THE ILIAD (Completed)

BOOK 21

But when they came to eddying Xanthus' ford, Fair-flowing stream, born of immortal Jove, Achilles cut in twain the flying host; Part driving tow'rd the city, o'er the plain, Where on the former day the routed Greeks, When Hector rag'd victorious, fled amain. On, terror-struck, they rush'd; but Juno spread, To baffle their retreat, before their path, Clouds and thick darkness: half the fugitives In the deep river's silv'ry eddies plung'd: With clamour loud they fell: the torrent roar'd; The banks around re-echoed; here and there, They, with the eddies wildly struggling, swam. As when, pursued by fire, a hov'ring swarm Of locusts riverward direct their flight, And, as th' insatiate flames advance, they cow'r Amid the waters; so a mingled mass Of men and horses, by Achilles driv'n, The deeply-whirling stream, of Xanthus chok'd. His spear amid the tamarisks on the bank The hero left; on savage deeds intent, Arm'd with his sword alone, a God in pow'r, He sprang amid the torrent; right and left He smote; then fearful rose the groans of men Slain with the sword; the stream ran red with blood. As fishes, flying from a dolphin, crowd The shoal recesses of some open bay, In fear, for whom he catches he devours; So crouch'd the Trojans in the mighty stream Beneath the banks; and when at length his hand Wearied of slaughter, from the stream, alive, He dragg'd twelve youths, whose forfeit lives should be The bloody fine for slain Patroclus paid. Helpless from fear, as fawns, he brought them forth; Their hands secur'd behind them with the belts Which o'er their shirts of twisted mail they wore, And bade his comrades lead them to the ships. Then on again he dash'd, athirst for blood; And first encounter'd, flying from the stream, Lycaon, Priam's son; him once before He by a nightly onslaught had surpris'd, And from his father's vineyard captive borne: Where, as he cut, to form his chariot rail, A fig-tree's tender shoots, unlook'd-for ill O'ertook him in the form of Peleus' son. Thence in his ship to Lemnos' thriving isle He bore him, ransom'd there by Jason's son. His Imbrian host, Eetion, set him free With lib'ral gifts, and to Arisba sent: Escaping thence, he reach'd his native home. Twelve days save one, rejoicing, with his friends He spent, return'd from Lemnos: fate, the twelfth, Again consign'd him to Achilles' hands, From him, reluctant, to receive his death. Him when Achilles, swift of foot, beheld, No spear in hand, of helm and shield bereft, All flung in haste away, as from the stream, Reeking with sweat, and faint with toil, he fled, He commun'd, wrathful, with his mighty heart:

"Ye Gods, what marvel do mine eyes behold! Methinks the valiant Trojans slain by me Ere long will from the realms of darkness rise; Since, death escaping, but to slav'ry sold In Lemnos' isle, this fellow hath return'd, Despite the hoary sea's impediment, Which many a man against his will hath stay'd: Now shall he taste my spear, that I may see If thence too he return, or if the earth May keep him safe, which e'en the strongest holds."

Thus, as he stood, he mus'd; but all aghast Approach'd Lycaon; and would fain have clasp'd The Hero's knees; for longingly he sought Escape from bitter death and evil fate. Achilles rais'd his spear, in act to strike; He, stooping, ran beneath, and clasp'd his knees; Above his back the murd'rous weapon pass'd, And in the earth was fix'd: one suppliant hand Achilles' knees embrac'd; the other held, With unrelaxing grasp, the pointed spear; As he with winged words, imploring, spoke:

"I clasp thy knees, Achilles! look then down With pity on my woes; and recognize, Illustrious chief, a suppliant's sacred claim: For in thy tent I first broke bread, that day, When, in my father's fruitful vineyard seiz'd, Thy captive I became, to slav'ry sold, Far from my sire and friends, in Lemnos' isle. A hundred oxen were my ransom then; At thrice so much I now would buy my life. This day is but the twelfth, since, sorely tried By lengthen'd suffering, back to Troy I came. Now to thy hands once more my cruel fate Consigns me; surely by the wrath of Jove Pursued, who gives me to thy pow'r again. Me, doom'd to early death, my mother bore, Old Altes' daughter, fair Laothoe; Altes, who rul'd the warlike Leleges, In lofty Pedasus, by Satnois' stream. His child of Priam's many wives was one; Two sons she bore, and both by thee must die. Already one, the godlike Polydore, Amid the foremost ranks thy spear hath slain; And now my doom hath found me; for from thee, Since evil fate hath plac'd me in thy hands, I may not hope to fly; yet hear but this, And weigh it in thy mind, to spare my life: I come not of that womb which Hector bore, Who slew thy comrade, gentle, kind, and brave."