Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/433

Mindless of food, or love, whose pleasing reign
Soothes weary life, and softens human pain.
Oh snatch the moments yet within thy power;
Not long to live, indulge the amorous hour!
Lo! Jove himself, for Jove's command I bear,
Forbids to tempt the wrath of heaven too far.
No longer then, his fury if thou dread,
Detain the relics of great Hector dead;
Nor vent on senseless earth thy vengeance vain,
But yield to ransom, and restore the slain."
To whom Achilles: "Be the ransom given,
And we submit, since such the will of heaven."
While thus they communed, from the Olympian bowers
Jove orders Iris to the Trojan towers:
"Haste, winged goddess, to the sacred town,
And urge her monarch to redeem his son;
Alone, the Ilian ramparts let him leave,
And bear what stern Achilles may receive:
Alone, for so we will: no Trojan near;
Except, to place the dead with decent care,
Some aged herald, who, with gentle hand,
May the slow mules and funeral car command;
Nor let him death, nor let him danger dread,
Safe through the foe by our protection led:
Him Hermes to Achilles shall convey,
Guard of his life, and partner of his way.
Fierce as he is, Achilles' self shall spare
His age, nor touch one venerable hair:
Some thought there must be in a soul so brave,
Some sense of duty, some desire to save."
Then down her bow the winged Iris drives,
And swift at Priam's mournful court arrives:
Where the sad sons beside their father's throne
Sat bathed in tears, and answered groan with groan.
And all amidst them lay the hoary sire,
Sad scene of woe I his face, his wrapped attire
Concealed from sight ; with frantic hands he spread
A shower of ashes o'er his neck and
head. From room to room his pensive daughters roam:
Whose shrieks and clamours fill the vaulted dome;
Mindful of those, who, late their pride and joy,
Lie pale and breathless round the fields of Troy!
Before the king Jove's messenger appears,
And thus in whispers greets his trembling ears:
"Fear not, oh father! no ill news I bear;
From Jove I come, Jove makes thee still his care;
For Hector's sake these walls he bids thee leave,
And bear what stern Achilles may receive:
Alone, for so he wills: no Trojan near,