The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve containing Poems upon Several Occasions |
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Priam's Lamentation and Petition TO ACHILLES, For the Body of his Son HECTOR. |
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 | The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve |  |
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Priam's Lamentation and Petition TO ACHILLES, For the Body of his Son HECTOR.
Argument Introductory to this Translation.
Hector's Body, (after he was Slain) remain'd still in the Possession of Achilles; for which Priam made great Lamentation. Jupiter had Pity on him, and sent Iris to comfort him, and direct him after what manner he should go to Achilles's Tent; and how he should there Ransom the Body of his Son. Priam accordingly orders his Chariot to be got ready, and preparing rich Presents for Achilles, sets forward to the Grecian Camp, accompany'd by no Body but his Herald Idæus. Mercury, at Jupiter's Command, meets him by the Way, in the Figure of a young Grecian, and, after bemoaning his Misfortunes, undertakes to drive his Chariot, unobserv'd, through the Guards, and to the Door of Achilles's Tent; which having perform'd, he discover'd himself a God, and giving him a short Instruction, how to move Achilles to Compassion, flew up to Heaven.
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Translated from the Greek of Homer, Ιλιαδ. Beginning at this Line,
Ως αρα φωνησας απεβη προς μακρον ΟλυμπονΕρμειας------
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So spake the God, and Heav'nward took his Flight:
When Priam from his Chariot did alight;
Leaving Idæus there, alone he went
With Solemn Pace, into Achilles' Tent.
Heedless, he pass'd thro' various Rooms of State,
Until approaching where the Heroe sate;
There at a Feast, the good old Priam found
Jove's best belov'd, with all his Chiefs around:
Two only were t'attend his Person plac'd,
Automedon and Alcymus; the rest
At greater Distance, greater State express'd.
When Priam from his Chariot did alight;
Leaving Idæus there, alone he went
With Solemn Pace, into Achilles' Tent.
Heedless, he pass'd thro' various Rooms of State,
Until approaching where the Heroe sate;
There at a Feast, the good old Priam found
Jove's best belov'd, with all his Chiefs around:
Two only were t'attend his Person plac'd,
Automedon and Alcymus; the rest
At greater Distance, greater State express'd.
Priam, unseen by these, his Way pursu'd,
And first of all was by Achilles view'd.
About his Knees his trembling Arms he cast,
And agonizing grasp'd and held 'em fast;
Then caught his Hands, and kiss'd and press'd 'em close,
Those Hands, th'inhuman Authors of his Woes;
Those Hands, whose unrelenting Force had cost
Much of his Blood (for many Sons he lost.)
And first of all was by Achilles view'd.
About his Knees his trembling Arms he cast,
And agonizing grasp'd and held 'em fast;
Then caught his Hands, and kiss'd and press'd 'em close,
Those Hands, th'inhuman Authors of his Woes;
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Much of his Blood (for many Sons he lost.)
But, as a Wretch who has a Murder done,
And seeking Refuge, does from Justice run;
Entring some House, in haste, where he's unknown,
Creates Amazement in the Lookers on:
So did Achilles gaze, surpriz'd to see
The Godlike Priam's Royal Misery;
All on each other gaz'd, all in surprize
And mute, yet seem'd to question with their Eyes.
'Till he at length the solemn Silence broke;
And thus the venerable Suppliant spoke.
And seeking Refuge, does from Justice run;
Entring some House, in haste, where he's unknown,
Creates Amazement in the Lookers on:
So did Achilles gaze, surpriz'd to see
The Godlike Priam's Royal Misery;
All on each other gaz'd, all in surprize
And mute, yet seem'd to question with their Eyes.
'Till he at length the solemn Silence broke;
And thus the venerable Suppliant spoke.
Divine Achilles, at your Feet behold
A prostrate King, in Wretchedness grown old:
Think on your Father, and then look on me,
His hoary Age and helpless Person see;
So furrow'd are his Cheeks, so white his Hairs,
Such, and so many his declining Years;
Cou'd you imagine (but that cannot be)
Cou'd you imagine such, his Misery!
Yet it may come, when he shall be oppress'd,
And neighb'ring Princes lay his Country waste;
Ev'n at this time perhaps some pow'rful Foe,
Who will no Mercy, no Compassion show,
Ent'ring his Palace, sees him feebly fly,
And seek Protection, where no Help is nigh.
In vain, he may your fatal Absence mourn,
And wish in vain for your delay'd Return;
Yet, that he hears you live, is some Relief;
Some Hopes alleviate his Excess of Grief.
It glads his Soul to think, he once may see
His much-lov'd Son; would that were granted me!
But I, most wretched I! of all bereft!
Of all my Worthy Sons, how few are left!
Yet fifty goodly Youths I had to boast,
When first the Greeks invaded Ilion's Coast:
Nineteen, the joyful Issue of one Womb,
Are now, alas! a mournful Tribute to one Tomb.
Merciless War, this Devastation wrought,
And their strong Nerves to Dissolution brought.
A prostrate King, in Wretchedness grown old:
Think on your Father, and then look on me,
His hoary Age and helpless Person see;
So furrow'd are his Cheeks, so white his Hairs,
Such, and so many his declining Years;
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Cou'd you imagine such, his Misery!
Yet it may come, when he shall be oppress'd,
And neighb'ring Princes lay his Country waste;
Ev'n at this time perhaps some pow'rful Foe,
Who will no Mercy, no Compassion show,
Ent'ring his Palace, sees him feebly fly,
And seek Protection, where no Help is nigh.
In vain, he may your fatal Absence mourn,
And wish in vain for your delay'd Return;
Yet, that he hears you live, is some Relief;
Some Hopes alleviate his Excess of Grief.
It glads his Soul to think, he once may see
His much-lov'd Son; would that were granted me!
But I, most wretched I! of all bereft!
Of all my Worthy Sons, how few are left!
Yet fifty goodly Youths I had to boast,
When first the Greeks invaded Ilion's Coast:
Nineteen, the joyful Issue of one Womb,
Are now, alas! a mournful Tribute to one Tomb.
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And their strong Nerves to Dissolution brought.
Still one was left, in whom was all my Hope,
My Age's Comfort, and his Country's Prop;
Hector, my Darling, and my last Defence,
Whose Life alone, their Deaths could recompence:
And, to compleat my Store of countless Woe,
Him you have slain—of him bereav'd me too!
For his sake only, hither am I come;
Rich Gifts I bring, and Wealth, an endless Sum;
All to redeem that fatal Prize you won,
A worthless Ransom for so brave a Son.
My Age's Comfort, and his Country's Prop;
Hector, my Darling, and my last Defence,
Whose Life alone, their Deaths could recompence:
And, to compleat my Store of countless Woe,
Him you have slain—of him bereav'd me too!
For his sake only, hither am I come;
Rich Gifts I bring, and Wealth, an endless Sum;
All to redeem that fatal Prize you won,
A worthless Ransom for so brave a Son.
Fear the just Gods, Achilles; and on me
With Pity look, think you your Father see;
Such as I am, he is, alone in this,
I can no Equal have in Miseries;
Of all Mankind, most wretched and forlorn,
Bow'd with such Weight, as never has been born;
Reduc'd to kneel and pray to you, from whom
The Spring and Source of all my Sorrows come;
With Gifts, to court mine and my Country's Bane,
And kiss those Hands, which have my Children slain.
He spake.—
With Pity look, think you your Father see;
Such as I am, he is, alone in this,
I can no Equal have in Miseries;
Of all Mankind, most wretched and forlorn,
Bow'd with such Weight, as never has been born;
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The Spring and Source of all my Sorrows come;
With Gifts, to court mine and my Country's Bane,
And kiss those Hands, which have my Children slain.
He spake.—
Now, Sadness o'er Achilles' Face appears,
Priam he views, and for his Father fears;
That, and Compassion melt him into Tears.
Then, gently with his Hand he put away
Old Priam's Face, but he, still prostrate lay,
And there with Tears, and Sighs, afresh begun
To mourn the Fall of his ill-fated Son.
But Passion diff'rent ways Achilles turns,
Now, he Patroclus, now, his Father mourns:
Thus both with Lamentations fill'd the Place,
'Till Sorrow seem'd to wear one common Face.
Priam he views, and for his Father fears;
That, and Compassion melt him into Tears.
Then, gently with his Hand he put away
Old Priam's Face, but he, still prostrate lay,
And there with Tears, and Sighs, afresh begun
To mourn the Fall of his ill-fated Son.
But Passion diff'rent ways Achilles turns,
Now, he Patroclus, now, his Father mourns:
Thus both with Lamentations fill'd the Place,
'Till Sorrow seem'd to wear one common Face.
| The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | |