The Iliad. Homer

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       And, prudent, thus the chosen few address'd:

       "Hear me, my friends! In the still hours of night

       I saw a heav'nly Vision in my sleep:

       Most like it seemed in stature, form, and face

       To rev'rend Nestor; at my head it stood,

       And with these words address'd me—'Sleep'st thou, son

       Of Atreus, valiant warrior, horseman bold?

       To sleep all night but ill becomes a chief,

       Charg'd with the public weal, and cares of state.

       Hear now the words I bear: to thee I come

       A messenger from Jove, who from on high

       Looks down on thee with eyes of pitying love.

       He bids thee arm in haste the long-hair'd Greeks

       To combat: since the wide-built streets of Troy

       Thou now may'st capture; for th' immortal Gods

       Watch over her no longer: all are gain'd

       By Juno's pray'rs, and woes impend o'er Troy.

       Bear thou my words in mind.' Thus as he spoke

       He vanish'd; and sweet sleep forsook mine eyes.

       Seek we then straight to arm the sons of Greece:

       But first, as is our wont, myself will prove

       The spirit of the army; and suggest

       Their homeward voyage; ye, throughout the camp

       Restore their courage, and restrain from flight."

      Thus having said, he sat; and next arose

       Nestor, the chief of Pylos' sandy shore.

       Who thus with prudent speech replied, and said:

       "O friends, the chiefs and councillors of Greece,

       If any other had this Vision seen,

       We should have deem'd it false, and laugh'd to scorn

       The idle tale; but now it hath appear'd,

       Of all our army, to the foremost man:

       Seek we then straight to arm the sons of Greece."

      He said, and from the council led the way.

       Uprose the sceptred monarchs, and obey'd

       Their leader's call, and round them throng'd the crowd.

       As swarms of bees, that pour in ceaseless stream

       From out the crevice of some hollow rock,

       Now clust'ring, and anon 'mid vernal flow'rs,

       Some here, some there, in busy numbers fly;

       So to th' Assembly from their tents and ships

       The countless tribes came thronging; in their midst,

       By Jove enkindled, Rumour urged them on.

       Great was the din; and as the mighty mass

       Sat down, the solid earth beneath them groan'd;

       Nine heralds rais'd their voices loud, to quell

       The storm of tongues, and bade the noisy crowd

       Be still, and listen to the Heav'n-born Kings.

      At length they all were seated, and awhile

       Their clamours sank to silence; then uprose

       The monarch Agamemnon, in his hand

       His royal staff, the work of Vulcan's art;

       Which Vulcan to the son of Saturn gave;

       To Hermes he, the heav'nly messenger;

       Hermes to Pelops, matchless charioteer;

       Pelops to Atreus; Atreus at his death

       Bequeath'd it to Thyestes, wealthy Lord

       Of num'rous herds; to Agamemnon last

       Thyestes left it; token of his sway

       O'er all the Argive coast, and neighbouring isles.

       On this the monarch leant, as thus he spoke:

       "Friends, Grecian Heroes, Ministers of Mars!

       Grievous, and all unlook'd for, is the blow

       Which Jove hath dealt me; by his promise led

       I hop'd to raze the strong-built walls of Troy,

       And home return in safety; but it seems

       He falsifies his word, and bids me now

       Return to Argos, frustrate of my hope,

       Dishonour'd, and with grievous loss of men.

       Such now appears th' o'er-ruling sov'reign will

       Of Saturn's son; who oft hath sunk the heads

       Of many a lofty city in the dust,

       And yet will sink; for mighty is his hand.

       'Tis shame indeed that future days should hear

       How such a force as ours, so great, so brave,

       Hath thus been baffled, fighting, as we do,

       'Gainst numbers far inferior to our own,

       And see no end of all our warlike toil.

       For should we choose, on terms of plighted truce,

       Trojans and Greeks, to number our array;

       Of Trojans, all that dwell within the town,

       And we, by tens disposed, to every ten,

       To crown our cups, one Trojan should assign,

       Full many a ten no cupbearer would find:

       So far the sons of Greece outnumber all

       That dwell within the town; but to their aid

       Bold warriors come from all the cities round,

       Who greatly harass me, and render vain

       My hope to storm the strong-built walls of Troy.

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