The Iliad (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

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СКАЧАТЬ when inclement winters vex the plain

      With piercing frosts, or thick-descending rain,

      To warmer seas the cranes embodied fly, ¹

      With noise, and order, through the midway sky;

      To pigmy nations wounds and death they bring,

      And all the war descends upon the wing,

      But silent, breathing rage, resolved and skill’d ²

      By mutual aids to fix a doubtful field,

      Swift march the Greeks: the rapid dust around

      Darkening arises from the labour’d ground.

      Thus from his flaggy wings when Notus sheds

      A night of vapours round the mountain heads,

      Swift-gliding mists the dusky fields invade,

      To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade;

      While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey,

      Lost and confused amidst the thicken’d day:

      So wrapp’d in gathering dust, the Grecian train,

      A moving cloud, swept on, and hid the plain.

      Now front to front the hostile armies stand,

      Eager of fight, and only wait command;

      When, to the van, before the sons of fame

      Whom Troy sent forth, the beauteous Paris came:

      In form a god! the panther’s speckled hide

      Flow’d o’er his armour with an easy pride:

      His bended bow across his shoulders flung,

      His sword beside him negligently hung;

      Two pointed spears he shook with gallant grace,

      And dared the bravest of the Grecian race.

      As thus, with glorious air and proud disdain,

      He boldly stalk’d, the foremost on the plain,

      Him Menelaus, loved of Mars, espies,

      With heart elated, and with joyful eyes:

      So joys a lion, if the branching deer,

      Or mountain goat, his bulky prize, appear;

      Eager he seizes and devours the slain,

      Press’d by bold youths and baying dogs in vain.

      Thus fond of vengeance, with a furious bound,

      In clanging arms he leaps upon the ground

      From his high chariot: him, approaching near,

      The beauteous champion views with marks of fear,

      Smit with a conscious sense, retires behind,

      And shuns the fate he well deserved to find.

      As when some shepherd, from the rustling trees ³

      Shot forth to view, a scaly serpent sees,

      Trembling and pale, he starts with wild affright

      And all confused precipitates his flight:

      So from the king the shining warrior flies,

      And plunged amid the thickest Trojans lies.

      As godlike Hector sees the prince retreat,

      He thus upbraids him with a generous heat:

      “Unhappy Paris! but to women brave! ⁴

      So fairly form’d, and only to deceive!

      Oh, hadst thou died when first thou saw’st the light,

      Or died at least before thy nuptial rite!

      A better fate than vainly thus to boast,

      And fly, the scandal of thy Trojan host.

      Gods! how the scornful Greeks exult to see

      Their fears of danger undeceived in thee!

      Thy figure promised with a martial air,

      But ill thy soul supplies a form so fair.

      In former days, in all thy gallant pride,

      When thy tall ships triumphant stemm’d the tide,

      When Greece beheld thy painted canvas flow,

      And crowds stood wondering at the passing show,

      Say, was it thus, with such a baffled mien,

      You met the approaches of the Spartan queen,

      Thus from her realm convey’d the beauteous prize,

      And both her warlike lords outshined in Helen’s eyes?

      This deed, thy foes’ delight, thy own disgrace,

      Thy father’s grief, and ruin of thy race;

      This deed recalls thee to the proffer’d fight;

      Or hast thou injured whom thou dar’st not right?

      Soon to thy cost the field would make thee know

      Thou keep’st the consort of a braver foe.

      Thy graceful form instilling soft desire,

      Thy curling tresses, and thy silver lyre,

      Beauty and youth; in vain to these you trust,

      When youth and beauty shall be laid in dust:

      Troy yet may wake, and one avenging blow

      Crush the dire author of his country’s woe.”

      His silence here, with blushes, Paris breaks:

      “’Tis just, my brother, what your anger speaks:

      But who like thee can boast a soul sedate,

      So firmly proof to all the shocks of fate?

      Thy force, like steel, a temper’d hardness shows,

      Still СКАЧАТЬ