The chiefs were set; the soldiers crown’d the field;
To these the master of the sevenfold shield
Upstarted fierce, and kindled with disdain.
Eager to speak, unable to contain
His boiling rage, he roll’d his eyes around
The shore and Grecian galleys haul’d aground;
Then, stretching out his hands, “Oh Jove,” he cried,
“Must then our cause before the fleet be tried?
And dares Ulysses for the prize contend,
In sight of what he durst not once defend?
But basely fled that memorable day,
When I from Hector’s hands redeem’d the flaming prey;
So much ’tis safer at the noisy bar
With words to flourish, than engage in war.
By different methods we maintain our right;
Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight:
In bloody fields I labour to be great;
His arms are a smooth tongue and soft deceit:
Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see;
The sun and day are witnesses for me:
Let him who fights unseen relate his own,
And vouch the silent stars and conscious moon.
Great is the prize demanded, I confess;
But such an abject rival makes it less:
That gift, those honours, he but hoped to gain,
Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain:
Losing, he wins, because his name will be
Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me.
Were my known valour question’d, yet my blood
Without that plea, would make my title good:
My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ’d
With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy’d;
And who before, with Jason sent from Greece,
In the first ship brought home the golden fleece.
Great Telamon from Aeacus derives
His birth: (the inquisitor of guilty lives
In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son
This thief is thought, rolls up the restless heavy stone.)
Just Aeacus, the king of gods above
Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove:
Nor should I seek advantage from my line,
Unless, Achilles, it was mix’d with thine.
As next of kin, Achilles’ arms I claim:
This fellow would ingraft a foreign name
Upon our stock; and the Sisyphian seed
By fraud and theft asserts his father’s breed.
Then must I lose these arms, because I came
To fight uncall’d, a voluntary name;
Nor shunn’d the cause, but offer’d you my aid?
While he long lurking was to war betray’d:
Forced to the field he came, but in the rear,
And feign’d distraction to conceal his fear,
Till one more cunning caught him in the snare,
(Ill for himself,) and dragg’d him into war.
Now let a hero’s arms a coward vest,
And he who shunn’d all honours gain the best;
And let me stand excluded from my right,
Robb’d of my kinsman’s arms, who first appear’d in fight.
Better for us, at home had he remain’d,
Had it been true the madness which he feign’d,
Or so believed; the less had been our shame,
The less his counsell’d crime, which brands the Grecian name
Nor Philoctetes had been left enclosed
In a bare isle, to wants and pains exposed,
Where to the rocks, with solitary groans,
His sufferings and our baseness he bemoans:
And wishes (so may Heaven his wish fulfil!)
The due reward to him who caused his ill:
Now he, with us to Troy’s destruction sworn,
Our brother of the war, by whom are borne
Alcides’ arrows, pent in narrow bounds,
With cold and hunger pinch’d, and pain’d with wounds,
To find him food and clothing, must employ
Against the birds the shafts due to the fate of Troy.
Yet still he lives, and lives from treason free,
Because he left Ulysses’ company:
Poor Palamede might wish, so void of aid
Rather to have been left, than so to death betray’d.
The coward bore the man immortal spite,
Who shamed him out of madness into fight;
Nor daring otherwise to vent his hate,
Accused him first of treason to the state,
And then, for proof, produced the golden store
Himself had hidden in his tent before:
Thus of two champions he deprived our host,
By exile one, and one by treason lost.
Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends,
A formidable man but to his friends:
Great, for what greatness is in words and sound;
Ev’n faithful Nestor less in both is found.
But that he might without a rival reign,
He left his faithful Nestor on the plain:
Forsook his friend ev’n at his utmost need,
Who tired, and tardy with his wounded steed,
Cried out for aid, and call’d him by his name;
But cowardice has neither ears nor shame.
Thus fled the good old man, bereft of aid,
And, for as much as lay in him, betray’d.
That this is not a fable forged by me,
Like one of his, an Ulyssean lie,
I vouch ev’n Diomed, who, though his friend,
Cannot that act excuse, much less defend:
He call’d him back aloud, and tax’d his fear;
And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear.

“The gods with equal eyes on mortals look,
He justly was forsaken who forsook:
Wanted that succour he refused to lend,
Found every fellow such another friend:
No wonder if he roar’d that all might hear;
His elocution was increased by fear:
I heard, I ran; I found him out of breath,
Pale, trembling, and half dead with fear of death.
Though he had judged himself by his own laws,
And stood condemn’d, I help’d the common cause;
With my broad buckler hid him from the foe:
(Ev’n the shield trembled as he lay below:)
And from impending fate the coward freed:
Good Heaven forgive me for so bad a deed!
If still he will persist, and urge the strife,
First let him give me back his forfeit life:
Let him return to that opprobrious field;
Again creep under my protecting shield:
Let him lie wounded; let the foe be near;
And let his quivering heart confess his fear:
There put him in the very jaws of fate;
And let him plead his cause in that estate.
And yet when snatch’d from death, when from below
My lifted shield I loosed, and let him go,
Good heavens, how light he rose, with what a bound
He sprung from earth, forgetful of his wound;
How fresh, how eager then his feet to ply:
Who had not strength to stand, had speed to fly!

“Hector came on, and brought the gods along:
Fear seized alike the feeble and the strong:
Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a dread
The approach, and ev’n the sound, of Hector bred:
Him, flesh’d with slaughter, and with conquest crown’d,
I met, and overturn’d him to the ground;
When after, matchless as he deemed in might,
He challenged all our host to single fight:
All eyes were fixed on me: the lots were thrown;
But for your champion I was wish’d alone.
Your vows were heard: we fought, and neither yield;
Yet I return’d unvanquish’d from the field.
With Jove to friend, the insulting Trojan came,
And menaced us with force, our fleet with flame.
Was it the strength of this tongue-valiant lord,
In that black hour, that saved you from the sword?
Or was my breast exposed alone, to brave
A thousand swords, a thousand ships to save?
The hopes of your return! And can you yield,
For a saved fleet, less than a single shield?
Think it no boast, oh Grecians, if I deem
These arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them:
Or, I with them an equal honour share;
They honour’d to be worn, and I to wear.
Will he compare my courage with his sleight?
As well he may compare the day with night.
Night is indeed the province of his reign:
Yet all his dark exploits no more contain
Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain;
A priest made prisoner; Pallas made a prey:
But none of all these actions done by day;
Nor aught of these was done, and Diomed away.
If on such petty merits you confer
So vast a prize, let each his portion share;
Make a just dividend; and if not all,
The greater part to Diomed will fall.
But why for Ithacus such arms as those,
Who naked, and by night, invades his foes?
The glittering helm by moonlight will proclaim
The latent robber, and prevent his game:
Nor could he hold his tottering head upright
Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight;
Nor that right arm could toss the beamy lance;
Much less the left that ampler shield advance,
Ponderous with precious weight, and rough with cost,
Of the round world in rising gold emboss’d.
That orb would ill become his hand to wield,
And look as for the gold he stole the shield;
Which, should your error on the wretch bestow,
It would not frighten, but allure the foe.
Why asks he what avails him not in fight,
And would but cumber and retard his flight,
In which his only excellence is placed?
You give him death, that intercept his haste.
Add, that his own is yet a maiden shield,
Nor the least dint has suffer’d in the field,
Guiltless of fight: mine, batter’d, hew’d, and bored,
Worn out of service, must forsake its lord.
What further need of words, our right to scan?
My arguments are deeds; let action speak the man.
Since from a champion’s arms the strife arose,
Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes;
Then send us to redeem both arms and shield,
And let him wear who wins them in the field.”

He said: a murmur from a multitude,
Or somewhat like a stifled shout ensued;
Till from his seat arose Laertes’ son,
Look’d down a while, and paused ere he begun;
Then to the expecting audience raised his look,
And not without prepared attention spoke:
Soft was his tone, and sober was his face;
Action his words, and words his action grace.

“If Heaven, my lords, had heard our common prayer,
These arms had caused no quarrel for an heir;
Still great Achilles had his own possess’d,
And we with great Achilles had been bless’d:
But since hard fate, and Heaven’s severe decree,
Have ravish’d him away from you and me,”
(At this he sigh’d, and wiped his eyes, and drew,
Or seem’d to draw, some drops of kindly dew,)
“Who better can succeed Achilles lost,
Than he who gave Achilles to your host?
This only I request, that neither he
May gain, by being what he seems to be,
A stupid thing, nor I may lose the prize,
By having sense, which Heaven to him denies;
Since great or small, the talent I enjoy’d
Was ever in the common cause employ’d:
Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence,
Which often has been used in your defence,
And in my own, this only time be brought
To bear against myself, and deem’d a fault:
Make not a crime where nature made it none;
For every man may freely use his own.
The deeds of long-descended ancestors
Are but by grace of imputation ours,
Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line
From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine;
From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree,
And am descended in the same degree.
My sire Laertes was Arcesius’ heir;
Arcesius was the son of Jupiter:
No parricide, no banish’d man is known,
In all my line: let him excuse his own.
Hermes ennobles too my mother’s side,
By both my parents to the gods allied.
But not because that on the female part
My blood is better, dare I claim desert,
Or that my sire from parricide is free;
But judge by merit between him and me:
The prize be to the best; provided yet
That Ajax for a while his kin forget,
And his great sire, and greater uncle’s name,
To fortify by them his feeble claim;
Be kindred and relation laid aside,
And honour’s cause by laws of honour tried:
For if he plead proximity of blood;
That empty title is with ease withstood.
Peleus, the hero’s sire, more nigh than he,
And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny,
Inherit first these trophies of the field;
To Scyros, or to Phthia, send the shield:
And Teucer has an uncle’s right; yet he
Waves his pretensions, nor contends with me.
Then since the cause on pure desert is placed,
Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last?
I not presume on every act to dwell,
But take these few, in order as they fell.
Thetis, who knew the fates, applied her care
To keep Achilles in disguise from war;
And till the threatening influence was past,
A woman’s habit on the hero cast:
All eyes were cozen’d by the borrow’d vest,
And Ajax (never wiser than the rest)
Found no Pelides there: at length I came
With proffer’d wares to this pretended dame;
She, not discover’d by her mien or voice,
Betray’d her manhood by her manly choice;
And while on female toys her fellows look,
Grasp’d in her warlike hand, a javelin shook:
Whom, by this act reveal’d, I thus bespoke:
‘Oh goddess born! resist not Heaven’s decree,
The fall of Ilium is reserved for thee.’
Then seized him, and produced in open light,
Sent blushing to the field the fatal knight.
Mine then are all his actions of the war;
Great Telephus was conquer’d by my spear,
And after cured: to me the Theban’s owe,
Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow;
Scyros and Cylla: not on all to dwell,
By me Lyrnessus and strong Chrysa fell:
And since I sent the man who Hector slew,
To me the noble Hector’s death is due:
Those arms I put into his living hand,
Those arms, Pelides dead, I now demand.

“When Greece was injured in the Spartan prince,
And met at Aulis to avenge the offence,
’Twas a dead calm, or adverse blasts, that reign’d,
And in the port the wind-bound fleet detain’d:
Bad signs were seen, and oracles severe
Were daily thunder’d in our general’s ear;
That by his daughter’s blood we must appease
Diana’s kindled wrath, and free the seas.
Affection, interest, fame, his heart assail’d;
But soon the father o’er the king prevail’d:
Bold, on himself he took the pious crime,
As angry with the gods as they with him.
No subject could sustain their sovereign’s look,
Till this hard enterprise I undertook:
I only durst the imperial power control,
And undermined the parent in his soul:
Forced him to exert the king for common good,
And pay our ransom with his daughter’s blood.
Never was cause more difficult to plead,
Than where the judge against himself decreed:
Yet this I won by dint of argument;
The wrongs his injured brother underwent,
And his own office, shamed him to consent.

“ ’Twas harder yet to move the mother’s mind,
And to this heavy task was I design’d:
Reasons against her love I knew were vain;
I circumvented whom I could not gain:
Had Ajax been employ’d, our slacken’d sails
Had still at Aulis waited happy gales.

“Arrived at Troy, your choice was fix’d on me
A fearless envoy, fit for a bold embassy:
Secure, I enter’d through the hostile court,
Glittering with steel, and crowded with resort:
There, in the midst of arms, I plead our cause,
Urge the foul rape, and violated laws;
Accuse the foes, as authors of the strife,
Reproach the ravisher, demand the wife.
Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few,
I moved; but Paris and his lawless crew
Scarce held their hands and lifted swords; but stood
In act to quench their impious thirst of blood:
This Menelaus knows; exposed to share
With me the rough preludium of war.

“Endless it were to tell what I have done
In arms, or council, since the siege begun:
The first encounter’s pass’d, the foe repell’d,
They skulk’d within the town, we kept the field.
War seem’d asleep for nine long years; at length
Both sides resolved to push, we tried our strength.
Now what did Ajax, while our arms took breath.
Versed only in the gross mechanic trade of death?
If you require my deeds, with ambush’d arms
I trapp’d the foe, or tired with false alarms;
Secured the ships, drew lines along the plain,
The fainting cheer’d, chastised the rebel train.
Provided forage, our spent arms renew’d;
Employ’d at home, or sent abroad, the common cause pursued.

“The king, deluded in a dream by Jove,
Despair’d to take the town, and order’d to remove.
What subject durst arraign the power supreme?
Producing Jove to justify his dream.
Ajax might wish the soldiers to retain
From shameful flight, but wishes were in vain:
As wanting of effect had been his words,
Such as of course his thundering tongue affords.
But did this boaster threaten, did he pray,
Or by his own example urge their stay?
None, none of these; but ran himself away.
I saw him run, and was ashamed to see;
Who plied his feet so fast to get aboard as he?
Then speeding through the place, I made a stand,
And loudly cried, ‘Oh, base degenerate band,
To leave a town already in your hand!
After so long expense of blood for fame,
To bring home nothing but perpetual shame!’
These words, or what I have forgotten since,
(For grief inspired me then with eloquence,)
Reduced their minds; they leave the crowded port,
And to their late forsaken camp resort:
Dismay’d the council met: this man was there,
But mute, and not recover’d of his fear:
Thersites tax’d the king, and loudly rail’d,
But his wide-opening mouth with blows I seal’d.
Then, rising, I excite their souls to fame,
And kindle sleeping virtue into flame.
From thence, whatever he perform’d in fight
Is justly mine, who drew him back from flight.

“Which of the Grecian chiefs consorts with thee?
But Diomed desires my company,
And still communicates his praise with me.
As guided by a god, secure he goes,
Arm’d with my fellowship, amid the foes:
And sure no little merit I may boast,
Whom such a man selects from such a host;
Unforced by lots I went without affright,
To dare with him the dangers of the night:
On the same errand sent, we met the spy
Of Hector, double-tongued, and used to lie;
Him I despatch’d, but not till undermined,
I drew him first to tell what treacherous Troy design’d:
My task perform’d, with praise I had retired,
But not content with this, to greater praise aspired;
Invaded Rhesus, and his Thracian crew,
And him and his in their own strength I slew;
Return’d a victor, all my vows complete,
With the king’s chariot, in his royal seat:
Refuse me now his arms, whose fiery steeds
Were promised to the spy for his nocturnal deeds;
And let dull Ajax bear away my right,
When all his days outbalance this one night.

“Nor fought I darkling still: the sun beheld
With slaughter’d Lycians when I strew’d the field:
You saw, and counted as I pass’d along,
Alastor, Chromius, Ceranos the strong,
Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius,
Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus;
Coon, Chersidamas; and five beside,
Men of obscure descent, but courage tried:
All these this hand laid breathless on the ground;
Nor want I proofs of many a manly wound:
All honest, all before: believe not me,
Words may deceive, but credit what you see.”

At this he bared his breast, and show’d his scars,
As of a furrow’d field, well plough’d with wars;
“Nor is this part unexercised,” said he;
“That giant bulk of his from wounds is free:
Safe in his shield, he fears no foe to try,
And better manages his blood than I:
But this avails me not; our boaster strove
Not with our foes alone, but partial Jove,
To save the fleet: this I confess is true:
(Nor will I take from any man his due:)
But thus assuming all, he robs from you.
Some part of honour to your share will fall,
He did the best indeed, but did not all.
Patroclus in Achilles’ arms, and thought
The chief he seem’d, with equal ardour fought;
Preserved the fleet, repell’d the raging fire,
And forced the fearful Trojans to retire.

“But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought
A match for Hector, who the combat sought:
Sure he forgets the king, the chiefs, and me:
All were as eager for the fight as he:
He but the ninth, and not by public voice,
Or ours preferr’d, was only fortune’s choice:
They fought; nor can our hero boast the event,
For Hector from the field unwounded went.

“Why am I forced to name that fatal day,
That snatch’d the prop and pride of Greece away?
I saw Pelides sink, with pious grief,
And ran in vain, alas! to his relief;
For the brave soul was fled: full of my friend
I rush’d amid the war, his relics to defend:
Nor ceased my toil till I redeem’d my prey,
And, loaded with Achilles, march’d away:
Those arms which on these shoulders then I bore
’Tis just you to these shoulders should restore.
You see I want not nerves, who could sustain
The pond’rous ruins of so great a man:
Or if in others equal force you find,
None is indued with a more grateful mind.

“Did Thetis then, ambitious in her care,
These arms thus labour’d for her son prepare,
That Ajax after him the heavenly gift should wear?
For that dull soul to stare, with stupid eyes,
On the learn’d unintelligible prize!
What are to him the sculptures of the shield,
Heaven’s planets, earth, and ocean’s watery field?
The Pleiads, Hyads; less and greater Bear,
Undipp’d in seas; Orion’s angry star;
Two differing cities, graved on either hand;
Would he wear arms he cannot understand?

“Besides, what wise objections he prepares
Against my late accession to the wars?
Does not the fool perceive his argument
Is with more force against Achilles bent?
For if dissembling be so great a crime,
The fault is common, and the same in him:
And if he taxes both of long delay,
My guilt is less, who sooner came away.
His pious mother, anxious for his life,
Detain’d her son; and me, my pious wife.
To them the blossoms of our youth were due,
Our riper manhood we reserved for you.
But grant me guilty, ’tis not much my care,
When with so great a man my guilt I share:
My wit to war the matchless hero brought,
But by this fool I never had been caught.

“Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw
Such foul aspersions, when he spares not you;
If Palamede unjustly fell by me,
Your honour suffer’d in the unjust decree:
I but accused, you doom’d: and yet he died
Convinced of treason, and was fairly tried:
You heard not he was false; your eyes beheld
The traitor manifest; the bribe reveal’d.

“That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left,
Wounded, forlorn, of human aid bereft,
Is not my crime, or not my crime alone;
Defend your justice, for the fact’s your own:
’Tis true, the advice was mine; that staying there
He might his weary limbs with rest repair,
From a long voyage free, and from a long war.
He took the counsel, and he lives at least;
The event declares I counsell’d for the best:
Though faith is all in ministers of state;
For who can promise to be fortunate?
Now since his arrows are the fate of Troy,
Do not my wit, or weak address employ:
Send Ajax there, with his persuasive sense,
To mollify the man, and draw him thence:
But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand
A leafless mountain; and the Grecian band
Shall fight for Troy; if, when my counsel fail,
The wit of heavy Ajax shall prevail.

“Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy spleen
Against thy fellows, and the king of men;
Curse my devoted head above the rest,
And wish in arms to meet rue breast to breast:
Yet I the dangerous task will undertake,
And either die myself, or bring thee back.

“Nor doubt the same success, as when before
The Phrygian prophet to these tents I bore,
Surprised by night, and forced him to declare
In what was placed the fortune of the war,
Heaven’s dark decrees, and answers to display,
And how to take the town, and where the secret lay:
Yet this I compass’d, and from Troy convey’d
The fatal image of their guardian maid:
That work was mine; for Pallas, though our friend,
Yet while she was in Troy, did Troy defend.
Now what has Ajax done, or what design’d?
A noisy nothing, and an empty wind.
If he be what he promises in show,
Why was I sent, and why fear’d he to go?
Our boasting champion thought the task not light
To pass the guards, commit himself to night;
Not only through a hostile town to pass,
But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred place;
With wandering steps to search the citadel,
And from the priests their patroness to steal:
Then through surrounding foes to force my way,
And bear in triumph home the heavenly prey;
Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held,
Before that monstrous bulk his sevenfold shield.
That night to conquer Troy I might be said,
When Troy was liable to conquest made.

“Why point’st thou to my partner of the war?
Tydides had indeed a worthy share
In all my toil and praise; but when thy might
Our ships protected, didst thou singly fight?
All join’d, and thou of many wert but one:
I ask’d no friend, nor had, but him alone:
Who had he not been well assured, that art
And conduct were of war the better part,
And more avail’d than strength, my valiant friend
Had urged a better right than Ajax can pretend:
As good at least Eurypylus may claim,
And the more moderate Ajax of the name:
The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer,
And Menelaus bold with sword and spear:
All these had been my rivals in the shield,
And yet all these to my pretensions yield.
Thy boisterous hands are then of use, when I
With this directing head those hands apply.
Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care
Foresees, provides, administers the war.
Thy province is to fight; but when shall be
The time to fight, the king consults with me:
No dram of judgment with thy force is join’d:
Thy body is of profit, and my mind.
By how much more the ship her safety owes
To him who steers, than him that only rows;
By how much more the captain merits praise,
Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys;
By so much greater is my worth than thine,
Who canst but execute what I design.
What gain’st thou brutal man, if I confess
Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less?
Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert,
From the mind’s vigour, and the immortal part.

“But you, oh Grecian chiefs, reward my care,
Be grateful to your watchman of the war:
For all my labours in so long a space,
Sure I may plead a title to your grace:
Enter the town; I then unbarr’d the gates,
When I removed their tutelary fates.
By all our common hopes, if hopes they be
Which I have now reduced to certainty;
By falling Troy, by yonder tottering towers,
And by their taken gods, which now are ours;
Or if there yet a farther task remains,
To be perform’d by prudence, or by pains;
If yet some desperate action rests behind,
That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind;
If aught be wanting to the Trojan doom,
Which none but I can manage and o’ercome,
Award those arms I ask, by your decree:
Or give to this, what you refuse to me.”

He ceased: and ceasing, with respect he bow’d,
And with his hand at once the fatal statue show’d.
Heaven, air, and ocean, rung with loud applause,
And by the general vote he gain’d his cause.
Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail’d,
And eloquence o’er brutal force prevail’d.

He who could often, and alone, withstand
The foe, the fire, and Jove’s own partial hand,
Now cannot his unmaster’d grief sustain,
But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain;
Then snatching out his falchion, “Thou,” said he,
“Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee.
Oh often tried, and ever-trusty sword,
Now do thy last kind office to thy lord:
’Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show
None but himself himself could overthrow:”
He said, and with so good a will to die,
Did to his breast the fatal point apply.
It found his heart, a way till then unknown,
Where never weapon enter’d but his own.
No hands could force it thence, so fix’d it stood,
Till out it rush’d, expell’d by streams of spouting blood.
The fruitful blood produced a flower, which grew
On a green stem, and of a purple hue:
Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew:
Inscribed in both, the letters are the same,
But those express the grief, and these the name.

The victor with full sails for Lemnos stood,
(Once stain’d by matrons with their husbands’ blood,)
Thence great Alcides’ fatal shafts to bear,
Assign’d to Philoctetes’ secret care.
These with their guardian to the Greeks convey’d,
Their ten years’ toil with wish’d success repaid.
With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives;
Till all her woes complete, transform’d she grieves
In borrow’d sounds, nor with a human face,
Barking tremendous o’er the plains of Thrace.
Still Ilium’s flames their pointed columns raise,
And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze.
Shed on Jove’s altar are the poor remains
Of blood, which trickled from old Priam’s veins.
Cassandra lifts her hands to heaven in vain,
Dragg’d by her sacred hair; the trembling train
Of matrons to their burning temples fly:
There to their gods for kind protection cry;
And to their statues cling till forced away,
The victor Greeks bear off the invidious prey.
From those high towers Astyanax is thrown,
Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down,
When oft his mother with a fond delight
Pointed to view his fathers rage in fight,
To win renown, and guard his country’s right.

The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales
Sing in the shrouds, and court the spreading sails.
“Farewell, dear Troy,” the captive matrons cry:
“Yes, we must leave our long-loved native sky.”
Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand,
And quit the smoking ruins of the land.
Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears;
Found weeping o’er her children’s sepulchres:
Dragg’d by Ulysses from her slaughter’d sons,
While yet she grasp’d their tombs, and kiss’d their mouldering bones.
Yet Hector’s ashes from his urn she bore,
And in her bosom the sad relic wore:
Then scatter’d on his tomb her hoary hairs,
A poor oblation mingled with her tears.

Opposed to Ilium lie the Thracian plains,
Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns.
King Priam to his care commits his son,
Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun.
A wise precaution! had not gold, consign’d
For the child’s use, debauch’d the tyrant’s mind.
When sinking Troy to its last period drew,
With impious hands his royal charge he slew;
Then in the sea the lifeless corse is thrown;
As with the body he the guilt could drown.

The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore,
Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor.
Here the wide-opening earth to sudden view
Disclosed Achilles, great as when he drew
The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain,
As when he sought Briseis to regain;
When stern debate, and rash injurious strife
Unsheathed his sword, to reach Atrides’ life.
“And will ye go?” he said. “Is then the name
Of the once great Achilles lost to fame?
Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue
In vain for honours to my manes due.
For this just end, Polyxena I doom
With victim rites to grace my slighted tomb.”

The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey’d,
And to the tomb led the devoted maid
Snatch’d from her mother, who with pious care
Cherish’d this last relief of her despair.
Superior to her sex, the fearless maid
Approach’d the altar, and around survey’d
The cruel rites, and consecrated knife,
Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life.
Then, as with stern amaze intent he stood:
“Now strike,” she said; “now spill my generous blood;
Deep in my breast or throat your dagger sheathe,
While thus I stand prepared to meet my death:
For life on terms of slavery I despise:
Yet sure no god approves this sacrifice.
Oh! could I but conceal this dire event
From my sad mother, I should die content.
Yet should she not with tears my death deplore,
Since her own wretched life demands them more.
But let not the rude touch of man pollute
A virgin victim; ’tis a modest suit.
It best will please, whoe’er demands my blood,
That I untainted reach the Stygian flood.
Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard,
To Priam’s daughter pay this last regard;
’Tis Priam’s daughter, not a captive, sues;
Do not the rites of sepulture refuse.
To my afflicted mother, I implore,
Free without ransom my dead corse restore:
Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold:
But be her tears the price if I am sold:
Time was she could have ransom’d me with gold.”

Thus as she pray’d, one common shower of tears
Burst forth, and stream’d from every eye but hers.
Ev’n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse
Plunged in her heart the steel’s resistless force.
Her slacken’d limbs sunk gently to the ground,
Dauntless her looks, unalter’d by the wound.
And as she fell, she strove with decent pride
To guard what modest women care to hide.
The Trojan matrons the pale corse receive,
And the whole slaughter’d race of Priam grieve.
Sad they recount the long disastrous tale,
Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail;
Thy widow’d mother too, who flourish’d late
The royal pride of Asia’s happier state:
A captive lot now to Ulysses born,
Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn,
Were she not Hector’s mother: Hector’s fame
Scarce can a master for his mother claim!
With strict embrace the lifeless corse she view’d;
And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew’d,
With which she lately mourn’d so many dead;
Tears for her country, sons, and husband shed.
With the thick-gushing stream she bathed the wound;
Kiss’d her pale lips; then weltering on the ground,
With wanton rage her frantic bosom tore,
Sweeping her hair amid the clotted gore;
While her sad accents thus her loss deplore:

“Behold a mother’s last dear pledge of wo!
Yes, ’tis the last I have to suffer now.
Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown:
Already in thy fate I feel my own.
’Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed
One should unslaughter’d fall, even thou must bleed:
And yet I hoped thy sex had been thy guard:
But neither has thy tender sex been spared.
The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate
Thy brothers fell, urged thy untimely fate!
The same Achilles, whose destructive rage
Laid waste my realms, has robb’d my childless age.
When Paris’ shafts with Phoebus’ certain aid
At length had pierced this dreadful chief, I said,
‘Secure of future ills, he can no more:’
But see, he still pursues me as before.
With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn;
And his yet murdering ghost my wretched home must mourn.
This tyrant’s lust of slaughter I have fed
With large supplies from my too fruitful bed.
Troy’s towers lie waste; and the wide ruin ends
The public wo; but me fresh wo attends.
Troy still survives to me; to none but me;
And from its ills I never must be free.
I who so late had power, and wealth, and ease,
Bless’d with my husband, and a large increase,
Must now in poverty an exile mourn;
Ev’n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn:
Given to Penelope, who, proud of spoil,
Allots me to the loom’s ungrateful toil;
Points to her dames, and cries, with scorning mien,
‘See Hector’s mother, and great Priam’s queen!’
And thou, my child, sole hope of all that’s lost,
Thou now art slain, to soothe this hostile ghost.
Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe!
Then what am I, who still survive this wo?
Say, cruel gods! for what new scenes of death
Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath?
Troy fallen, to whom could Priam happy seem?
Yet was he so; and happy must I deem
His death; for, oh, my child! he saw not thine,
When he his life did with his Troy resign.
Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace;
And thou shalt sleep amid thy kingly race.
Alas, my child! such fortune does not wait
Our suffering house in this abandon’d state.
A foreign grave, and thy poor mother’s tears,
Are all the honours that attend thy hearse.
All now is lost! Yet no; one comfort more
Of life remains, my much-loved Polydore,
My youngest hope. Here on this coast he lives,
Nursed by the guardian king, he still survives.
Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood,
And wash away these stains of guiltless blood.”

Straight to the shore her feeble steps repair
With limping pace, and torn dishevell’d hair,
Silver’d with age. “Give me an urn,” she cried,
“To bear back water from this swelling tide:”
When on the banks her son in ghastly hue
Transfix’d with Thracian arrows strikes her view.
The matrons shriek’d; her big swoln grief surpass’d
The power of utterance; she stood aghast;
She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief:
Excess of wo suppress’d the rising grief.
Lifeless as stone, on earth she fix’d her eyes,
And then look’d up to heaven with wild surprise.
Now she contemplates o’er with sad delight
Her son’s pale visage; then her aching sight
Dwells on his wounds: she varies thus by turns,
Till with collected rage at length she burns,
Wild as the mother lion, when among
The haunts of prey she seeks her ravish’d young.
Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace,
And by the print directs her anxious chase.
So Hecuba with mingled grief and rage
Pursues the king, regardless of her age.
She greets the murderer, with dissembled joy
Of secret treasure hoarded for her boy.
The specious tale the unwary king betray’d.
Fired with the hopes of prey, “Give quick,” he said,
With soft enticing speech, “the promised store:
Whate’er you give, you give to Polydore.
Your son, by the immortal gods I swear,
Shall this with all your former bounty share.”
She stands attentive to his soothing lies,
And darts avenging horror from her eyes;
Then full resentment fires her boiling blood:
She springs upon him, mid the captive crowd:
(Her thirst of vengeance want of strength supplies:)
Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes;
Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues,
And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrues.

The Thracians, fired at this inhuman scene,
With darts and stones assail the frantic queen.
She snarls and growls, nor in a human tone;
Then bites impatient at the bounding stone;
Extends her jaws, as she her voice would raise
To keen invectives in her wonted phrase;
But barks, and thence the yelping brute betrays.
Still a sad monument the place remains,
And from this monstrous change its name obtains:
Where she, in long remembrance of her ills,
With plaintive howlings the wide desert fills.

Greeks, Trojans, friends and foes, and gods above,
Her numerous wrongs to just compassion move.
Ev’n Juno’s self forgets her ancient hate,
And owns she had deserved a milder fate.

Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was
To Troy, and those that loved the Trojan cause,
Nor Troy nor Hecuba can now bemoan,
But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own.
Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain,
She saw extended on the Phrygian plain:
She saw, and straight the purple beams, that grace
The rosy morning, vanish’d from her face;
A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades,
And veils the lowering skies with mournful shades.
But when his limbs upon the pile were laid,
The last kind duty that by friends is paid,
His mother to the skies directs her flight,
Nor could sustain to view the doleful sight:
But frantic, with her loose neglected hair,
Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there.
“Oh king of heaven, oh father of the skies,”
The weeping goddess passionately cries;
“Though I the meanest of immortals am,
And fewest temples celebrate my fame,
Yet still a goddess, I presume to come
Within the verge of your ethereal dome;
Yet still may plead some merit, if my light
“With purple dawn controls the powers of night;
If from a female hand that virtue springs,
Which to the gods and men such pleasure brings.
Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine,
Nor for more altars or more fanes repine;
Oh that such trifles were the only cause
From whence Aurora’s mind its anguish draws!
For Memnon lost, my dearest only child,
With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill’d;
My warrior son! that lived but half his time,
Nipp’d in the bud, and blasted in his prime;
Who for his uncle early took the field,
And by Achilles’ fatal spear was kill’d.
To whom but Jove should I for succour come?
For Jove alone could fix his cruel doom.
Oh sovereign of the gods, accept my prayer,
Grant my request, and soothe a mother’s care;
On the deceased some solemn boon bestow,
To expiate the loss, and ease my wo.”

Jove, with a nod, complied with her desire;
Around the body flamed the funeral fire;
The pile decreased, that lately seem’d so high,
And sheets of smoke roll’d upward to the sky:
As humid vapours from a marshy bog
Rise by degrees, condensing into fog,
That intercept the sun’s enlivening ray,
And with a cloud infect the cheerful day;
The sooty ashes wafted by the air,
Whirl round, and thicken in a body there;
Then take a form, which their own heat and fire,
With active life and energy inspire.
Its lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon
It skims on real wings, that are its own;
A real bird, it beats the breezy wind,
Mix’d with a thousand sisters of the kind,
That, from the same formation newly sprung,
Upborne aloft on plumy pinions hung.
Thrice round the pile advanced the circling throng;
Thrice, with their wings, a whizzing consort rung.
In the fourth flight their squadron they divide,
Rank’d in two different troops, on either side:
Then two and two, inspired with martial rage,
From either troop in equal pairs engage.
Each combatant with beak and pounces press’d,
In wrathful ire, his adversary’s breast;
Each falls a victim, to preserve the fame
Of that great hero whence their being came.
From him their courage and their name they take;
And, as they lived, they die for Memnon’s sake.
Punctual to time, with each revolving year,
In fresh array the champion birds appear;
Again, prepared with vengeful minds, they come
To bleed, in honour of the soldier’s tomb.

Therefore in others it appear’d not strange
To grieve for Hecuba’s unhappy change:
But poor Aurora had enough to do
With her own loss, to mind another’s wo;
Who still in tears her tender nature shows,
Besprinkling all the world with pearly dews.

Troy thus destroy’d, ’twas still denied by fate,
The hopes of Troy should perish with the state.
His sire, the son of Cytherea bore,
And household gods from burning Ilium’s shore.
The pious prince (a double duty paid)
Each sacred burden through the flames convey’d.
With young Ascanius, and this only prize,
Of heaps of wealth, he from Antandros flies;
But struck with horror, left the Thracian shore,
Stain’d with the blood of murder’d Polydore.
The Delian isle receives the banish’d train,
Driven by kind gales, and favour’d by the main.

Here pious Anius, priest and monarch, reign’d,
And either charge with equal care sustain’d;
His subjects ruled, to Phoebus homage paid,
His god obeying, and by those obey’d.

The priest displays his hospitable gate,
And shows the riches of his church and state;
The sacred shrubs, which eased Latona’s pain,
The palm, and olive, and the votive fane.
Here grateful flames with fuming incense fed,
And mingled wine ambrosial odours shed;
Of slaughter’d steers the crackling entrails burn’d;
And then the strangers to the court return’d.

On beds of tap’stry placed aloft, they dine
With Ceres’ gift, and flowing bowls of wine;
When thus Anchises spoke, amid the feast:
“Say, mitred monarch, Phoebus’ chosen priest,
Or (ere from Troy by cruel fate expell’d)
When first mine eyes these sacred walls beheld,
A son, and twice two daughters crown’d thy bliss?
Or errs my memory, and I judge amiss?”

The royal prophet shook his hoary head,
With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said:
“Thy memory errs not, prince; thou saw’st me then
The happy father of so large a train:
Behold me now, (such turns of chance befall
The race of man!) almost bereft of all.
For ah! what comfort can my son bestow,
What help afford, to mitigate my wo!
While far from hence, in Andros’ isle he reigns,
(From him so named,) and there my place sustains.
Him Delius prescience gave; the twice-born god
A boon more wondrous on the maids bestow’d.
Whate’er they touch’d, he gave them to transmute,
(A gift past credit, and above their suit,)
To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva’s fruit.
How great their value, and how rich their use,
Whose only touch such treasures could produce!

“The dire destroyer of the Trojan reign,
Fierce Agamemnon, such a prize to gain,
(A proof we also were design’d by fate
To feel the tempest that o’erturn’d your state,)
With force superior, and a ruffian crew,
From these weak arms the helpless virgins drew;
And sternly bade them use the grant divine,
To keep the fleet in corn, in oil, and wine.
Each, as they could, escaped: two strove to gain
Euboea’s isle, and two their brother’s reign.
The soldier follows, and demands the dames;
If held by force, immediate war proclaims.
Fear conquer’d nature in their brother’s mind,
And gave them up to punishment assign’d.
Forgive the deed; nor Hector’s arm was there,
Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war;
Whose only force upheld your Ilium’s towers,
For ten long years against the Grecian powers.
Prepared to bind their captive arms in bands,
To heaven they rear’d their yet unfetter’d hands,
‘Help, Bacchus, author of the gift,’ they pray’d;
The gift’s great author gave immediate aid;
If such destruction of the human frame,
By ways so wondrous, may deserve the name;
Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate
Exact the manner of their alter’d state;
But this in general of my loss I knew,
Transform’d to doves, on milky plumes they flew,
Such as on Ida’s mount thy consort’s chariot drew.”

With such discourse they entertain’d the feast;
Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest.
The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine,
The inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine;
The mystic power commands them to explore
Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore.
Attending to the sea, the generous prince
Dismiss’d his guests with rich munificence,
In old Anchises’ hand a sceptre placed,
A vest and quiver young Ascanius graced,
His sire a cup; which from the Aonian coast,
Ismenian Therses sent his royal host.
Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent,
And carved thereon this ample argument.

A town with seven distinguish’d gates was shown,
Which spoke its name, and made the city known;
Before it, piles and tombs, and rising flames,
The rites of death, and choirs of mourning dames
Who bared their breasts, and gave their hair to flow,
The signs of grief, and marks of public wo.
Their fountains dried, the weeping Naiads mourn’d,
The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn’d,
No herbage clothed the ground, a ragged flock
Of goats half famish’d lick’d the naked rock
Of manly courage, and with mind serene,
Orion’s daughters in the town were seen;
One heav’d her chest to meet the lifted knife,
One plunged the poniard through the seat of life,
Their country’s victims; mourns the rescued state,
The bodies burns, and celebrates their fate.
To save the failure of the illustrious line,
From the pale ashes rose, of form divine,
Two generous youths; these, fame Coronae calls,
Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother’s falls.

These burnish’d figures form’d of antique mould,
Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold;
A wreath of gilt acanthus round the brim was roll’d.

Nor less expense the Trojan gifts express’d;
A fuming censor for the royal priest,
A chalice, and a crown of princely cost,
With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss’d.

Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood,
Themselves remembering sprung from Teucer’s blood;
But heaven forbids, and pestilential Jove,
From noxious skies the wandering navy drove.
Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore,
And sought the destined land, Ausonia’s shore;
But toss’d by storms at either Strophas lay,
Till scared by harpies from the faithless bay.
Then passing onward with a prosperous wind,
Left sly Uylsses’ spacious realms behind;
Ambracia’s state, in former ages known
The strife of gods, the judge transform’d to stone
They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown’d,
Who Caesar’s arms with naval conquest crown’d;
Next pass’d Dodona, wont of old to boast
Her vocal forest; and Chaonia’s coast,
Where King Molossus’ sons on wings aspired,
And saw secure the harmless fuel fired.

Now to Phaeacia’s happy isle they came,
For fertile orchards known to early fame;
Epirus pass’d, they next beheld with joy
A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy;
Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway’d,
Who show’d their fate, and mystic truths display’d;
By him confirm’d, Sicilia’s isle they reach’d,
Whose sides to sea, three promontories stretch’d;
Pachynos to the stormy south is placed,
On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west,
Peloro’s cliffs the northern Bear survey,
Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea;
By this they steer, and favour’d by the tide,
Secure by night in Zancle’s harbour ride.

Here cruel Sylla gains the rocky shore,
And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar;
This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown’d,
And ravenous dogs the womb of that surround;
In face a virgin, and (if aught be true
By bards recorded) once a virgin too.

A train of youths in vain desired her bed,
By sea nymphs loved, to nymphs of seas she fled;
The maid to these, with female pride, display’d
Their baffled courtship, and their love betray’d.

When Galatea thus bespoke the fair,
(But first she sigh’d,) while Scylla comb’d her hair,
“You, lovely maid, a generous race pursues,
Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse;
To me, though powerful in a numerous train
Of sisters, sprung from gods, who rule the main,
My native seas could scarce a refuge prove,
To shun the fury of the cyclop’s love.”
Tears choked her utterance here; the pitying maid
With marble fingers wiped them off, and said;
“My dearest goddess, let thy Scylla know
(For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow.”
The maid’s entreaties o’er the nymph prevail,
Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale.

“Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn,
From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis, born,
Was both his parents’ pleasure, but to me,
Was all that love could make a lover be.
The gods our minds in mutual bands did join,
I was his only joy, and he was mine.
Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen,
And doubtful down began to shade his chin,
When Polyphemus first disturbed our joy,
And loved me fiercely, as I loved the boy.
Ask not which passion in my soul was higher
My last aversion, or my first desire,
Nor this the greater was, nor that the less,
Both were alike, for both were in excess.
Thee, Venus, thee, both heaven and earth obey,
Immense thy power, and boundless is thy sway.
The cyclop, who defied the ethereal throne,
And thought no thunder louder than his own,
The terror of the woods, and wilder far
Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests, are,
The inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts
On mangled members of his butcher’d guests,
Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire,
And burn’d for me with unrelenting fire
Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care,
Assumed the softness of a lover’s air,
And comb’d, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair:
Now with a crooked scythe his beard he sleeks,
And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks;
Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try
His courteous bows, and rolls his glaring eye.
His cruelty and thirst for blood are lost;
And ships securely sail along the coast.

“The prophet Telemus (arrived by chance
Where Aetna’s summits to the seas advance,
Who mark’d the tracks of every bird that flew,
And sure presages from their flying drew)
Foretold the cyclop that Ulysses hand
In his broad eye should thrust a flaming brand.
The giant, with a scornful grin, replied,
‘Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesied;
Already love his flaming brand has toss’d,
Looking on two fair eyes my sight I lost.’
Thus, warn’d in vain, with stalking pace he strode,
And stamp’d the margin of the briny flood
With heavy steps, and weary, sought again
The cool retirement of his gloomy den.

“A promontory, sharpening by degrees,
Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas,
On either side below, the water flows;
This airy walk the giant lover chose.
Here on the midst he sat, his flocks unled,
Their shepherd follow’d, and securely fed;
A pine, so burly, and of length so vast,
That sailing ships required it for a mast,
He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide,
But laid it by, his whistle while he tried;
A hundred reeds, of a prodigious growth,
Scarce made a pipe proportion’d to his mouth,
Which, when he gave it wind, the rocks around,
And watery plains, the dreadful hiss resound.
I heard the ruffian shepherd rudely blow,
Where in a hollow cave I sat below;
On Acis’ bosom I my head reclined,
And still preserve the poem in my mind.

“ ‘Oh, lovely Galatea! whiter far
Than falling snows and rising lilies are;
More flowery than the meads, as crystal bright;
Erect as alders, and of equal height:
More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin
Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen:
Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade;
Pleasing as winter suns, or summer shade:
More grateful to the sight than goodly plains,
And softer to the touch than down of swans;
Or curds new turn’d; and sweeter to the taste
Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste:
More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray
Through garden plots, but, ah! more swift than they.

“ ‘Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke
Than bullocks, unreclaim’d to bear the yoke,
And far more stubborn than the knotted oak:
Like sliding streams, impossible to hold;
Like them fallacious, like their fountains cold;
More warping than the willow, to decline
My warm embrace, more brittle than the vine;
Immoveable and fix’d in thy disdain:
Rough as these rocks, and of a harder grain.
More violent than is the rising flood;
And the praised peacock is not half so proud.
Fierce as the fire, and sharp as thistles are,
And more outrageous than a mother bear:
Deaf as the billows to the vows I make;
And more revengeful than a trodden snake
In swiftness fleeter than the flying hind,
Or driven tempests, or the driving wind.
All other faults with patience I can bear,
But swiftness is the vice I only fear.

“ ‘Yet, if you knew me well, you would not shun
My love, but to my wish’d embraces run:
Would languish in your turn, and court my stay,
And much repent of your unwise delay.

“ ‘My palace in the living rock is made
By nature’s hand: a spacious pleasing shade;
Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade.
My garden fill’d with fruits you may behold,
And grapes in clusters, imitating gold;
Some blushing bunches of a purple hue;
And these, and those, are all reserved for you.
Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand,
Proud to be gather’d by so white a hand.
Autumnal cornels later fruit provide,
And plums, to tempt you, turn their glossy side:
Not those of common kinds, but such alone
As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown:
Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food,
Nor garden fruits, nor wildings of the wood;
The laden boughs for you alone shall bear;
And yours shall be the product of the year.

“ ‘The flocks you see are all my own; beside
The rest that woods and winding valleys hide,
And those that folded in the caves abide.
Ask not the numbers of my growing store;
Who knows how many, knows he has no more:
Nor will I praise my cattle, trust not me,
But judge yourself, and pass your own decree:
Behold their swelling dugs, the sweepy weight
Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight;
In the warm folds their tender lambkins lie,
Apart from kids, that call with human cry.
New milk in nut-brown bowls is duly served
For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserved.
Nor are these household dainties all my store:
The fields and forests will afford us more;
The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar.
All sorts of venison; and of birds the best;
A pair of turtles taken from the nest.
I walk’d the mountains, and two cubs I found,
(Whose dam had left them on the naked ground,)
So like, that no distinction could be seen:
So pretty, they were presents for a queen;
And so they shall: I took them both away,
And keep to be companions of your play.

“ ‘Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above
The waves, nor scorn my presents and my love.
Come, Galatea, come, and view my face;
I late beheld it in the watery glass,
And found it lovelier than I fear’d it was.
Survey my towering stature, and my size:
Not Jove, the Jove you dream that rules the skies,
Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread:
My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head)
Hang o’er my manly face, and dangling down,
As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown:
Nor think, because my limbs and body bear
A thickset underwood of bristling hair,
My shape deform’d; what fouler sight can be
Than the bald branches of a leafless tree?
Foul is the steed without a flowing mane,
And birds without their feathers and their train.
Wool decks the sheep, and man receives a grace
From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face:
My forehead with a single eye is fill’d,
Round as a ball, and ample as a shield;
The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant sun,
Is nature’s eye, and she’s content with one:
Add, that my father sways your seas, and I,
Like you, am of the watery family;
I make you his, in making you my own;
You I adore, and kneel to you alone.
Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise,
And only fear the lightning of your eyes.
Frown not, fair nymph; yet I could bear to be
Disdain’d, if others were disdain’d with me
But to repulse the cyclop, and prefer
The love of Acis, heavens! I cannot bear.
But let the stripling please himself; nay, more,
Please you, though that’s the thing I most abhor;
The boy shall find, if e’er we cope in fight,’
These giant limbs endued with giant might.
His living bowels, from his belly torn,
And scatter’d limbs, shall on the flood be borne;
Thy flood, ungrateful nymph, and fate shall find
That way for thee and Acis to be join’d:
For, oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain
Augments at once my passion and my pain.
Translated Aetna flames within my heart,
And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart.’

“Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode
With furious paces to the neighbouring wood:
Restless his feet, distracted was his walk,
Mad were his motions, and confused his talk:
Mad as the vanquish’d bull when forced to yield
His lovely mistress, and forsake the field.

“Thus far unseen I saw; when fatal chance
His looks directing, with a sudden glance,
Acis and I were to his sight betray’d,
Where, naught suspecting, we securely play’d,
From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast:
‘I see, I see; but this shall be your last.’
A roar so loud made jEtna to rebound;
And all the cyclop labour’d in the sound.
Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled,
And in the neighbouring ocean plunged my head:
Poor Acis turn’d his back, and, ‘Help,’ he cried,
‘Help, Galatea; help, my parent gods,
And take me, dying, to your deep abodes.’
The cyclop follow’d, but he sent before
A rib, which from the living rock he tore:
Though but an angle reach’d him of the stone,
The mighty fragment was enough alone
To crush all Acis. ’Twas too late to save;
But what the fntes allow’d to give, I gave;
That Acis to his lineage should return,
And roll among the river gods his urn.
Straight issued from the stone a stream of blood,
Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood:
Then like a double torrent it appear’d,
The torrent too, in little space was clear’d
The stone was cleft and through the yawning chink
New reeds arose on the new river’s brink.
The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclosed
A sound like water in its course opposed,
When, wondrous to behold! full in the flood,
Up starts a youth, and navel-high he stood;
Horns from his temples rise, and either horn
Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn.
Were not his stature taller than before,
His bulk augmented, and his beauty more,
His colour blue, for Acis he might pass,
And Acis changed into a stream he was:
But mine no more; he rolls along the plains
With rapid motion, and his name retains.”

Here ceased the nymph; the fair assembly broke,
The sea-green nereids to the waves betook;
While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main,
Swift to the safer shore returns again;
There o’er the sandy margin, unarray’d,
With printless footsteps, flies the bounding maid;
Or in some winding creek’s secure retreat
She bathes her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday heat.
Her, Glaucus saw, as o’er the deep he rode,
New to the seas, and late received a god.
He saw, and languish’d for the virgin’s love.
With many an artful blandishment he strove
Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove.
The more he sues, the more she wings her flight.
And nimbly gains a neighbouring mountain’s height
Steep shelving to the margin of the flood,
A neighbouring mountain bare and woodless stood.
Here, by the place secured, her steps she stay’d,
And, trembling still, her lover’s form survey’d.
His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appal,
And drooping locks, that o’er his shoulders fall;
She sees his face divine, and manly brow,
End in a fish’s writhy tail below;
She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind,
Whether he comes of god or monster kind.
This Glaucus soon perceived, and, “Oh, forbear!”
His hand supporting on a rock lay near,
“Forbear,” he cried, “fond maid, this needless fear;
Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main,
But equal with the watery gods I reign;
Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excel,
Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell.
My birth, ’tis true, I owe to mortal race,
And I myself but late a mortal was:
Ev’n then, in seas, and seas alone, I joy’d,
The seas my hours and all my cares employ’d.
In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew;
Now skilfully the slender line I threw,
And silent sat the moving float to view.
Not far from shore there lies a verdant mead,
With herbage half, and half with water spread:
There nor the horned heifers browsing stray,
Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play:
There nor the sounding bees their nectar cull,
Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull,
Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers, haunt the place,
To crop the flowers, or cut the bushy grass:
Thither sure first of living race came I,
And sat, by chance, my drooping nets to dry.
My scaly prize, in order all display’d,
By number on the greensward there I laid
My captives, which or in my nets I took,
Or hung unwary on my wily hook.
Strange to behold! yet what avails a lie?
I saw them bite the grass as I sat by,
Then sudden darting o’er the verdant plain,
They spread their fins, as in their native main;
I paused, with wonder’struck, while all my prey
Left their new master, and regain’d the sea.
Amazed, within my secret self I sought,
What god, what herb, the miracle had wrought.
“But sure no herbs have power like this,” I cried,
And straight I pluck’d some neighbouring herbs and tried.
Scarce had I bit, and proved the wondrous taste,
When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast,
I felt my heart grow fond of something strange,
And my whole nature labouring with a change.
Restless I grew, and ev’ry place forsook,
And still upon the seas I bent my look.
“Farewell for ever! farewell, land!’ I said,
And plunged among the waves my sinking head.
The gentle powers, who that low empire keep,
Received me as a brother of the deep:
To Tethys, and to Ocean old they pray
To purge my mortal earthy parts away.
The watery parents to their suit agreed,
And thrice nine times a secret charm they read,
Then with lustrations purify my limbs,
And bid me bathe beneath a hundred streams:
A hundred streams from various fountains run,
And on my head at once come rushing down.
Thus far each passage I remember well,
And faithfully thus far the tale I tell;
But then oblivion dark on all my senses fell.
Again, at length, my thoughts reviving came,
When I no longer found myself the same;
Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow,
And these large honours on my spreading brow,
My long descending locks the billows sweep,
And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep;
My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue,
And every part divinely changed, I view.
But what avails these useless honours now?
What joys can immortality bestow?
What, though our Nereids all my form approve?
What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love?”

Thus far the god; and more he would have said;
When from his presence flew the ruthless maid.
Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort,
He seeks Titanian Circe’s horrid court.