Part 10 (1/2)

And all the Argives marvell'd for a s.p.a.ce, But most Achilles made a heavy moan:

x.x.xVII.

And in his heart there came the weary thought Of all that was, and all that might have been, Of all the sorrow that his sword had wrought, Of Death that now drew near him: of the green Vales of Larissa, where, with such a queen, With such a love as now his spear had slain, He had been happy, who must wind the skein Of grievous wars, and ne'er be glad again.

x.x.xVIII.

Yea, now wax'd Fate half weary of her game, And had no care but aye to kill and kill, And many young kings to the battle came, And of that joy they quickly had their fill, And last came Memnon: and the Trojans still Took heart, like wearied mariners that see (Long toss'd on unknown waves at the winds' will) Through clouds the gleaming crest of Helike.

x.x.xIX.

For Memnon was the child of the bright Dawn, A G.o.ddess wedded to a mortal king, Who dwells for ever on the sh.o.r.es withdrawn That border on the land of sun-rising; And he was nurtured nigh the sacred spring That is the hidden fountain of all seas, By them that in the G.o.ds' own garden sing, The lily-maidens call'd Hesperides.

XL.

But him the child of Thetis in the fight Met on a windy winter day, when high The dust was whirled, and wrapp'd them like the night That falleth on the mountains stealthily When the floods come, and down their courses dry The torrents roar, and lightning flasheth far: So rang, so shone their harness terribly Beneath the blinding thunder-cloud of war.

XLI.

Then the Dawn shudder'd on her golden throne, And called unto the West Wind, and he blew And brake the cloud asunder; and alone Achilles stood, but Memnon, smitten through, Lay beautiful amid the dreadful dew Of battle, and a deathless heart was fain Of tears, to G.o.ds impossible, that drew From mortal hearts a little of their pain.

XLII.

But now, their leader slain, the Trojans fled, And fierce Achilles drove them in his hate, Avenging still his dear Patroclus dead, Nor knew the hour with his own doom was great, Nor trembled, standing in the Scaean gate, Where ancient prophecy foretold his fall; Then suddenly there sped the bolt of Fate, And smote Achilles by the Ilian wall:

XLIII.

From Paris' bow it sped, and even there, Even as he grasp'd the skirts of victory, Achilles fell, nor any man might dare From forth the Trojan gateway to draw nigh; But, as the woodmen watch a lion die, Pierced with the hunter's arrow, nor come near Till Death hath veil'd his eyelids utterly, Even so the Trojans held aloof in fear.

XLIV.

But there his fellows on his wondrous s.h.i.+eld Laid the fair body of Achilles slain, And sadly bare him through the trampled field, And lo! the deathless maidens of the main Rose up, with Thetis, from the windy plain, And round the dead man beautiful they cried, Lamenting, and with melancholy strain The sweet-voiced Muses mournfully replied.

XLV.

Yea, Muses and Sea-maidens sang his dirge, And mightily the chant arose and shrill, And wondrous echoes answer'd from the surge Of the grey sea, and from the holy hill Of Ida; and the heavy clouds and chill Were gathering like mourners, sad and slow, And Zeus did thunder mightily, and fill The dells and glades of Ida deep with snow.

XLVI.

Now Paris was not sated with the fame And rich reward Troy gave his archery; But o'er the wine he boasted that the game That very night he deem'd to win, or die; ”For scarce their watch the tempest will defy,”

He said, ”and all undream'd of might we go, And fall upon the Argives where they lie, Unseen, unheard, amid the silent snow.”

XLVII.

So, flush'd with wine, and clad in raiment white Above their mail, the young men follow'd him, Their guide a fading camp-fire in the night, And the sea's moaning in the distance dim.

And still with eddying snow the air did swim, And darkly did they wend they knew not where, White in that cursed night: an army grim, 'Wilder'd with wine, and blind with whirling air.

XLVIII.

There was an outcast in the Argive host, One Philoctetes; whom Odysseus' wile, (For, save he help'd, the Leaguer all was lost,) Drew from his lair within the Lemnian isle.

But him the people, as a leper vile, Hated, and drave to a lone hut afar, For wounded sore was he, and many a while His cries would wake the host foredone with war.