That, though his mother bade him shun the war,
And spend his life in long, inglorious ease,
Surpassing even Pylian Nestor's years,
He cast his mother's shamming garments off.
Confessing him the hero that he was?
When Telephus, in pride of royal power, 215
Forbade our progress through his kingdom's bounds,
lie stained with royal blood the untried hand
That young Achilles raised. Yet once again
He felt that selfsame hand in mercy laid
Upon his wound to heal him of its smart.
Then did Eëtion, smitten sore, behold
His city taken and his realm o'erthrown;
By equal fortune fell Lyrnessus' walls, 220
For safety perched upon a ridgy height,
Whence came that captive maid, Briseis fair;
And Chrysa, too, lies low, the destined cause
Of royal strife; and Tenedos, and the land
Which on its spreading pastures feeds the flocks 225
Of Thracian shepherds, Scyros; Lesbos too,
Upon whose rocky shore the sea in twain
Is cleft; and Cilia, which Apollo loved.
All these my father took, and eke the towns
Whose walls Caÿcus with his vernal flood
Doth wash against. This widespread overthrow
Of tribes, this fearful and destructive scourge,
That swept through many towns with whirlwind power— 230
This had been glory and the height of fame
For other chiefs; 'twas but an incident
In great Achilles' journey to the war.
So came my father and such wars he waged
While but preparing war. And though I pass
In silence all his other merits, still
Would mighty Hector's death be praise enough. 235
My father conquered Troy; the lesser task
Of pillage and destruction is your own.
'Tis pleasant thus to laud my noble sire
And all his glorious deeds pass in review:
Before his father's eyes did Hector lie,
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The Tragedies of Seneca
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