The Iliad

O Goddess! Sing the wrath of Peleus’ son, Achilles; sing the deadly wrath that brought Woes numberless upon the Greeks, and swept To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave Their limbs a prey to dogs and birds of air⁠— For so had Jove appointed⁠—from the time When the two chiefs, Atrides, king of men, And great Achilles, parted first as foes.

Which of the gods put strife between the chiefs, That they should thus contend? Latona’s son And Jove’s. Incensed against the king, he bade A deadly pestilence appear among The army, and the men were perishing. For Atreus’ son with insult had received Chryses the priest, who to the Grecian fleet Came to redeem his daughter, offering Uncounted ransom. In his hand he bore The fillets of Apollo, archer-god, Upon the golden sceptre, and he sued To all the Greeks, but chiefly to the sons Of Atreus, the two leaders of the host:⁠—

“Ye sons of Atreus, and ye other chiefs, Well-greaved Achaians, may the gods who dwell Upon Olympus give you to o’erthrow The city of Priam, and in safety reach Your homes; but give me my beloved child, And take her ransom, honoring him who sends His arrows far, Apollo, son of Jove.”

Then all the other Greeks, applauding, bade Revere the priest and take the liberal gifts He offered, but the counsel did not please Atrides Agamemnon; he dismissed The priest with scorn, and added threatening words:⁠—

The rage of Peleus’ son, as thus he spake, Grew fiercer; in that shaggy breast his heart Took counsel, whether from his thigh to draw The trenchant sword, and, thrusting back the rest, Smite down Atrides, or subdue his wrath And master his own spirit. While he thus Debated with himself, and half unsheathed The ponderous blade, Pallas Athene came, Sent from on high by Juno, the white-armèd, Who loved both warriors and made both her care. She came behind him, seen by him alone, And plucked his yellow hair. The hero turned In wonder, and at once he knew the look Of Pallas and the awful-gleaming eye, And thus accosted her with wingèd words:⁠— “Why com’st thou hither, daughter of the god Who bears the aegis? Art thou here to see The insolence of Agamemnon, son Of Atreus? Let me tell thee what I deem Will be the event. That man may lose his life, And quickly too, for arrogance like this.”

Then thus the goddess, blue-eyed Pallas, spake:⁠— “I came from heaven to pacify thy wrath, If thou wilt heed my counsel. I am sent By Juno the white-armed, to whom ye both Are dear, who ever watches o’er you both. Refrain from violence; let not thy hand Unsheathe the sword, but utter with thy tongue Reproaches, as occasion may arise, For I declare what time shall bring to pass; Threefold amends shall yet be offered thee, In gifts of princely cost, for this day’s wrong. Now calm thy angry spirit, and obey.”

Achilles, the swift-footed, answered thus:⁠— “O goddess, be the word thou bring’st obeyed, However fierce my anger; for to him Who hearkens to the gods, the gods give ear.”

She said, and in the heart of Helen woke Dear recollections of her former spouse And of her home and kindred. Instantly She left her chamber, robed and veiled in white. And shedding tender tears; yet not alone, For with her went two maidens⁠—Aethra, child Of Pitheus, and the large-eyed Clymenè. Straight to the Scaean gates they walked, by which Panthoüs, Priam, and Thymoetes sat, Lampus and Clytius, Hicetaon sprung From Mars, Antenor and Ucalegon, Two sages⁠—elders of the people all. Beside the gates they sat, unapt, through age, For tasks of war, but men of fluent speech, Like the cicadas that within the wood Sit on the trees and utter delicate sounds. Such were the nobles of the Trojan race Who sat upon the tower. But when they marked The approach of Helen, to each other thus With wingèd words, but in low tones, they said:⁠—

“Small blame is theirs, if both the Trojan knights And brazen-mailed Achaians have endured So long so many evils for the sake Of that one woman. She is wholly like In feature to the deathless goddesses. So be it: let her, peerless as she is, Return on board the fleet, nor stay to bring Disaster upon us and all our race.”

Hippolochus’s son, the far-renowned, Made answer thus: “O large-souled Diomed, Why ask my lineage? Like the race of leaves Is that of humankind. Upon the ground The winds strew one year’s leaves; the sprouting grove Puts forth another brood, that shoot and grow In the spring season. So it is with man: One generation grows while one decays. Yet since thou takest heed of things like these, And askest whence I sprang⁠—although to most My birth is not unknown⁠—there is a town Lapped in the pasture-grounds where graze the steeds Of Argos, Ephyra by name, and there Dwelt Sisyphus Aeolides, most shrewd Of men; his son was Glaucus, and the son Of Glaucus was the good Bellerophon, To whom the gods gave beauty and the grace Of winning manners. Proetus sought his death And banished him, for Proetus was the chief Among the Argives; Jupiter had made That people subject to his rule. The wife Of Proetus, nobly-born Anteia, sought With passionate desire his secret love, But failed to entice, with all her blandishments, The virtuous and discreet Bellerophon. Therefore went she to Proetus with a lie⁠—

So speaking, mighty Hector stretched his arms To take the boy; the boy shrank crying back To his fair nurse’s bosom, scared to see His father helmeted in glittering brass, And eying with affright the horse-hair plume That grimly nodded from the lofty crest. At this both parents in their fondness laughed; And hastily the mighty Hector took The helmet from his brow and laid it down Gleaming upon the ground, and, having kissed His darling son and tossed him up in play, Prayed thus to Jove and all the gods of heaven:

“O Jupiter and all ye deities, Vouchsafe that this my son may yet become Among the Trojans eminent like me, And nobly rule in Ilium. May they say, ‘This man is greater than his father was!’ When they behold him from the battle-field Bring back the bloody spoil of the slain foe⁠— That so his mother may be glad at heart.”

So speaking, to the arms of his dear spouse He gave the boy; she on her fragrant breast Received him, weeping as she smiled. The chief Beheld, and, moved with tender pity, smoothed Her forehead gently with his hand and said:⁠—

“Sorrow not thus, beloved one, for me. No living man can send me to the shades Before my time; no man of woman born, Coward or brave, can shun his destiny. But go thou home, and tend thy labors there⁠— The web, the distaff⁠—and command thy maids To speed the work: The cares of war pertain To all men born in Troy, and most to me.”