The Iliad (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

from her native soil and weeping sire.”

      The trembling priest along the shore return’d,

      And in the anguish of a father mourn’d.

      Disconsolate, not daring to complain,

      Silent he wander’d by the sounding main;

      Till, safe at distance, to his god he prays,

      The god who darts around the world his rays.

      “O Smintheus! sprung from fair Latona’s line, ⁸

      Thou guardian power of Cilla the divine, ⁹

      Thou source of light! whom Tenedos adores,

      And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa’s shores.

      If e’er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane, ¹⁰

      Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain;

      God of the silver bow! thy shafts employ,

      Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy.”

      Thus Chryses pray’d. — the favouring power attends,

      And from Olympus’ lofty tops descends.

      Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to wound; ¹¹

      Fierce as he moved, his silver shafts resound.

      Breathing revenge, a sudden night he spread,

      And gloomy darkness roll’d about his head.

      The fleet in view, he twang’d his deadly bow,

      And hissing fly the feather’d fates below.

      On mules and dogs the infection first began; ¹²

      And last, the vengeful arrows fix’d in man.

      For nine long nights, through all the dusky air,

      The pyres, thick-flaming, shot a dismal glare.

      But ere the tenth revolving day was run,

      Inspired by Juno, Thetis’ godlike son

      Convened to council all the Grecian train;

      For much the goddess mourn’d her heroes slain. ¹³

      The assembly seated, rising o’er the rest,

      Achilles thus the king of men address’d:

      “Why leave we not the fatal Trojan shore,

      And measure back the seas we cross’d before?

      The plague destroying whom the sword would spare,

      ’Tis time to save the few remains of war.

      But let some prophet, or some sacred sage,

      Explore the cause of great Apollo’s rage;

      Or learn the wasteful vengeance to remove

      By mystic dreams, for dreams descend from Jove. ¹⁴

      If broken vows this heavy curse have laid,

      Let altars smoke, and hecatombs be paid.

      So Heaven, atoned, shall dying Greece restore,

      And Phoebus dart his burning shafts no more.”

      He said, and sat: when Chalcas thus replied;

      Chalcas the wise, the Grecian priest and guide,

      That sacred seer, whose comprehensive view,

      The past, the present, and the future knew:

      Uprising slow, the venerable sage

      Thus spoke the prudence and the fears of age:

      “Beloved of Jove, Achilles! would’st thou know

      Why angry Phoebus bends his fatal bow?

      First give thy faith, and plight a prince’s word

      Of sure protection, by thy power and sword:

      For I must speak what wisdom would conceal,

      And truths, invidious to the great, reveal,

      Bold is the task, when subjects, grown too wise,

      Instruct a monarch where his error lies;

      For though we deem the short-lived fury past,

      ’Tis sure the mighty will revenge at last.”

      To whom Pelides:—“From thy inmost soul

      Speak what thou know’st, and speak without control.

      E’en by that god I swear who rules the day,

      To whom thy hands the vows of Greece convey.

      And whose bless’d oracles thy lips declare;

      Long as Achilles breathes this vital air,

      No daring Greek, of all the numerous band,

      Against his priest shall lift an impious hand;

      Not e’en the chief by whom our hosts are led,

      The king of kings, shall touch that sacred head.”

      Encouraged thus, the blameless man replies:

      “Nor vows unpaid, nor slighted sacrifice,

      But he, our chief, provoked the raging pest,

      Apollo’s vengeance for his injured priest.

      Nor will the god’s awaken’d fury cease,

      But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,

      Till the great king, without a ransom paid,

      To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid. ¹⁵

      Perhaps, with added sacrifice and prayer,

      The priest may pardon, and the god may spare.”

      The prophet spoke: when with a gloomy frown

      The monarch started from his shining throne;

      Black choler fill’d his breast that boil’d with ire,

      And from his eye-balls flash’d the living fire:

      “Augur accursed! denouncing mischief still,

      Prophet of plagues, for ever boding ill!

      Still must that tongue some wounding message bring,

      And still thy priestly pride provoke thy king?

      For this are Phoebus’ oracles explored,

      To teach the Greeks to murmur at their lord?

      For this with falsehood is my honour stain’d,

      Is heaven offended, and a priest profaned;

      Because my prize, my beauteous maid, I hold,

      And heavenly charms prefer to proffer’d gold?

      A maid, unmatch’d in manners as in face,

      Skill’d in each art, and crown’d with every grace;

      Not half so dear were Clytaemnestra’s charms,

      When first her blooming beauties bless’d my arms.

      Yet, if the gods demand her, let her sail;

      Our cares are only for the public weal:

      Let me be deem’d the hateful cause of all,

      And suffer, rather than my people fall.

      The prize, the beauteous prize, I will resign,

      So dearly valued, and so justly mine.

      But since for common good I yield the