The Iliad. Гомер

all the gods are partial and unjust.”

      The sire whose thunder shakes the cloudy skies,

      Sighs from his inmost soul, and thus replies:

      “Oh lasting rancour! oh insatiate hate

      To Phrygia’s monarch, and the Phrygian state!

      What high offence has fired the wife of Jove?

      Can wretched mortals harm the powers above,

      That Troy, and Troy’s whole race thou wouldst confound,

      And yon fair structures level with the ground!

      Haste, leave the skies, fulfil thy stern desire,

      Burst all her gates, and wrap her walls in fire!

      Let Priam bleed! if yet you thirst for more,

      Bleed all his sons, and Ilion float with gore:

      To boundless vengeance the wide realm be given,

      Till vast destruction glut the queen of heaven!

      So let it be, and Jove his peace enjoy,

      When heaven no longer hears the name of Troy.

      But should this arm prepare to wreak our hate

      On thy loved realms, whose guilt demands their fate;

      Presume not thou the lifted bolt to stay,

      Remember Troy, and give the vengeance way.

      For know, of all the numerous towns that rise

      Beneath the rolling sun and starry skies,

      Which gods have raised, or earth-born men enjoy,

      None stands so dear to Jove as sacred Troy.

      No mortals merit more distinguish’d grace

      Than godlike Priam, or than Priam’s race.

      Still to our name their hecatombs expire,

      And altars blaze with unextinguish’d fire.”

      At this the goddess rolled her radiant eyes,

      Then on the Thunderer fix’d them, and replies:

      “Three towns are Juno’s on the Grecian plains,

      More dear than all the extended earth contains,

      Mycenae, Argos, and the Spartan wall;

      These thou mayst raze, nor I forbid their fall:

      ’Tis not in me the vengeance to remove;

      The crime’s sufficient that they share my love.

      Of power superior why should I complain?

      Resent I may, but must resent in vain.

      Yet some distinction Juno might require,

      Sprung with thyself from one celestial sire,

      A goddess born, to share the realms above,

      And styled the consort of the thundering Jove;

      Nor thou a wife and sister’s right deny;

      Let both consent, and both by terms comply;

      So shall the gods our joint decrees obey,

      And heaven shall act as we direct the way.

      See ready Pallas waits thy high commands

      To raise in arms the Greek and Phrygian bands;

      Their sudden friendship by her arts may cease,

      And the proud Trojans first infringe the peace.”

      The sire of men and monarch of the sky

      The advice approved, and bade Minerva fly,

      Dissolve the league, and all her arts employ

      To make the breach the faithless act of Troy.

      Fired with the charge, she headlong urged her flight,

      And shot like lightning from Olympus’ height.

      As the red comet, from Saturnius sent

      To fright the nations with a dire portent,

      (A fatal sign to armies on the plain,

      Or trembling sailors on the wintry main,)

      With sweeping glories glides along in air,

      And shakes the sparkles from its blazing hair:

      Between both armies thus, in open sight

      Shot the bright goddess in a trail of light,

      With eyes erect the gazing hosts admire

      The power descending, and the heavens on fire!

      “The gods (they cried), the gods this signal sent,

      And fate now labours with some vast event:

      Jove seals the league, or bloodier scenes prepares;

      Jove, the great arbiter of peace and wars.”

      They said, while Pallas through the Trojan throng,

      (In shape a mortal,) pass’d disguised along.

      Like bold Laodocus, her course she bent,

      Who from Antenor traced his high descent.

      Amidst the ranks Lycaon’s son she found,

      The warlike Pandarus, for strength renown’d;

      Whose squadrons, led from black Æsepus’ flood,

      With flaming shields in martial circle stood.

      To him the goddess: “Phrygian! canst thou hear

      A well-timed counsel with a willing ear?

      What praise were thine, couldst thou direct thy dart,

      Amidst his triumph, to the Spartan’s heart?

      What gifts from Troy, from Paris wouldst thou gain,

      Thy country’s foe, the Grecian glory slain?

      Then seize the occasion, dare the mighty deed,

      Aim at his breast, and may that aim succeed!

      But first, to speed the shaft, address thy vow

      To Lycian Phoebus with the silver bow,

      And swear the firstlings of thy flock to pay,

      On Zelia’s altars, to the god of day.”

      He heard, and madly at the motion pleased,

      His polish’d bow with hasty rashness seized.

      ’Twas form’d of horn, and smooth’d with artful toil:

      A mountain goat resign’d the shining spoil.

      Who pierced long since beneath his arrows bled;

      The stately quarry on the cliffs lay dead,

      And sixteen palms his brow’s large honours spread:

      The workmen join’d, and shaped the bended horns,

      And beaten gold each taper point adorns.

      This, by the Greeks unseen, the warrior bends,

      Screen’d by the shields of his surrounding friends:

      There meditates the mark; and couching low,

      Fits the sharp arrow to the well-strung bow.

      One from a hundred feather’d deaths he chose,

      Fated to wound, and cause of future woes;

      Then offers vows with hecatombs to crown

      Apollo’s