The Iliad (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

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      To calm their passion with the words of age,

      Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage,

      Experienced Nestor, in persuasion skill’d;

      Words, sweet as honey, from his lips distill’d: ¹⁹

      Two generations now had pass’d away,

      Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;

      Two ages o’er his native realm he reign’d,

      And now the example of the third remain’d.

      All view’d with awe the venerable man;

      Who thus with mild benevolence began:—

      “What shame, what woe is this to Greece! what joy

      To Troy’s proud monarch, and the friends of Troy!

      That adverse gods commit to stern debate

      The best, the bravest, of the Grecian state.

      Young as ye are, this youthful heat restrain,

      Nor think your Nestor’s years and wisdom vain.

      A godlike race of heroes once I knew,

      Such as no more these aged eyes shall view!

      Lives there a chief to match Pirithous’ fame,

      Dryas the bold, or Ceneus’ deathless name;

      Theseus, endued with more than mortal might,

      Or Polyphemus, like the gods in fight?

      With these of old, to toils of battle bred,

      In early youth my hardy days I led;

      Fired with the thirst which virtuous envy breeds,

      And smit with love of honourable deeds,

      Strongest of men, they pierced the mountain boar,

      Ranged the wild deserts red with monsters’ gore,

      And from their hills the shaggy Centaurs tore:

      Yet these with soft persuasive arts I sway’d;

      When Nestor spoke, they listen’d and obey’d.

      If in my youth, even these esteem’d me wise;

      Do you, young warriors, hear my age advise.

      Atrides, seize not on the beauteous slave;

      That prize the Greeks by common suffrage gave:

      Nor thou, Achilles, treat our prince with pride;

      Let kings be just, and sovereign power preside.

      Thee, the first honours of the war adorn,

      Like gods in strength, and of a goddess born;

      Him, awful majesty exalts above

      The powers of earth, and sceptred sons of Jove.

      Let both unite with well-consenting mind,

      So shall authority with strength be join’d.

      Leave me, O king! to calm Achilles’ rage;

      Rule thou thyself, as more advanced in age.

      Forbid it, gods! Achilles should be lost,

      The pride of Greece, and bulwark of our host.”

      This said, he ceased. The king of men replies:

      “Thy years are awful, and thy words are wise.

      But that imperious, that unconquer’d soul,

      No laws can limit, no respect control.

      Before his pride must his superiors fall;

      His word the law, and he the lord of all?

      Him must our hosts, our chiefs, ourself obey?

      What king can bear a rival in his sway?

      Grant that the gods his matchless force have given;

      Has foul reproach a privilege from heaven?”

      Here on the monarch’s speech Achilles broke,

      And furious, thus, and interrupting spoke:

      “Tyrant, I well deserved thy galling chain,

      To live thy slave, and still to serve in vain,

      Should I submit to each unjust decree:—

      Command thy vassals, but command not me.

      Seize on Briseis, whom the Grecians doom’d

      My prize of war, yet tamely see resumed;

      And seize secure; no more Achilles draws

      His conquering sword in any woman’s cause.

      The gods command me to forgive the past:

      But let this first invasion be the last:

      For know, thy blood, when next thou darest invade,

      Shall stream in vengeance on my reeking blade.”

      At this they ceased: the stern debate expired:

      The chiefs in sullen majesty retired.

      Achilles with Patroclus took his way

      Where near his tents his hollow vessels lay.

      Meantime Atrides launch’d with numerous oars

      A well-rigg’d ship for Chrysa’s sacred shores:

      High on the deck was fair Chryseis placed,

      And sage Ulysses with the conduct graced:

      Safe in her sides the hecatomb they stow’d,

      Then swiftly sailing, cut the liquid road.

      The host to expiate next the king prepares,

      With pure lustrations, and with solemn prayers.

      Wash’d by the briny wave, the pious train ²⁰

      Are cleansed; and cast the ablutions in the main.

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