The Iliad

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Год написания книги

2019

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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 beating bosom claim’d the rising fight.

No longer with his warlike steeds he stay’d,

Or press’d the car with polish’d brass inlaid

But left Eurymedon the reins to guide;

The fiery coursers snorted at his side.

On foot through all the martial ranks he moves

And these encourages, and those reproves.

“Brave men!” he cries, (to such who boldly dare

Urge their swift steeds to face the coming war),

“Your ancient valour on the foes approve;

Jove is with Greece, and let us trust in Jove.

’Tis not for us, but guilty Troy, to dread,

Whose crimes sit heavy on her perjured head;

Her sons and matrons Greece shall lead in chains,

And her dead warriors strew the mournful plains.”

Thus with new ardour he the brave inspires;

Or thus the fearful with reproaches fires:

“Shame to your country, scandal of your kind;

Born to the fate ye well deserve to find!

Why stand ye gazing round the dreadful plain,