Metamorphoses (Books I-XIV)
The Death of Achilles
12:765 The sire of Cygnus, monarch of the main,
12:766 Mean-time, laments his son, in battel slain,
12:767 And vows the victor's death; nor vows in vain.
12:768 For nine long years the smother'd pain he bore
12:769 (Achilles was not ripe for Fate before):
12:770 Then when he saw the promis'd hour was near,
12:771 He thus bespoke the God, that guides the year:
12:772 Immortal offspring of my brother Jove;
12:773 My brightest nephew, and whom best I love,
12:774 Whose hands were join'd with mine, to raise the wall
12:775 Of tott'ring Troy, now nodding to her fall,
12:776 Dost thou not mourn our pow'r employ'd in vain;
12:777 And the defenders of our city slain?
12:778 To pass the rest, could noble Hector lie
12:779 Unpity'd, drag'd around his native Troy?
12:780 And yet the murd'rer lives: himself by far
12:781 A greater plague, than all the wasteful war:
12:782 He lives; the proud Pelides lives, to boast
12:783 Our town destroy'd, our common labour lost.
12:784 O, could I meet him! But I wish too late:
12:785 To prove my trident is not in his Fate!
12:786 But let him try (for that's allow'd) thy dart,
12:787 And pierce his only penetrable part.
12:788 Apollo bows to the superior throne;
12:789 And to his uncle's anger, adds his own.
12:790 Then in a cloud involv'd, he takes his flight,
12:791 Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal fight;
12:792 And found out Paris, lurking where he stood,
12:793 And stain'd his arrows with plebeian blood:
12:794 Phoebus to him alone the God confess'd,
12:795 Then to the recreant knight, he thus address'd.
12:796 Dost thou not blush, to spend thy shafts in vain
12:797 On a degenerate, and ignoble train?
12:798 If fame, or better vengeance be thy care,
12:799 There aim: and, with one arrow, end the war.
12:800 He said; and shew'd from far the blazing shield
12:801 And sword, which, but Achilles, none cou'd wield;
12:802 And how he mov'd a God, and mow'd the standing field.
12:803 The deity himself directs aright
12:804 Th' invenom'd shaft; and wings the fatal flight.
12:805 Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian name;
12:806 And he, the base adult'rer, boasts the fame.
12:807 A spectacle to glad the Trojan train;
12:808 And please old Priam, after Hector slain.
12:809 If by a female hand he had foreseen
12:810 He was to die, his wish had rather been
12:811 The lance, and double ax of the fair warriour queen.
12:812 And now the terror of the Trojan field,
12:813 The Grecian honour, ornament, and shield,
12:814 High on a pile, th' unconquer'd chief is plac'd,
12:815 The God that arm'd him first, consum'd at last.
12:816 Of all the mighty man, the small remains
12:817 A little urn, and scarcely fill'd, contains.
12:818 Yet great in Homer, still Achilles lives;
12:819 And equal to himself, himself survives.
12:820 His buckler owns its former lord; and brings
12:821 New cause of strife, betwixt contending kings;
12:822 Who worthi'st after him, his sword to wield,
12:823 Or wear his armour, or sustain his shield.
12:824 Ev'n Diomede sat mute, with down-cast eyes;
12:825 Conscious of wanted worth to win the prize:
12:826 Nor Menelaus presum'd these arms to claim,
12:827 Nor he the king of men, a greater name.
12:828 Two rivals only rose: Laertes' son,
12:829 And the vast bulk of Ajax Telamon:
12:830 The king, who cherish'd each with equal love,
12:831 And from himself all envy wou'd remove,
12:832 Left both to be determin'd by the laws;
12:833 And to the Graecian chiefs transferr'd the cause.
BOOK THE THIRTEENTH
Metamorphoses (Books I-XIV)
The Death of Achilles
12:765 The sire of Cygnus, monarch of the main,
12:766 Mean-time, laments his son, in battel slain,
12:767 And vows the victor's death; nor vows in vain.
12:768 For nine long years the smother'd pain he bore
12:769 (Achilles was not ripe for Fate before):
12:770 Then when he saw the promis'd hour was near,
12:771 He thus bespoke the God, that guides the year:
12:772 Immortal offspring of my brother Jove;
12:773 My brightest nephew, and whom best I love,
12:774 Whose hands were join'd with mine, to raise the wall
12:775 Of tott'ring Troy, now nodding to her fall,
12:776 Dost thou not mourn our pow'r employ'd in vain;
12:777 And the defenders of our city slain?
12:778 To pass the rest, could noble Hector lie
12:779 Unpity'd, drag'd around his native Troy?
12:780 And yet the murd'rer lives: himself by far
12:781 A greater plague, than all the wasteful war:
12:782 He lives; the proud Pelides lives, to boast
12:783 Our town destroy'd, our common labour lost.
12:784 O, could I meet him! But I wish too late:
12:785 To prove my trident is not in his Fate!
12:786 But let him try (for that's allow'd) thy dart,
12:787 And pierce his only penetrable part.
12:788 Apollo bows to the superior throne;
12:789 And to his uncle's anger, adds his own.
12:790 Then in a cloud involv'd, he takes his flight,
12:791 Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal fight;
12:792 And found out Paris, lurking where he stood,
12:793 And stain'd his arrows with plebeian blood:
12:794 Phoebus to him alone the God confess'd,
12:795 Then to the recreant knight, he thus address'd.
12:796 Dost thou not blush, to spend thy shafts in vain
12:797 On a degenerate, and ignoble train?
12:798 If fame, or better vengeance be thy care,
12:799 There aim: and, with one arrow, end the war.
12:800 He said; and shew'd from far the blazing shield
12:801 And sword, which, but Achilles, none cou'd wield;
12:802 And how he mov'd a God, and mow'd the standing field.
12:803 The deity himself directs aright
12:804 Th' invenom'd shaft; and wings the fatal flight.
12:805 Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian name;
12:806 And he, the base adult'rer, boasts the fame.
12:807 A spectacle to glad the Trojan train;
12:808 And please old Priam, after Hector slain.
12:809 If by a female hand he had foreseen
12:810 He was to die, his wish had rather been
12:811 The lance, and double ax of the fair warriour queen.
12:812 And now the terror of the Trojan field,
12:813 The Grecian honour, ornament, and shield,
12:814 High on a pile, th' unconquer'd chief is plac'd,
12:815 The God that arm'd him first, consum'd at last.
12:816 Of all the mighty man, the small remains
12:817 A little urn, and scarcely fill'd, contains.
12:818 Yet great in Homer, still Achilles lives;
12:819 And equal to himself, himself survives.
12:820 His buckler owns its former lord; and brings
12:821 New cause of strife, betwixt contending kings;
12:822 Who worthi'st after him, his sword to wield,
12:823 Or wear his armour, or sustain his shield.
12:824 Ev'n Diomede sat mute, with down-cast eyes;
12:825 Conscious of wanted worth to win the prize:
12:826 Nor Menelaus presum'd these arms to claim,
12:827 Nor he the king of men, a greater name.
12:828 Two rivals only rose: Laertes' son,
12:829 And the vast bulk of Ajax Telamon:
12:830 The king, who cherish'd each with equal love,
12:831 And from himself all envy wou'd remove,
12:832 Left both to be determin'd by the laws;
12:833 And to the Graecian chiefs transferr'd the cause.
BOOK THE THIRTEENTH