Book XVIII

The Grief of Achilles for the Death of Patroclus

Lamentation of Achilles over Patroclus⁠—A visit of condolence from Thetis and her nymphs⁠—Appearance of Achilles on the entrenchments, and consequent alarm of the Trojans⁠—A council of war held by the Trojan Chiefs⁠—Advice of Polydamas to withdraw from the field into Troy opposed by Hector, and rejected⁠—Vulcan, engaged by Thetis to forge a new suit of armor for Achilles.

As thus they fought with all the rage of fire,

Antilochus, the nimble-footed, came

With tidings to Achilles. Him he found

Before his lofty galleys, deep in thought

Of what he knew had happened. With a sigh

The hero to his mighty spirit said:⁠—

“Ah me! Why should the Grecians thus be driven

In utter disarray across the plain?

I tremble lest the gods should bring to pass

What most I dread. My mother told me once

That the most valiant of the Myrmidons,

While yet I live, cut off by Trojan hands,

Shall see the sun no more. It must be so:

The brave son of Menoetius has been slain.

Unhappy! ’Twas my bidding that, when once

The enemy with his firebrands was repulsed,

He should not think to combat gallantly

With Hector, but should hasten to the fleet.”

As thus he mused, illustrious Nestor’s son

Drew near Achilles, and with eyes that shed

Warm tears he gave his sorrowful message thus:⁠—

“Son of the warlike Peleus, woe is me!

For bitter are the tidings thou must hear

Of what should not have been. Patroclus lies

A naked corpse, and over it the hosts

Are fighting; crested Hector hath his arms.”

He spake, and a black cloud of sorrow came

Over the chieftain. Grasping in both hands

The ashes of the hearth, he showered them o’er

His head, and soiled with them his noble face.

They clung in dark lumps to his comely vest.

Prone in the dust of earth, at his full length,

And tearing his disordered hair, he lay.

Then wailed aloud the maidens whom in war

He and Patroclus captured. Forth they came,

And, thronging round him, smote their breasts and swooned.

Antilochus mourned also, and shed tears,

Holding Achilles by the hand, for much

His generous nature dreaded that the chief

Might aim at his own throat the sword he wore.

Loud were the hero’s cries, and in the deep

His gracious mother, where she sat beside

Her aged father, heard them. She too raised

A wail of sorrow. All the goddesses,

Daughters of Nereus, dwelling in the depths

Of ocean, gathered to her side. There came

Glaucè, Thaleia, and Cymodocè,

Nesaea, Speio, Halia with large eyes,

And Thoa, and Cymothoë; nor stayed

Actaea, Limnoreia, Melita,

Amphithoë, Iaera, Agavè,

Doto, and Proto, and Dynamenè.

There came Dexamene, Amphinomè,

Pherusa, Callianira, Panopè,

Doris, and Galateia, the renowned.

With these Nemertes and Apseudes came,

And Callianassa. Clymenè was there,

Janeira and Janassa, and with them

Maera, and Amatheia with bright hair,

And Orithya, and whoever else,

Children of Nereus, bide within the deep.

The concourse filled the glimmering cave; they beat

Their bosoms, while the sorrowing Thetis spake:⁠—

“Hear, sister Nereids, that ye all may know

The sharpness of my sorrows. Woe is me,

Unhappy! Woe is me! In evil hour,

The mother of a hero⁠—me who gave

Birth to so noble and so brave a son,

The first among the warriors, saw him grow

Like a green sapling, reared him like a plant

Within a fruitful field, and sent him forth

With his beaked ships to Ilium and the war

Against the Trojans. Never shall I see

That son returning to his home, the halls

Of Peleus. While he lives and sees the light

Of day his lot is sorrow, nor can I

Help him in aught, though at his side; and yet

I go to look on my beloved son,

And learn from him what grief, while he remains

Aloof from war, o’ertakes him in his tent.”

She spake, and left the cavern. All the nymphs

Went with her weeping. Round their way the waves

Of ocean parted. When they reached the fields

Of fertile Troas, up the shore they went

In ordered files to where, a numerous fleet,

Drawn from the water, round Achilles lay

The swift ships of the Myrmidons. To him

His goddess mother came, and with a cry

Of grief embraced the head of her dear son,

And, mourning o’er him, spake these winded words:⁠—

“Why weepest thou, my son? What sorrow now

O’ercomes thy spirit? Speak, and hide it not.

All thou didst pray for once, with lifted hands,

Has been fulfilled by Jove; the sons of Greece,

Driven to their galleys, and with thy good help

Withdrawn from them, are routed and disgraced.”

The swift Achilles, sighing deeply, made

This answer: “O my mother! True it is

Olympian Jove hath done all this for me;

But how can that delight me, since my friend,

My well-beloved Patroclus, is no more?

He whom, of all my fellows in the war,

I prized the most, and loved as my own self,

Is lost to me, and Hector, by whose hand

He was cut off, has spoiled him of his arms⁠—

His dreaded arms, a wonder to the sight

And glorious, which the gods of heaven bestowed

On Peleus, sumptuous bridal gifts, when thou

Wert led by them to share a mortal’s bed.

Yet would that thou hadst evermore remained

Among the immortal dwellers of the deep,

And Peleus had espoused a mortal maid,

Since now thy heart must ache with infinite grief

For thy slain son, whom thou shalt never more

Welcome returning to his home. No wish

Have I to live or to concern myself

In men’s affairs, save this: that Hector first,

Pierced by my spear, shall yield his life, and pay

The debt of vengeance for Patroclus slain.”

And Thetis, weeping, answered: “O my son!

Soon must thou die; thou sayest true; that fate

Hangs over thee as soon as Hector dies.”

Again the swift Achilles, sighing, spake:

“Then quickly let me die, since fate denied

That I should aid my friend against the foes

That slew him. Far from his own land he fell,

And longed for me to rescue him. And now,

Since I am never more to see the land

I love, and since I went not to defend

Patroclus, nor the other Greeks, my friends,

Of whom so many have fallen by the hand

Of noble Hector, but beside the fleet

Am sitting here, a useless weight on earth,

Mighty in battle as I am beyond

The other Grecian warriors, though excelled

By other men in council⁠—would that Strife

Might perish among gods and men, with Wrath,

Which makes even wise men cruel, and, though sweet

At first as dropping honey, growing, fills

The heart with its foul smoke. Such was my rage,

Aroused by Agamemnon, king of men.

Yet now, though great my wrong, let things like these

Rest with the past, and, as the time requires,

Let us subdue the spirit in our breasts.

I go in quest of Hector, by whose hand

My friend was slain. My death will I accept

Whene’er to Jove and to the other gods

It shall seem good to send it. Hercules,

Though mighty and beloved of Jupiter,

The son of Saturn, could not shun his death,

For fate and Juno’s cruel wrath prevailed

Against him. I shall lie in death like him,

If a like fate be measured out for me.

Yet now shall I have glory; I shall do

What many a Trojan and Dardanian dame,

Deep-bosomed, wiping with both hands the tears

From their fair cheeks, shall bitterly lament;

And well shall they perceive that, till this hour,

I paused from war. Thou lov’st me; but seek not

To keep me from the field, for that were vain.”

The silver-footed Thetis thus rejoined:

“Truly, my son, thy purpose is not ill,

To rescue thy endangered friends from death.

But with the Trojans are thy beautiful arms,

Brazen and dazzling bright; their crested chief,

Hector, exults to wear them: no long space,

I think, will he exult; his death is near.

Yet go not to the battle-field until

Thine eyes shall look upon me yet again.

I come tomorrow with the sun, and bring

Bright arms, the work of Vulcan’s royal hand.”

So having said, and turning from her son,

She thus bespake her sisters of the sea:

“Return to the broad bosom of the deep,

To its gray Ancient and my father’s halls,

And tell him all. I hasten to ascend

The summits of Olympus, there to ask

Of Vulcan, the renowned artificer,

Armor of glorious beauty for my son.”

She spake: at once they plunged into the deep,

While Thetis, silver-footed goddess, sought

Olympus, whence it was her hope to bring

New armor for her son. As thus her feet

Bore her toward heaven, the Achaians, fleeing fast,

With infinite clamor, driven before the arm

Of the man-queller Hector, reached the ships

And Hellespont. Nor could the well-armed Greeks

Bear off Patroclus from the shower of darts;

For rushing on them came both foot and horse,

And Hector, son of Priam, like a flame

In fury. Thrice illustrious Hector seized

The body by the heels to drag it off,

And called his Trojans with a mighty shout.

Thrice did the chieftains Ajax, terrible

In resolute valor, drive him from the dead.

Yet kept he to his purpose, confident

In his own might, now charging through the crowd,

Now standing firm and shouting to his men,

And never losing ground. As when, at night,

Herdsmen that watch their cattle strive in vain

To drive a lion, fierce and famine-pinched,

From some slain beast, so the two Ajaxes,

With all their valor, vainly strove to keep

Hector, the son of Priam, from the corpse.

And now would he have dragged it thence, and won

Infinite glory, had not Iris come⁠—

The goddess whose swift feet are like the wind⁠—

To Peleus’ son, a messenger from heaven,

In haste, unknown to Jupiter and all

The other gods⁠—for Juno sent her down⁠—

To bid the hero arm. She came and stood

Beside him, speaking thus with wingèd words:⁠—

“Pelides, rise, most terrible of men,

In rescue of Patroclus, over whom

They struggle fiercely at the fleet; for there

They slay each other⁠—these who fight to keep

The dead, and those, the men of Troy, who charge

To drag him off to Ilium’s airy heights;

And chief, illustrious Hector longs to seize

The corpse, and from the delicate neck to hew

The head, and fix it on a stake. Arise,

Loiter no longer;⁠—rise, ashamed to leave

Patroclus to be torn by Trojan dogs.

For thine will be the infamy, if yet

The corpse be brought dishonored to thy tent.”

The swift Achilles listened and inquired:

“Which of the gods, O Iris, speaks by thee?”

And Iris, whose swift feet are like the wind,

Answered: “The glorious spouse of Jupiter,

Juno, hath sent me. Even Saturn’s son,

On his high throne, knows not that I am sent,

Nor any other of the gods who dwell

Upon Olympus overspread with snow.”

“But how,” the swift Achilles asked again,

“Shall I go forth to war? They have my arms,

And my beloved mother strictly bade

That I should put no armor on until

I saw her face again. She promised me

A suit of glorious mail from Vulcan’s hand.

Nor know I any warrior here whose arms

Might serve me, save, perhaps, it were the shield

Of Telamonian Ajax, who, I hope,

Is in the van, and dealing death among

The foe, in vengeance for Patroclus slain.”

Then the swift-footed Iris spake again:

“They have thy glorious armor; that we know

But go thou to the trench, and show thyself

To them of Troy, that, haply smit with fear,

They may desist from battle, and the host

Of Grecian warriors, overtoiled, may breathe

In a brief respite from the stress of war.”

So the fleet Iris spake, and passed away,

And then arose Achilles, dear to Jove,

While o’er his ample shoulders Pallas held

Her fringèd aegis. The great goddess caused

A golden cloud to gather round his head

And kindled in the cloud a dazzling flame.

And as when smoke, ascending to the sky,

Hangs o’er some city in a distant isle,

Which enemies beleaguer, swarming forth

From their own city, and in hateful strife

Contend all day, but when the sun goes down

Forthwith blaze many bale-fires, sending up

A brightness which the neighboring realms may see,

That haply they may send their ships and drive

The war away⁠—so from the hero’s head

That flame streamed upward to the sky. He came

Without the wall and stood beside the trench,

Nor mingled with the Greeks, for he revered

His mother’s words. He stood and called aloud,

And Pallas, from the host, returned his shout⁠—

A shout that carried infinite dismay

Into the Trojan squadrons. As the sound

Of trumpet rises clear when deadly foes

Lay siege to a walled city, such was heard

The clear shout uttered by Aeacides.

The hearts of all who heard that brazen voice

Were troubled, and their steeds with flowing manes

Turned backward with the chariots⁠—such the dread

Of coming slaughter. When the charioteers

Beheld the terrible flame that played unquenched

Upon the brow of the magnanimous son

Of Peleus, lighted by the blue-eyed maid

Minerva, they were struck with panic fear.

Thrice o’er the trench Achilles shouted; thrice

The men of Troy and their renowned allies

Fell into wild disorder. Then there died,

Entangled midst their chariots, and transfixed

By their own spears, twelve of their bravest chiefs.

The Greeks bore off Patroclus from the field

With eager haste, and placed him on a bier,

And there the friends that loved him gathered round

Lamenting. With them swift Achilles came,

The hot tears on his cheeks, as he beheld

His faithful comrade lying on his bier,

Mangled with many wounds, whom he had sent

With steeds and car to battle, never more

To welcome him alive on his return.

Now Juno, large-eyed and august, bade set

The never-wearied sun; unwillingly

He sank into the ocean streams. Then paused

The noble Greeks from that ferocious strife,

Deadly in equal measure to both hosts.

The Trojans also paused, and from their cars

Unharnessed the fleet steeds, and ere they took

Their evening meal assembled to consult.

Standing they held the council; no man cared

To sit, for all were trembling from the hour

When, long a stranger to the bloody field,

Achilles showed himself again. And now

The son of Panthoüs, wise Polydamas,

Began to speak. Beyond the rest he saw

Things past and things to come, and he had been

Hector’s companion, born in the same night,

Mighty in speech as Hector with the spear.

With prudent admonitions thus he spake:⁠—

“Consider well, my friends. My counsel is

That we return, nor wait the holy morn

Here, by the fleet and in the open plain,

Far from our city ramparts. While this man

Was wroth with Agamemnon, we maintained

A strife of far less peril with the Greeks,

And I was ever ready to encamp

By night beside the galleys, which we hoped

To make our prize; but now I fear the might

Of swift Pelides. He will not remain

Content upon the space between the fleet

And town, where Greeks and Trojans wage a war

Of changeful fortune, but will strive to take

The city, and to carry off our wives.

March we then homeward. Let my words prevail⁠—

It must be so. The gentle Night now keeps

The nimble-footed hero from the war.

But if tomorrow, issuing forth in arms,

He find us here, there are among us those

Who will have cause to know him. Gladly then

Will he find refuge who escapes his arm

In sacred Troy, and many a Trojan corpse

Will feed the dogs and vultures. May mine ear

Hear of it never. But if ye will heed

My words, though sorrowful, ye shall be safe

Assembled in the city squares at night.

The lofty towers and gates, with massive beams

Polished and strongly fitted each to each,

Will keep the town. Tomorrow we shall take,

At dawn, our station on the towers, arrayed

In armor, and his difficult task will be,

Far from his ships, to fight us from below;

And after he has tired his high-necked steeds

With coursing round the ramparts to and fro,

Back to his galleys he must go; nor yet

With all his valor can he force his way

Into the town to lay its dwellings waste⁠—

The dogs will feed upon his carcass first.”

And crested Hector answered with a frown:

“The counsel thou hast given, Polydamas,

Pleases me not⁠—that we return to be

Pent up in Troy. Are ye not weary yet

Of lying long imprisoned within walls

And towers? The time has been that in all lands,

Wherever human speech is heard, the fame

Of Priam’s city, for its treasured gold

And brass, was in all mouths. Those treasures now

Have passed away; our dwellings have them not.

Much that we had was sold on Phrygia’s coast,

And in Maeonia’s pleasant land, for Jove

The mighty was displeased with us. But now,

When politic Saturn’s son hath granted me

To win great glory at the fleet, and hold

The Greeks imprisoned by the sea, refrain,

Idler, from laying counsels such as these

Before the people. Not a Trojan here

Will follow them, nor would I suffer it.

Now hearken all, and act as I advise:

First banquet, rank by rank, throughout the host,

And set your guards, and each of you keep watch;

And then, if any Trojan stands in fear

For his possessions, let him bring them all

Into the common stock, to be consumed;

Better that we enjoy them than the Greeks.

Tomorrow, with the dawn and all in arms,

We will do battle at the roomy ships

Valiantly. If in truth the noble son

Of Peleus choose to rise and to defend

The ships, so much the worse for him, since I

Shall not for him desert the field, but stand

Firmly against him, whether he obtain

The victory or I. The chance of war

Is equal, and the slayer oft is slain.”

So Hector spake: the Trojans shouted forth

Applause, the madmen! Pallas took away

Their reason; all approved the fatal plan

Of Hector; no one ventured to commend

The sober counsel of Polydamas.

And then they banqueted throughout the host;

But all night long the Achaians mourned with tears

Patroclus, while Pelides in the midst,

Leading the ceaseless lamentation, placed

His slaughter-dealing hands upon the breast

Of his companion with continual sighs.

As a maned lion, from whose haunt within

The thick, dark wood a hunter has borne off

The whelps, returning finds them gone, and grieves,

And roams the valleys, tracking as he goes

The robber, bent to find him, for his rage

Is fierce⁠—with such fierce sorrow Peleus’ son

Spake, deeply sighing, to his Myrmidons:⁠—

“O, idle were the words which once I spake,

When in our palace-halls I bade the chief

Menoetius bear a cheerful heart. I said

That I would bring to Opus yet again,

Laden with spoil from Ilium overthrown,

His valiant son. But Jove doth not fulfil

The plans of men. That both of us should stain

Earth with our blood in Troy was the decree

Of fate, and never will the aged knight

Peleus receive me in his palace-halls,

Returning from the war, nor Thetis, she

Who gave me birth; the earth will hold me here.

And now, since after thee I take my place

In earth, Patroclus, I will not perform

Thy funeral rites before I bring to thee

The arms and head of the magnanimous chief

Hector, who slew thee. By thy funeral pile

I will strike off in vengeance for thy death

The heads of twelve illustrious Trojan youths.

Thou meanwhile, lying at the beaked ships,

Shalt be lamented night and day, with tears,

By many a Trojan and Dardanian maid,

Deep-bosomed, won by our victorious spears

After hard wars and opulent cities sacked.”

Thus having said, the great Achilles bade

Place a huge tripod on the fire in haste,

To cleanse Patroclus from the clotted blood.

They brought and set upon the glowing hearth

A tripod for the bath, and in it poured

Water, and piled the wood beneath. The flame

Crept up the vessel’s rounded sides and warmed

The water. When within the murmuring brass

It boiled, they washed the dead, and with rich oil

Anointed him, and filled the open wounds

With ointment nine years old; and laying him

Upon a couch, they spread from head to foot

Fine linen over him, and covered all

With a white mantle. Through the hours of night

The Myrmidons, lamenting their dead chief,

Wept round the swift Achilles. Then did Jove

Thus to his wife and sister Juno speak:⁠—

“Large-eyed, imperial Juno, thou hast now

Accomplished thy desire, for thou hast roused

The swift Achilles. There is not a doubt

The long-haired Argives owe their birth to thee.”

And large-eyed Juno answered: “What strange words,

Austere Saturnius, hast thou said? A man,

A mortal far less skilled in shaping means

To compass ends, might do what I have done

Against his fellow-man. Then should not I⁠—

Who boast to be the chief of goddesses

By birthright, and because I bear the name

Of wife to thee who rulest o’er the gods⁠—

Plan evil to the Trojans, whom I hate?”

So talked they. Silver-footed Thetis came

Meanwhile to Vulcan’s halls, eternal, gemmed

With stars, a wonder to the immortals, wrought

Of brass by the lame god. She found him there

Sweating and toiling, and with busy hand

Plying the bellows. He was fashioning

Tripods, a score, to stand beside the wall

Of his fair palace. All of these he placed

On wheels of gold, that, of their own accord,

They might roll in among the assembled gods,

And then roll back, a marvel to behold.

So far they all were finished; but not yet

Were added the neat handles, and for these

The god was forging rivets busily.

While thus he labored, with a mind intent

Upon his skilful task, on silver feet

Came Thetis. Charis, of the snowy veil,

The beautiful, whom the great god of fire,

Vulcan, had made his wife, beheld, and came

Forward to meet her, seized her hand, and said:⁠—

“O Thetis of the flowing robe, beloved

And honored, what has brought thee to our home

Thou dost not often visit us. Come in,

That I may pay the honors due a guest.”

So the bright goddess spake, and led the way,

And seated Thetis on a sumptuous throne,

With silver studs divinely wrought, and placed

A footstool, and called out to Vulcan thus:

“Come, Vulcan; Thetis here hath need of thee.”

And the great artist, Vulcan, thus replied:

“Then of a truth a goddess is within

Whom I must ever honor and revere;

Who from the danger of my terrible fall

Saved me, what time my shameless mother sought

To cast me from her sight, for I was lame.

Then great had been my misery, had not

Eurynomè and Thetis in their laps

Received me as I fell⁠—Eurynomè,

Daughter of billowy Ocean. There I dwelt

Nine years, and many ornaments I wrought

Of brass⁠—clasps, buckles, bracelets, necklaces⁠—

Within a vaulted cave, round which the tides

Of the vast ocean murmured and flung up

Their foam; nor any of the gods or men

Knew of my hiding-place, save only they

Who saved me, Thetis and Eurynomè.

And now, as she is with us, I must make

To fair-haired Thetis some thank-offering

For having rescued me. Haste, spread the board

Amply with generous fare, while I shall lay

Aside my bellows and my implements.”

He spake, and from his anvil-block arose,

A mighty bulk; his weak legs under him,

Halting, moved painfully. He laid apart

His bellows from the fire, and gathered up

The scattered implements with which he wrought,

And locked them in a silver chest, and wiped

With a moist sponge his face and both his hands,

Stout neck and hairy chest. He then put on

His tunic, took his massive regal wand

Into his hand, and, tottering, sallied forth.

Two golden statues, like in form and look

To living maidens, aided with firm gait

The monarch’s steps. And mind was in their breasts,

And they had speech and strength, and from the gods

Had learned becoming arts. Beside their lord

They walked and tended him. As he drew near,

Halting, to Thetis on the shining throne,

He took the goddess by the hand and said:⁠—

“What cause, O Thetis of the flowing robe,

Honored and dear, has brought thee to our home?

Not often com’st thou hither. Freely say

Whatever lies upon thy mind. My heart

Commands me to obey, if it be aught

That can be done and may be done by me.”

And Thetis answered, with a gush of tears:

“O Vulcan! Of the goddesses who dwell

Upon Olympus, is there one who bears

Such bitter sorrows as Saturnian Jove

Inflicts on me, distressed above them all?

Me, of the ocean deities, he forced

To take a mortal husband⁠—Peleus, son

Of Aeacus⁠—and to his bed I came

Unwillingly. Within his palace-halls,

Worn with a late old age, my husband lies.

Now I have other woes; for when a son

Was granted me, and I had brought him forth

And reared him, flourishing like a young plant,

A sapling in a fertile field, and great

Among the heroes⁠—thus maturely trained,

I sent him with his beaked ships to Troy,

To combat with her sons; but never more

Will it be mine to welcome him returned

Home to the halls of Peleus. While to me

He lives, and sees the sunshine, he endures

Affliction, nor can I, though at his side,

Aid him in aught. The maiden whom the Greeks

Decreed him as his prize, the king of men,

Atrides, took away, and grief for her

Consumes his heart. The Trojans keep the Greeks

Beleaguered by their ships, nor suffer them

To pass beyond their gates. The elder chiefs

Implored him to relent, and offered him

Large presents; he refused to avert the doom

That threatened them himself, but sent instead

Patroclus to the war with his own arms,

And with him sent much people. All the day

They fought before the Scaean gates; and then

Had Ilium fallen, but that Apollo slew

The brave son of Menoetius, who had caused

Vast slaughter⁠—slew him fighting in the van

Of war, and gave the glory of his death

To Hector. Therefore I approach thy knees,

And ask for him, my son, so soon to die,

Buckler and helm, and beautiful greaves, shut close

With clasps, and all the other arms complete,

Which in the war my son’s companion lost.

For now Achilles lies upon the ground

Bitterly grieving in his inmost soul.”

And Vulcan, the great artist, answered her:

“Be comforted, and take no further thought

Of this; for would I could as certainly

Shield him from death’s dread summons when his hour

Is come at last, as I shall have for him

Beautiful armor ready to put on,

And such as every man, of multitudes

Who look on it hereafter, shall admire.”

So speaking he withdrew, and went where lay

The bellows, turned them toward the fire, and bade

The work begin. From twenty bellows came

Their breath into the furnaces⁠—a blast

Varied in strength as need might be; for now

They blew with violence for a hasty task,

And then with gentler breath, as Vulcan pleased

And as the work required. Upon the fire

He laid impenetrable brass, and tin,

And precious gold and silver; on its block

Placed the huge anvil, took the ponderous sledge,

And held the pincers in the other hand.

And first he forged the huge and massive shield,

Divinely wrought in every part⁠—its edge

Clasped with a triple border, white and bright.

A silver belt hung from it, and its folds

Were five; a crowd of figures on its disk

Were fashioned by the artist’s passing skill,

For here he placed the earth and heaven, and here

The great deep and the never-resting sun

And the full moon, and here he set the stars

That shine in the round heaven⁠—the Pleiades,

The Hyades, Orion in his strength, And the

Bear near him, called by some the Wain,

That, wheeling, keeps Orion still in sight,

Yet bathes not in the waters of the sea.

There placed he two fair cities full of men.

In one were marriages and feasts; they led

The brides with flaming torches from their bowers,

Along the streets, with many a nuptial song.

There the young dancers whirled, and flutes and lyres

Gave forth their sounds, and women at the doors

Stood and admired. Meanwhile a multitude

Was in the forum, where a strife went on⁠—

Two men contending for a fine, the price

Of one who had been slain. Before the crowd

One claimed that he had paid the fine, and one

Denied that aught had been received, and both

Called for the sentence which should end the strife.

The people clamored for both sides, for both

Had eager friends; the heralds held the crowd

In check; the elders, upon polished stones,

Sat in a sacred circle. Each one took,

In turn, a herald’s sceptre in his hand,

And, rising, gave his sentence. In the midst

Two talents lay in gold, to be the meed

Of him whose juster judgment should prevail.

Around the other city sat two hosts

In shining armor, bent to lay it waste,

Unless the dwellers would divide their wealth⁠—

All that their pleasant homes contained⁠—and yield

The assailants half. As yet the citizens

Had not complied, but secretly had planned

An ambush. Their beloved wives meanwhile,

And their young children, stood and watched the walls,

With aged men among them, while the youths

Marched on, with Mars and Pallas at their head,

Both wrought in gold, with golden garments on,

Stately and large in form, and over all

Conspicuous, in bright armor, as became

The gods; the rest were of an humbler size.

And when they reached the spot where they should lie

In ambush, by a river’s side, a place

For watering herds, they sat them down, all armed

In shining brass. Apart from all the rest

They placed two sentries, on the watch to spy

The approach of sheep and horned kine. Soon came

The herds in sight; two shepherds walked with them,

Who, all unweeting of the evil nigh,

Solaced their task with music from their reeds.

The warriors saw and rushed on them, and took

And drave away large prey of beeves, and flocks

Of fair white sheep, whose keepers they had slain.

When the besiegers in their council heard

The sound of tumult at the watering-place,

They sprang upon their nimble-footed steeds,

And overtook the pillagers. Both bands

Arrayed their ranks and fought beside the stream,

And smote each other. There did Discord rage,

And Tumult, and the great Destroyer, Fate.

One wounded warrior she had seized alive,

And one unbounded yet, and through the field

Dragged by the foot another, dead. Her robe

Was reddened o’er the shoulders with the blood

From human veins. Like living men they ranged

The battle-field, and dragged by turns the slain.

There too he sculptured a broad fallow field

Of soft rich mould, thrice ploughed, and over which

Walked many a ploughman, guiding to and fro

His steers, and when on their return they reached

The border of the field the master came

To meet them, placing in the hands of each

A goblet of rich wine. Then turned they back

Along the furrows, diligent to reach

Their distant end. All dark behind the plough

The ridges lay, a marvel to the sight,

Like real furrows, though engraved in gold.

There, too, the artist placed a field which lay

Deep in ripe wheat. With sickles in their hands

The laborers reaped it. Here the handfuls fell

Upon the ground; there binders tied them fast

With bands, and made them sheaves. Three binders went

Close to the reapers, and behind them boys,

Bringing the gathered handfuls in their arms.

Ministered to the binders. Staff in hand,

The master stood among them by the side

Of the ranged sheaves and silently rejoiced.

Meanwhile the servants underneath an oak

Prepared a feast apart; they sacrificed

A fatling ox and dressed it, while the maids

Were kneading for the reapers the white meal.

A vineyard also on the shield he graved,

Beautiful, all of gold, and heavily

Laden with grapes. Black were the clusters all;

The vines were stayed on rows of silver stakes.

He drew a blue trench round it, and a hedge

Of tin. One only path there was by which

The vintagers could go to gather grapes.

Young maids and striplings of a tender age

Bore the sweet fruit in baskets. Midst them all,

A youth from his shrill harp drew pleasant sounds,

And sang with soft voice to the murmuring strings.

They danced around him, beating with quick feet

The ground, and sang and shouted joyously.

And there the artist wrought a herd of beeves,

High-horned, and sculptured all in gold and tin.

They issued lowing from their stalls to seek

Their pasture, by a murmuring stream, that ran

Rapidly through its reeds. Four herdsmen, graved

In gold, were with the beeves, and nine fleet dogs

Followed. Two lions, seizing on a bull

Among the foremost cattle, dragged him off

Fearfully bellowing; hounds and herdsmen rushed

To rescue him. The lions tore their prey,

And lapped the entrails and the crimson blood.

Vainly the shepherds pressed around and urged

Their dogs, that shrank from fastening with their teeth

Upon the lions, but stood near and bayed.

There also did illustrious Vulcan grave

A fair, broad pasture, in a pleasant glade,

Full of white sheep, and stalls, and cottages,

And many a shepherd’s fold with sheltering roof.

And there illustrious Vulcan also wrought

A dance⁠—a maze like that which Daedalus,

In the broad realm of Gnossus once contrived

For fair-haired Ariadne. Blooming youths

And lovely virgins, tripping to light airs,

Held fast each other’s wrists. The maidens wore

Fine linen robes; the youths had tunics on

Lustrous as oil, and woven daintily.

The maids wore wreaths of flowers; the young men swords

Of gold in silver belts. They bounded now

In a swift circle⁠—as a potter whirls

With both his hands a wheel to try its speed,

Sitting before it⁠—then again they crossed

Each other, darting to their former place.

A multitude around that joyous dance

Gathered, and were amused, while from the crowd

Two tumblers raised their song, and flung themselves

About among the band that trod the dance.

Last on the border of that glorious shield

He graved in all its strength the ocean-stream.

And when that huge and massive shield was done,

He forged a corselet brighter than the blaze

Of fire; he forged a solid helm to fit

The hero’s temples, shapely and enchased

With rare designs, and with a crest of gold.

And last he forged him greaves of ductile tin.

When the great artist Vulcan saw his task

Complete, he lifted all that armor up

And laid it at the feet of her who bore

Achilles. Like a falcon in her flight,

Down plunging from Olympus capped with snow,

She bore the shining armor Vulcan gave.