The Iliad (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

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      Have we not known thee, slave! of all our host,

      The man who acts the least, upbraids the most?

      Think not the Greeks to shameful flight to bring,

      Nor let those lips profane the name of king.

      For our return we trust the heavenly powers;

      Be that their care; to fight like men be ours.

      But grant the host with wealth the general load,

      Except detraction, what hast thou bestow’d?

      Suppose some hero should his spoils resign,

      Art thou that hero, could those spoils be thine?

      Gods! let me perish on this hateful shore,

      And let these eyes behold my son no more;

      If, on thy next offence, this hand forbear

      To strip those arms thou ill deserv’st to wear,

      Expel the council where our princes meet,

      And send thee scourged and howling through the fleet.”

      He said, and cowering as the dastard bends,

      The weighty sceptre on his bank descends. ¹³

      On the round bunch the bloody tumours rise:

      The tears spring starting from his haggard eyes;

      Trembling he sat, and shrunk in abject fears,

      From his vile visage wiped the scalding tears;

      While to his neighbour each express’d his thought:

      “Ye gods! what wonders has Ulysses wrought!

      What fruits his conduct and his courage yield!

      Great in the council, glorious in the field.

      Generous he rises in the crown’s defence,

      To curb the factious tongue of insolence,

      Such just examples on offenders shown,

      Sedition silence, and assert the throne.”

      ’Twas thus the general voice the hero praised,

      Who, rising, high the imperial sceptre raised:

      The blue-eyed Pallas, his celestial friend,

      (In form a herald,) bade the crowds attend.

      The expecting crowds in still attention hung,

      To hear the wisdom of his heavenly tongue.

      Then deeply thoughtful, pausing ere he spoke,

      His silence thus the prudent hero broke:

      “Unhappy monarch! whom the Grecian race

      With shame deserting, heap with vile disgrace.

      Not such at Argos was their generous vow:

      Once all their voice, but ah! forgotten now:

      Ne’er to return, was then the common cry,

      Till Troy’s proud structures should in ashes lie.

      Behold them weeping for their native shore;

      What could their wives or helpless children more?

      What heart but melts to leave the tender train,

      And, one short month, endure the wintry main?

      Few leagues removed, we wish our peaceful seat,

      When the ship tosses, and the tempests beat:

      Then well may this long stay provoke their tears,

      The tedious length of nine revolving years.

      Not for their grief the Grecian host I blame;

      But vanquish’d! baffled! oh, eternal shame!

      Expect the time to Troy’s destruction given.

      And try the faith of Chalcas and of heaven.

      What pass’d at Aulis, Greece can witness bear, ¹⁴

      And all who live to breathe this Phrygian air.

      Beside a fountain’s sacred brink we raised

      Our verdant altars, and the victims blazed:

      ’Twas where the plane-tree spread its shades around,

      The altars heaved; and from the crumbling ground

      A mighty dragon shot, of dire portent;

      From Jove himself the dreadful sign was sent.

      Straight to the tree his sanguine spires he roll’d,

      And curl’d around in many a winding fold;

      The topmost branch a mother-bird possess’d;

      Eight callow infants fill’d the mossy nest;

      Herself the ninth; the serpent, as he hung,

      Stretch’d his black jaws and crush’d the crying young;

      While hovering near, with miserable moan,

      The drooping mother wail’d her children gone.

      The mother last, as round the nest she flew,

      Seized by the beating wing, the monster slew;

      Nor long survived: to marble turn’d, he stands

      A lasting prodigy on Aulis’ sands.

      Such was the will of Jove; and hence we dare

      Trust in his omen, and support the war.

      For while around we gazed with wondering eyes,

      And trembling sought the powers with sacrifice,

      Full of his god, the reverend Chalcas cried, ¹⁵

      ‘Ye Grecian warriors! lay your fears aside.

      This wondrous signal Jove himself displays,

      Of long, long labours, but eternal praise.

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