The Iliad. Гомер

force the yielding horn he bends,

      Drawn to an arch, and joins the doubling ends;

      Close to his breast he strains the nerve below,

      Till the barb’d points approach the circling bow;

      The impatient weapon whizzes on the wing;

      Sounds the tough horn, and twangs the quivering string.

      But thee, Atrides! in that dangerous hour

      The gods forget not, nor thy guardian power,

      Pallas assists, and (weakened in its force)

      Diverts the weapon from its destined course:

      So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye,

      The watchful mother wafts the envenom’d fly.

      Just where his belt with golden buckles join’d,

      Where linen folds the double corslet lined,

      She turn’d the shaft, which, hissing from above,

      Pass’d the broad belt, and through the corslet drove;

      The folds it pierced, the plaited linen tore,

      And razed the skin, and drew the purple gore.

      As when some stately trappings are decreed

      To grace a monarch on his bounding steed,

      A nymph in Caria or Maeonia bred,

      Stains the pure ivory with a lively red;

      With equal lustre various colours vie,

      The shining whiteness, and the Tyrian dye:

      So great Atrides! show’d thy sacred blood,

      As down thy snowy thigh distill’d the streaming flood.

      With horror seized, the king of men descried

      The shaft infix’d, and saw the gushing tide:

      Nor less the Spartan fear’d, before he found

      The shining barb appear above the wound,

      Then, with a sigh, that heaved his manly breast,

      The royal brother thus his grief express’d,

      And grasp’d his hand; while all the Greeks around

      With answering sighs return’d the plaintive sound.

      “Oh, dear as life! did I for this agree

      The solemn truce, a fatal truce to thee!

      Wert thou exposed to all the hostile train,

      To fight for Greece, and conquer, to be slain!

      The race of Trojans in thy ruin join,

      And faith is scorn’d by all the perjured line.

      Not thus our vows, confirm’d with wine and gore,

      Those hands we plighted, and those oaths we swore,

      Shall all be vain: when Heaven’s revenge is slow,

      Jove but prepares to strike the fiercer blow.

      The day shall come, that great avenging day,

      When Troy’s proud glories in the dust shall lay,

      When Priam’s powers and Priam’s self shall fall,

      And one prodigious ruin swallow all.

      I see the god, already, from the pole

      Bare his red arm, and bid the thunder roll;

      I see the Eternal all his fury shed,

      And shake his aegis o’er their guilty head.

      Such mighty woes on perjured princes wait;

      But thou, alas! deserv’st a happier fate.

      Still must I mourn the period of thy days,

      And only mourn, without my share of praise?

      Deprived of thee, the heartless Greeks no more

      Shall dream of conquests on the hostile shore;

      Troy seized of Helen, and our glory lost,

      Thy bones shall moulder on a foreign coast;

      While some proud Trojan thus insulting cries,

      (And spurns the dust where Menelaus lies,)

      ‘Such are the trophies Greece from Ilion brings,

      And such the conquest of her king of kings!

      Lo his proud vessels scatter’d o’er the main,

      And unrevenged, his mighty brother slain.’

      Oh! ere that dire disgrace shall blast my fame,

      O’erwhelm me, earth! and hide a monarch’s shame.”

      He said: a leader’s and a brother’s fears

      Possess his soul, which thus the Spartan cheers:

      “Let not thy words the warmth of Greece abate;

      The feeble dart is guiltless of my fate:

      Stiff with the rich embroider’d work around,

      My varied belt repell’d the flying wound.”

      To whom the king: “My brother and my friend,

      Thus, always thus, may Heaven thy life defend!

      Now seek some skilful hand, whose powerful art

      May stanch the effusion, and extract the dart.

      Herald, be swift, and bid Machaon bring

      His speedy succour to the Spartan king;

      Pierced with a winged shaft (the deed of Troy),

      The Grecian’s sorrow, and the Dardan’s joy.”

      With hasty zeal the swift Talthybius flies;

      Through the thick files he darts his searching eyes,

      And finds Machaon, where sublime he stands

      In arms incircled with his native bands.

      Then thus: “Machaon, to the king repair,

      His wounded brother claims thy timely care;

      Pierced by some Lycian or Dardanian bow,

      A grief to us, a triumph to the foe.”

      The heavy tidings grieved the godlike man

      Swift to his succour through the ranks he ran.

      The dauntless king yet standing firm he found,

      And all the chiefs in deep concern around.

      Where to the steely point the reed was join’d,

      The shaft he drew, but left the head behind.

      Straight the broad belt with gay embroidery graced,

      He loosed; the corslet from his breast unbraced;

      Then suck’d the blood, and sovereign balm infused,

      Which Chiron gave, and Æsculapius used.

      While round the prince the Greeks employ their care,

      The Trojans rush tumultuous to the war;

      Once more they glitter in refulgent arms,

      Once more the fields are fill’d with dire alarms.

      Nor had you seen the king of men appear

      Confused, unactive, or surprised with fear;

      But fond of glory, with severe delight,

      His