Iliad Page #3

								

  The due reward of many a well-fought field?

  The spoils of cities razed and warriors slain,
  We share with justice, as with toil we gain;
  But to resume whate'er thy avarice craves
  (That trick of tyrants) may be borne by slaves.
  Yet if our chief for plunder only fight,
  The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite,
  Whene'er, by Jove's decree, our conquering powers
  Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers."

  Then thus the king: "Shall I my prize resign
  With tame content, and thou possess'd of thine?
  Great as thou art, and like a god in fight,
  Think not to rob me of a soldier's right.
  At thy demand shall I restore the maid?
  First let the just equivalent be paid;
  Such as a king might ask; and let it be
  A treasure worthy her, and worthy me.
  Or grant me this, or with a monarch's claim
  This hand shall seize some other captive dame.
  The mighty Ajax shall his prize resign;(55)
  Ulysses' spoils, or even thy own, be mine.
  The man who suffers, loudly may complain;
  And rage he may, but he shall rage in vain.
  But this when time requires.--It now remains
  We launch a bark to plough the watery plains,
  And waft the sacrifice to Chrysa's shores,
  With chosen pilots, and with labouring oars.
  Soon shall the fair the sable ship ascend,
  And some deputed prince the charge attend:
  This Creta's king, or Ajax shall fulfil,
  Or wise Ulysses see perform'd our will;
  Or, if our royal pleasure shall ordain,
  Achilles' self conduct her o'er the main;
  Let fierce Achilles, dreadful in his rage,
  The god propitiate, and the pest assuage."

                          [Illustration: MARS.]

                                  MARS.

  At this, Pelides, frowning stern, replied:
  "O tyrant, arm'd with insolence and pride!
  Inglorious slave to interest, ever join'd
  With fraud, unworthy of a royal mind!
  What generous Greek, obedient to thy word,
  Shall form an ambush, or shall lift the sword?
  What cause have I to war at thy decree?
  The distant Trojans never injured me;
  To Phthia's realms no hostile troops they led:
  Safe in her vales my warlike coursers fed;
  Far hence removed, the hoarse-resounding main,
  And walls of rocks, secure my native reign,
  Whose fruitful soil luxuriant harvests grace,
  Rich in her fruits, and in her martial race.
  Hither we sail'd, a voluntary throng,
  To avenge a private, not a public wrong:
  What else to Troy the assembled nations draws,
  But thine, ungrateful, and thy brother's cause?
  Is this the pay our blood and toils deserve;
  Disgraced and injured by the man we serve?
  And darest thou threat to snatch my prize away,
  Due to the deeds of many a dreadful day?
  A prize as small, O tyrant! match'd with thine,
  As thy own actions if compared to mine.
  Thine in each conquest is the wealthy prey,
  Though mine the sweat and danger of the day.
  Some trivial present to my ships I bear:
  Or barren praises pay the wounds of war.
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