THE ILIAD (Completed)

BOOK 1

Of Peleus' son, Achilles, sing, O Muse, The vengeance, deep and deadly; whence to Greece Unnumbered ills arose; which many a soul Of mighty warriors to the viewless shades Untimely sent; they on the battle plain Unburied lay, a prey to rav'ning dogs, And carrion birds; but so had Jove decreed, From that sad day when first in wordy war, The mighty Agamemnon, King of men, Confronted stood by Peleus' godlike son.

Say then, what God the fatal strife provok'd? Jove's and Latona's son; he, filled with wrath Against the King, with deadly pestilence The camp afflicted,--and the people died,-- For Chryses' sake, his priest, whom Atreus' son With scorn dismiss'd, when to the Grecian ships He came, his captive daughter to redeem, With costly ransom charg'd; and in his hand The sacred fillet of his God he bore, And golden staff; to all he sued, but chief To Atreus' sons, twin captains of the host: "Ye sons of Atreus, and ye well-greav'd Greeks, May the great Gods, who on Olympus dwell, Grant you yon hostile city to destroy, And home return in safety; but my child Restore, I pray; her proffer'd ransom take, And in his priest, the Lord of Light revere."

Then through the ranks assenting murmurs ran, The priest to rev'rence, and the ransom take: Not so Atrides; he, with haughty mien, And bitter speech, the trembling sire address'd: "Old man, I warn thee, that beside our ships I find thee not, or ling'ring now, or back Returning; lest thou prove of small avail Thy golden staff, and fillet of thy God. Her I release not, till her youth be fled; Within my walls, in Argos, far from home, Her lot is cast, domestic cares to ply, And share a master's bed. For thee, begone! Incense me not, lest ill betide thee now."

He said: the old man trembled, and obeyed; Beside the many-dashing Ocean's shore Silent he pass'd; and all apart, he pray'd To great Apollo, fair Latona's son:

"Hear me, God of the silver bow! whose care Chrysa surrounds, and Cilia's lovely vale; Whose sov'reign sway o'er Tenedos extends; O Smintheus, hear! if e'er my offered gifts Found favour in thy sight; if e'er to thee I burn'd the fat of bulls and choicest goats, Grant me this boon--upon the Grecian host Let thine unerring darts avenge my tears."

Thus as he pray'd, his pray'r Apollo heard: Along Olympus' heights he pass'd, his heart Burning with wrath; behind his shoulders hung His bow, and ample quiver; at his back Rattled the fateful arrows as he mov'd; Like the night-cloud he pass'd, and from afar He bent against the ships, and sped the bolt; And fierce and deadly twang'd the silver bow. First on the mules and dogs, on man the last, Was pour'd the arrowy storm; and through the camp, Constant and num'rous, blaz'd the fun'ral fires.

Nine days the heav'nly Archer on the troops Hurl'd his dread shafts; the tenth, th' assembled Greeks Achilles call'd to council; so inspir'd By Juno, white-arm'd Goddess, who beheld With pitying eyes the wasting hosts of Greece. When all were met, and closely throng'd around, Rose the swift-footed chief, and thus began:

"Great son of Atreus, to my mind there seems, If we would 'scape from death, one only course, Home to retrace our steps: since here at once By war and pestilence our forces waste. But seek we first some prophet, or some priest, Or some wise vision-seer (since visions too From Jove proceed), who may the cause explain, Which with such deadly wrath Apollo fires: If for neglected hecatombs or pray'rs He blame us; or if fat of lambs and goats May soothe his anger and the plague assuage."

This said, he sat; and Thestor's son arose, Calchas, the chief of seers, to whom were known The present, and the future, and the past; Who, by his mystic art, Apollo's gift, Guided to Ilium's shore the Grecian fleet. Who thus with cautious speech replied, and said; "Achilles, lov'd of Heav'n, thou bidd'st me say Why thus incens'd the far-destroying King; Therefore I speak; but promise thou, and swear, By word and hand, to bear me harmless through. For well I know my speech must one offend, The Argive chief, o'er all the Greeks supreme; And terrible to men of low estate The anger of a King; for though awhile He veil his wrath, yet in his bosom pent It still is nurs'd, until the time arrive; Say, then, wilt thou protect me, if I speak?"