Then in revenge
we plied our swords, till half our foes were dead,
and only flight and darkness saved the rest.”
Nestor had hardly told this marvellous tale
of bitter strife betwixt the Lapithae
and those half-human, vanquished Centaurs, when
Tlepolemus, incensed because no word
of praise was given to Hercules, replied
in this way; “Old sir, it is very strange,
you have neglected to say one good word
in praise of Hercules. My father told
me often, that he overcame in battle
those cloud born centaurs.”
Nestor, very loth,
replied, “Why force me to recall old wrongs,
to uncover sorrow buried by the years,
that made me hate your father? It is true
his deeds were wonderful beyond belief,
heaven knows, and filled the earth with well earned praise
which I should rather wish might be denied.
Deiphobus, the wise Polydamas, and even
great Hector get no praise from me.
Your father, I recall once overthrew
Messene's walls and with no cause destroyed
Elis and Pylos and with fire and sword
ruined my own loved home. I cannot name
all whom he killed. But there were twelve of us,
the sons of Neleus and all warrior youths,
and all those twelve but me alone he killed.
Ten of them met the common fate of war,
but sadder was the death of Periclymenus.
“Neptune, the founder of my family,
had granted him a power to assume
whatever shape he chose, and when he wished
to lay that shape aside. When he, in vain,
had been transformed to many other shapes
he turned into the form of that bird, which
is wont to carry in his crooked talons
the forked lightnings, favorite bird of Jove.
With wings and crooked bill and sharp-hooked talons,
he assailed and tore the face of Hercules.
But, when he soared away on eagle wings
up to the clouds and hovered, poised in air,
that hero aimed his too unerring bow
and hit him where the new wing joined his side.
The wound was not large, but his sinews cut
failed to uphold him, and denied his wings
their strength and motion.
He fell down to earth;
his weakened pinions could not catch the air.
And the sharp arrow, which had lightly pierced
the wing, was driven upward through the side
into the left part of my brother's neck.
“O noble leader of the Rhodian fleet,
why should I sing the praise of Hercules?
But for my brothers I take no revenge
except withholding praise of his great deeds.
With you, my friendship will remain secure.”
When Nestor with his honied tongue had told
these tales of old, they all took wine again
and they arose and gave the night to sleep.
But Neptune, who commands the ocean waves,
lamented with a father's grief his son,
whose person he had changed into a bird—
the swan of Phaethon, and towards Achilles,
grim victor in the fight, his lasting hate
made him pursue resentment far beyond
the ordinary manner of the gods.
After nine years of war he spoke these words,
addressing long haired Sminthean Apollo:
“O nephew the most dear to me of all
my brother's sons, with me you built in vain
the walls of Troy: you must be lost in grief,
when you look on those towers so soon to fall?
Or do you not lament the multitudes
slain in defence of them—To name but one:
“Does not the ghost of Hector, dragged around
his Pergama, appear to you?
And yet
the fierce Achilles, who is bloodstained more
than slaughtering war, lives on this earth,
for the destruction of our toil. Let him
once get into my power, and I will make
him feel the action of my triple spear.
But, since I may not meet him face to face,
do you with sudden arrow give him death.”
The Delian god, Apollo, gave assent,
both for his own hate and his uncle's rage.
Veiled in a cloud, he found the Trojan host
and, there, while bloody strife went on, he saw
the hero Paris shoot at intervals
his arrows at the nameless host of Greeks.
Revealing his divinity, he said:
“Why spend your arrows on the common men
if you would serve your people, take good aim
at great Achilles and at last avenge
your hapless brothers whom he gave to death.”
He pointed out Achilles—laying low
the Trojan warriors with his mighty spear.
On him he turned the Trojan's willing bow
and guided with his hand the fatal shaft.
It was the first joy that old Priam knew
since Hector's death. So then Achilles you,
who overcame the mighty, were subdued
by a coward who seduced a Grecian wife!
Ah, if you could not die by manly hands,
your choice had been the axe.
Now that great terror of the Trojan race,
the glory and defence of the Pelasgians,
Achilles, first in war, lay on the pyre.
The god of Fire first armed, then burned, his limbs.
And now he is but ashes; and of him, so great,
renowned and mighty, but a pitiful
handful of small dust insufficient for
a little urn! But all his glory lives
enough to fill the world—a great reward.
And in that glory is his real life:
in a true sense he will never know the void
of Tartarus.
But soon his very shield—
that men might know to whom it had belonged—
brings war, and arms are taken for his arms.
Neither Diomed nor Ajax called the less
ventured to claim the hero's mighty shield.
Menelaus and other warlike chiefs,
even Agamemnon, all withdrew their claims.
Only the greater Ajax and Ulysses
had such assurance that they dared contest
for that great prize. Then Agamemnon chose
to avoid the odium of preferring one.
He bade the Argolic chieftains take their seats
within the camp and left to all of them
the hearing and decision of the cause.
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