Iliad Page #2

								

  That sacred seer, whose comprehensive view,
  The past, the present, and the future knew:
  Uprising slow, the venerable sage
  Thus spoke the prudence and the fears of age:

  "Beloved of Jove, Achilles! would'st thou know
  Why angry Phoebus bends his fatal bow?
  First give thy faith, and plight a prince's word
  Of sure protection, by thy power and sword:
  For I must speak what wisdom would conceal,
  And truths, invidious to the great, reveal,
  Bold is the task, when subjects, grown too wise,
  Instruct a monarch where his error lies;
  For though we deem the short-lived fury past,
  'Tis sure the mighty will revenge at last."
  To whom Pelides:--"From thy inmost soul
  Speak what thou know'st, and speak without control.
  E'en by that god I swear who rules the day,
  To whom thy hands the vows of Greece convey.
  And whose bless'd oracles thy lips declare;
  Long as Achilles breathes this vital air,
  No daring Greek, of all the numerous band,
  Against his priest shall lift an impious hand;
  Not e'en the chief by whom our hosts are led,
  The king of kings, shall touch that sacred head."

  Encouraged thus, the blameless man replies:
  "Nor vows unpaid, nor slighted sacrifice,
  But he, our chief, provoked the raging pest,
  Apollo's vengeance for his injured priest.
  Nor will the god's awaken'd fury cease,
  But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,
  Till the great king, without a ransom paid,
  To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid.(54)
  Perhaps, with added sacrifice and prayer,
  The priest may pardon, and the god may spare."

  The prophet spoke: when with a gloomy frown
  The monarch started from his shining throne;
  Black choler fill'd his breast that boil'd with ire,
  And from his eye-balls flash'd the living fire:
  "Augur accursed! denouncing mischief still,
  Prophet of plagues, for ever boding ill!
  Still must that tongue some wounding message bring,
  And still thy priestly pride provoke thy king?
  For this are Phoebus' oracles explored,
  To teach the Greeks to murmur at their lord?
  For this with falsehood is my honour stain'd,
  Is heaven offended, and a priest profaned;
  Because my prize, my beauteous maid, I hold,
  And heavenly charms prefer to proffer'd gold?
  A maid, unmatch'd in manners as in face,
  Skill'd in each art, and crown'd with every grace;
  Not half so dear were Clytaemnestra's charms,
  When first her blooming beauties bless'd my arms.
  Yet, if the gods demand her, let her sail;
  Our cares are only for the public weal:
  Let me be deem'd the hateful cause of all,
  And suffer, rather than my people fall.
  The prize, the beauteous prize, I will resign,
  So dearly valued, and so justly mine.
  But since for common good I yield the fair,
  My private loss let grateful Greece repair;
  Nor unrewarded let your prince complain,
  That he alone has fought and bled in vain."
  "Insatiate king (Achilles thus replies),
  Fond of the power, but fonder of the prize!
  Would'st thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield,
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