The Iliad. Гомер

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СКАЧАТЬ the sign’d victims crops the curling hair;

      The heralds part it, and the princes share;

      Then loudly thus before the attentive bands

      He calls the gods, and spreads his lifted hands:

      “O first and greatest power! whom all obey,

      Who high on Ida’s holy mountain sway,

      Eternal Jove! and you bright orb that roll

      From east to west, and view from pole to pole!

      Thou mother Earth! and all ye living floods!

      Infernal furies, and Tartarean gods,

      Who rule the dead, and horrid woes prepare

      For perjured kings, and all who falsely swear!

      Hear, and be witness. If, by Paris slain,

      Great Menelaus press the fatal plain;

      The dame and treasures let the Trojan keep,

      And Greece returning plough the watery deep.

      If by my brother’s lance the Trojan bleed,

      Be his the wealth and beauteous dame decreed:

      The appointed fine let Ilion justly pay,

      And every age record the signal day.

      This if the Phrygians shall refuse to yield,

      Arms must revenge, and Mars decide the field.”

      With that the chief the tender victims slew,

      And in the dust their bleeding bodies threw;

      The vital spirit issued at the wound,

      And left the members quivering on the ground.

      From the same urn they drink the mingled wine,

      And add libations to the powers divine.

      While thus their prayers united mount the sky,

      “Hear, mighty Jove! and hear, ye gods on high!

      And may their blood, who first the league confound,

      Shed like this wine, disdain the thirsty ground;

      May all their consorts serve promiscuous lust,

      And all their lust be scatter’d as the dust!”

      Thus either host their imprecations join’d,

      Which Jove refused, and mingled with the wind.

      The rites now finish’d, reverend Priam rose,

      And thus express’d a heart o’ercharged with woes:

      “Ye Greeks and Trojans, let the chiefs engage,

      But spare the weakness of my feeble age:

      In yonder walls that object let me shun,

      Nor view the danger of so dear a son.

      Whose arms shall conquer and what prince shall fall,

      Heaven only knows; for heaven disposes all.”

      This said, the hoary king no longer stay’d,

      But on his car the slaughter’d victims laid:

      Then seized the reins his gentle steeds to guide,

      And drove to Troy, Antenor at his side.

      Bold Hector and Ulysses now dispose

      The lists of combat, and the ground inclose:

      Next to decide, by sacred lots prepare,

      Who first shall launch his pointed spear in air.

      The people pray with elevated hands,

      And words like these are heard through all the bands:

      “Immortal Jove, high Heaven’s superior lord,

      On lofty Ida’s holy mount adored!

      Whoe’er involved us in this dire debate,

      O give that author of the war to fate

      And shades eternal! let division cease,

      And joyful nations join in leagues of peace.”

      With eyes averted Hector hastes to turn

      The lots of fight and shakes the brazen urn.

      Then, Paris, thine leap’d forth; by fatal chance

      Ordain’d the first to whirl the weighty lance.

      Both armies sat the combat to survey.

      Beside each chief his azure armour lay,

      And round the lists the generous coursers neigh.

      The beauteous warrior now arrays for fight,

      In gilded arms magnificently bright:

      The purple cuishes clasp his thighs around,

      With flowers adorn’d, with silver buckles bound:

      Lycaon’s corslet his fair body dress’d,

      Braced in and fitted to his softer breast;

      A radiant baldric, o’er his shoulder tied,

      Sustain’d the sword that glitter’d at his side:

      His youthful face a polish’d helm o’erspread;

      The waving horse-hair nodded on his head:

      His figured shield, a shining orb, he takes,

      And in his hand a pointed javelin shakes.

      With equal speed and fired by equal charms,

      The Spartan hero sheathes his limbs in arms.

      Now round the lists the admiring armies stand,

      With javelins fix’d, the Greek and Trojan band.

      Amidst the dreadful vale, the chiefs advance,

      All pale with rage, and shake the threatening lance.

      The Trojan first his shining javelin threw;

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