhat in years above me, but this chiefWho takes the prize is of a former ageAnd earlier race of men; they call him old,But hard it were for any Greek to vieWith him in swiftness, save Achilles here.”

Such praise he gave Pelides, fleet of foot,Who answered: “Thy good word, Antilochus,Shall not be vainly spoken. I will addYet half a talent to thy gold.” He said,And gave the gold; Antilochus, well pleased,Received it. Then Pelides brought a spearOf ponderous length into the middle space,And laid it down, and placed a buckler nearAnd helmet, which had been Sarpedon’s arms,And which Patroclus won of him in war.Then stood Achilles and addressed the Greeks:—

“I call on two, the bravest of the host,To arm themselves and take their spears in hand,And in a contest for these weapons putEach other to the proof. Whoever firstShall wound his adversary, piercing throughThe armor to the delicate skin beneath,And draw the crimson blood, to him I giveThis beautiful sword of Thrace, with silver studs,Won from Asteropaeus. And let bothBear off these arms, a common gift, and bothShall sit and banquet nobly in my tent.”

He spake, and Telamonian Ajax rose,The large of limb; Tydides Diomed,The strong, rose also. When they had put onTheir arms apart from all the host, they came,All eager for the combat, to the lists,And fearful was their aspect. All the GreeksLooked on with dread and wonder, and when nowStood face to face the warriors, thrice they rushedAgainst each other; thrice they dealt their blows.Then Ajax thrust through Diomed’s round shieldHis weapon, but it wounded not; the mailBeyond it stopped the stroke. Tydides aimedOver his adversary’s mighty shieldA blow to reach his neck. The Greeks, alarmedFor Ajax, shouted that the strife should cease,And both divide the prize. Achilles heard,But gave to Diomed the ponderous sword,Its sheath, and the fair belt from which it hung.

Again Pelides placed before the hostA mass of iron, shapeless from the forge,Which once the strong Eëtion used to hurl;But swift Achilles, when he took his life,Brought it with other booty in his shipsTo Troas. Rising, he addressed the Greeks:—

“Stand forth, whoever will contend for this,And if broad fields and rich be his, this massWill last him many years. The man who tendsHis flocks, or guides his plough, need not be sentTo town for iron; he will have it here.”

He spake, and warlike Polypoetes rose.Uprose the strong Leonteus, who in formWas like a god. The son of TelamonRose also, and Epeius nobly born;Each took his place. Epeius seized the mass,And sent it whirling. All the Achaians laughed.The loved of Mars, Leonteus, flung it next,And after him the son of Telamon,The large-limbed Ajax, from his vigorous armSent it beyond the mark of both. But whenThe sturdy warrior Polypoetes tookThe mass in hand, as far as o’er his beevesA herdsman sends his whirling staff, so farThis cast outdid the rest. A shout arose;The friends of sturdy Polypoetes tookThe prize, and bore it to the hollow ships.

Achilles for the archers brought forth steel,Tempered for arrow-heads—ten axes, eachWith double edge, and single axes ten—And from a galley’s azure prow took offA mast, and reared it on the sands afar,And, tying to its summit by the footA timorous dove, he bade them aim at her:“Whoever strikes the bird shall bear awayThe double axes to his tent; while heWho hits the cord, but not the bird, shall takeThe single axes, as the humbler prize.”

He ceased, and then arose the stalwart king,Teucer; then also rose Meriones,The valiant comrade of Idomeneus.The lots were shaken in a brazen helm,And Teucer’s lot was first. He straightway sentA shaft with all his strength, but made no vowOf a choice hecatomb of firstling lambsTo Phoebus, monarch-god. He missed the bird,Such was the will of Phoebus, but he struck,Close to her foot, the cord that made her fast.The keen shaft severed it; the dove flew upInto the heavens; the fillet dropped to earthAmid the loud applauses of the Greeks.And then Meriones made haste to takeThe bow from Teucer’s hand. Long time he heldThe arrow aimed, the while he made a vowTo Phoebus, the great archer, promisingA chosen hecatomb of firstling lambs;Then, looking toward the dove, as high in airShe wheeled beneath the clouds, he pierced her breastBeneath the wing; the shaft went through and fell,Fixed in the ground, beside Meriones,While the bird settled on the galley’s mastWith drooping head and open wings. The breathForsook her soon, and down from that high perchShe fell to earth. The people all looked on,Admiring and amazed. MerionesTook up the double axes as his prize,While Teucer bore the others to the fleet.

And then Pelides brought into the midstA ponderous spear, and laid a cauldron downWhich never felt the fire, inwrought with flowers,Its price an ox. And then the spearmen rose.Atrides Agamemnon, mighty king,First rose, and after him Meriones,The brave companion of Idomeneus;And thus to both the swift Achilles said:—

“O son of Atreus, for we know how farThou dost excel all others, and dost castThe spear with passing strength and skill, bear thouThis prize, as victor, to the roomy ships,And if it please thee, let us, as I wish,Give to our brave Meriones the spear.”

He spake, and Agamemnon, king of men,Complied, and gave Meriones in handThe brazen spear, while to Talthybius,The herald, he consigned the greater prize.