The defence of Rome :: :: University of Virginia Library

The defence of Rome

[by E. J. Myers]

Myers, Ernest (1844-1921)

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XI.

Lyric and Elegiac Poems.

THE ARMOUR OF ACHILLES.

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The Defence of Rome.

Che per amore al fine combatteo.
Dante.

This Poem IS DEDICATED TO ANDREW CECIL BRADLEY.

ARGUMENT.

The revolutionary movement of 1848 having extended its influence to Italy, attempts were made in the Italian states to shake off the direct or indirect predominance of Austria, and to establish free governments. At Rome the new Pope, Pius IX, after encouraging for a time these tendencies, became alarmed, and inclined to a reactionary policy. On the assassination of his minister Rossi in November 1848, he left Rome, took refuge under the protection of the King of Naples, and invoked the aid of Austria, Spain, and France against his people.

In March 1849 the Roman Republic was proclaimed. Mazzini was invited to Rome, and there, acting as Triumvir with Saffi and Armellini, was the guide of the home and foreign policy of the Republic, as Garibaldi, summoned at the same time, was of its military action. In the same month the defeat of Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, by the Austrians at the battle of Novara, deprived Rome of all hope of help from the Piedmontese, and Venice was fully engaged in maintaining her heroic resistance to the Austrian siege. Aid or encouragement might have been expected from the new French Republic,

but France was already under the influences which led to the Bonapartist coup d'état of December 1851. In December 1848 Louis Napoleon Bonaparte became President. In April 1849, a French army under General Oudinot landed on Roman territory under a vaguely declared commission to aid in the restoration of order, without any recognition of the existing government of the Roman Republic, which had been constituted by the suffrages of the people. Civita Vecchia was seized under protest of the Roman government, and on April 30 the French attempted to enter Rome by force, though warned that the attempt would be resisted. They were repulsed with loss, 300 prisoners being taken by the Romans, but released on the ground that it was impossible that it could be the deliberate intention of the French Republic to make war on the Roman, in direct despite of an Article of the French Constitution. A truce followed, M. Lesseps being now arrived as Envoy Plenipotentiary to arrange an amicable settlement. Negotiations were continued during the month of May, but were then abruptly broken off by Oudinot, acting under secret instructions from the French Executive, who thus betrayed and disgraced their own representative. Reinforcements had been sent which gave the French an army of 35,000 men: the men under arms in the city were about 18,000. Oudinot had already seized on Monte Mario during the truce, and while refusing to restore this important post, he now pledged himself

to abstain from hostilities till the 4th of June. On the night of the 2nd he ordered a treacherous attack on the heights in front of the gate of San Pancrazio, and after a long struggle, maintained by the garrison against great odds, carried and occupied the position. This was a fatal blow to the defence, but it was prolonged by courageous effort till the 1st of July. On the 3rd the French entered the city, and presently restored the papal government, which lasted until its final overthrow on the 20th of September, 1870.

I have prefixed this brief argument for those who are unaware or forgetful of the facts mentioned, but it is to be hoped that there are many for whom such provision is needless. An account of the whole matter, doubly impressive because given by a writer unfriendly to Mazzini and his policy, may be read in the last volume of Farini's Roman State (translated by Mr. Gladstone), and additional details are to be found in M. Lesseps' ‘Ma Mission à Rome,’ Beghelli's ‘La Republica Romana del 1849,’ Mme. Venturi's Memoir of Mazzini, A. Mario's ‘Garibaldi,’ and Mazzini's own writings. E. M.

[I.]

Rome, thou art named as of Strength, and thy glory is sprung of the sword,
From thy birth in the ancient tale the War-God was thy father and lord;
All feebler birds of the air were amazed and folded their wings
When thine eagles swooped on their prey, overshadowing peoples and kings.
Eastward and westward they flew, and many a battle of old
Famous and fierce they led; yet ne'er might thine eagles behold—
Nay not among all the battles that ring thro' the roll of the years
With clanging of shield and broadsword and hurtling of close-hurled spears—

More stern and sacred a fight than was fought by thy walls that year,
Whereof men yet living were part, when the rulers were stricken with fear.
Stricken with fear were the rulers, their faces and hearts grew wan
As they thought of the dread beginning, nigh three-score winters agone,
When the strength of the prisoned giant had stirred in his mountain tomb,
And the mountain was shaken and sundered, the high heavens rolled in gloom,
And up thro' the cloudy pillar there leapt forth a pillar of fire,
The wrath of the tortured giant, the flame of his deadly desire.
Three and thirty years were gone by since the waste and the warfare were stayed,
Cooled were the lava-fires, but the tyrants still were afraid.

For of all those crowns that had fallen some dead in the dust lay still,
And some were shorn by the powers that make righteous against men's will.
And two hands ever hath Fear when she stands by the tyrant's throne;
With one she plucketh him back, with the other she urgeth him on
To cruelties fiercer and fouler than when his soul was at ease,
And the dark land darkens around him, the last of the sunlight flees.

But of all those lands in darkness, none knew so grievous a night
As the land that is lady of summer, the child of the sun and the light.
To the south and the sun she leans, and around her delicately,
As the arms of a nurse round her nursling, the streams of the Midland Sea,

Guarding their midmost gem, flow softly, and softly enfold
Italy, Europe's darling, the light of her peoples of old.
Twice in the tale of mankind out of Italy came there a word,
That spake with power to the peoples, and turned their hearts as they heard.
But each word failed in its day, and past when its work was sped
To the underworld of the ghosts, Aïdonean realms of the dead:
And she that had been Earth's eye became darkness, a cavern of gloom,
And she that had been Earth's life as the charnel load of the tomb.
Long had the spoilers torn her, and now when their work was done
Sevenwise rent she lay, and knew not as yet she was One.

II.

But a muttered murmur crept from the Alps to the African sea
Of men that were chafed by their chains and weary of infamy.
And each man looked on his fellows and knew that his thought was theirs,
One thought that still throbbed through the noblest and grew with the growing years:
‘Shall the hearts of so many be changed, yet the burden of all be the same?
Shall brands so many be burning, yet sow not the seed of flame?’
Then Rimini stirred, and Lucca, and Sicily sent forth a cry
That rang thro' the realm of Naples, a summons once more to defy
The bombs of the treacherous Bourbon, the bullets that erst laid low

The twin-souled brothers Bandiera, who fell as they gazed on the foe
Unshrinking, their eyes unshrouded, the martyr sons of the sea,
Dead, with a prayer on their lips for the life of Italy.

But chiefest far to the North thro' the populous streets of Milan
And the storied isles of Venice the flame of the rising ran.
For those ancient cities rose wrathful; the Austrian spoiler fled
Lest his pallid livery's white should be stained with a sanguine red;
Yet came he again with his legions, surrounding them, twenty to one,
With thunder of countless cannon that darkened the face of the sun;
And the brave Milanese fell fast; their cry went forth to the West

To the ears of the king of Sardinia: he wavered, yet came at the hest,
For the cause of his honour he knew to be one with the cause of their right,
But his heart was weakened within him and shrank from the uttermost fight.
Yet he came and strove for a season; but then as the summer waned
So waned the first heat of his purpose; once more thro' their streets death-stained
Rolled back the dark cloud of despair on the homes of the brave Milanese,
Once more did the Austrian banner hang o'er them, polluting the breeze.
Venice alone stood firm. For the Austrian shrank at the roar
And the teeth and the claws of her lion, the wingëd lion of yore;
So watchful he glared from his islands, so fiery and fierce he would bound

On the hunters about that beset him, and gave no inch of the ground.

III.

But thou mid the strife of thy sisters, O eldest and royalest Rome,
With what eyes wert thou gazing abroad, what cheer wert thou making at home?
Truly thine eyes were long blinded; yet was it not all to thy shame
If the light that at first thou wouldst follow misled thee, a wandering flame:
For lo, a new pontiff arisen who stood not in ancient ways,
But rebuked the false priests in his palace, and sought for the people's praise:
And he gave them statutes and charters, and blest the banners they bore
As they went forth to succour their brethren, to fight in the Austrian war.

Blessings and laws he gave them, and they with wonder and pride
Blest him again in their blindness, and knew not what should betide.
For the minds of both were deluded, nor people nor pontiff foresaw
How the blesser should turn to a curse, the lawgiver to ruin of law.
But slowly the false lamp dwindled, the lustre began to fade,
As a marsh-light bred for an hour in the deep immemorial shade;
For the old curse clave to the pontiff, the curse of the pontiffs' line,
Throne and sceptre and riches, the dower of Constantine.

And at last in the darkling November, when Rossi lay in his blood,
And the ship of the state in amazement was tost on the ebb and the flood,

Then the weak hand dropt from the helm, and all in the dead of the night
Crept out from his palace the pontiff, and silently stole in his flight
Forth from the land of his people, and craved of Ferdinand's hand
Shelter on Gaëta's rock, and abode in a tyrant's land.

Then the soul of Rome was awakened, the turbid stream ran clear
Gathering in force to its goal: and so with the newborn year
Light came to the eyes long blinded, and strength to the staggering knees,
And the fair head of Rome was lifted and turned to the dawn and the breeze
Blown fresh from a far-off country, a region of hope and of awe,
Of majesty born from abasement, of late-found freedom and law.

And behold, in the presence of Europe, or ever the fourth moon clomb
To her place in the heavens expectant, arose the Republic of Rome.

IV.

Two chiefs for her Arm and her Voice she sought for, and found them then,
Garibaldi son of the lightning, Mazzini lover of men.
By the fair Ligurian gulf were the lives of the twain begun,
On the God-wrought Terrace gigantic, the ledges that look to the sun,
Where the gold fruits gleam thro' the woods dark-leaved o'er the red sea-caves,
And the mild sea laughs to the mountain with numberless laughter of waves;
Where the opaline light of the olive leaps forth to the stir of the breeze,

And above and beneath thro' its boughs shines the blue of the skies and the seas;
Where Columbus roamed and mused till his lonely purpose was grown
To the height of his great achievement, the finding of worlds unknown.
Long time he too, Garibaldi, beyond the Atlantic foam
In the worlds of Columbus wandered, but now to the land of his home
He was come in the hour of her need with the west-wind out of the sea
To smite, nor stay from the smiting, till Italy's children be free.
Nor ever was champion or chief since the story of battles began
More apt for a perilous venture, more lionlike lordly a man.

Nor feebler that second, his friend, Mazzini, leader of men,

Though other the arms he had chosen; for ever with voice and with pen
He had toiled for his country's redemption, awaiting the hour of the sword.
And now it was come, and he led her, as once, in the name of the Lord,
Led on by the voice of their prophets, did Israel's sons even so
Go forth unto war with the heathen, the Hittite and Ammonite foe.
For an ardour of old consumed him, the flame of an inborn fire
Sown from the first in his heart, when, a child in the home of his sire,
He wept for the poor and the trampled, and glowed at the deeds of the brave
Who tower in the crowd of their fellows, more mighty to suffer and save.
Steadfast and strong was that flame; all doubts and desires and fears

Fell into its fervour and fed it thro' wasted and wearisome years:
In his high-built cell at Savona, alone with the sea and the sky,
Or in exile in lands of the North, where the rains drift drearily,
One vision still clave to his slumbers, all visions amidst and above,
One form, even Italy's phantom, the land of his birth and his love.
And his heart beat high with resolve, when he saw in the darkness arise
That face so fair in its sorrow, those wistful memorial eyes.
Such and so piteous it seemed, so piteous and holy and pure,
As the face of the desolate queen who in Ithaca long must endure
Drear yearning for him who came not, and wrongs of a lawless race.

Year after year she endured, for Athene gave her her grace,
Patient and pale in her chamber, or gazing seaward in care
For her lord that tarried long; yet in fulness of time he was there,
Yea, he came when they looked not for him, as sudden noon in the night,
And the mean garb fell from his shoulders, and plain in his terrible might
He sprang with a shout to the threshold and shot forth the arrows of doom,
And the evil were broken before him, their ghosts fled away thro' the gloom.

V.

So those two came to the Romans that called them, and laboured to lay
Foundations of order and freedom and works of the dawn and the day.

But a cry from the powers of darkness rose straightway of anger and fear,
When they saw on the Seven Hills the dreaded morn drawing near;
When they saw in Rome, as in Venice, a generous order and just
Bringing life to the places of tombs and raising the dead from the dust.
Then the kings and the rulers stood up, and each unto each in affright
Cried with a shrill lamentation, ‘Woe, woe for the terrible light!
Shall our sentence at last go forth where least we looked for our fate?
Shall Rome that was sworn to our service arise and baffle our hate?’
Three armies gathered to battle, to fight against freedom and Rome,
One from the slave-house of Austria, from tyranny's long-vext home

(Croats and Germans and Huns driven on to slay and be slain),
And one from the Bourbon of Naples, and one from the Bourbon of Spain.
Who then should be found Rome's helper of all the peoples of earth?
Who, said she, but surely my sister, but France, where already has birth
A republic of happier omen, more wise with the wisdom of years
Than that other whose splendour was sullied with slaughter and terror and tears,
Then quenched in the clutch of a tyrant; but this should be surely more bright,
More gentle, more sane and courageous, more constant to dare for the right.
So Rome in her phantasy dreamed, and knew not the horror that hung
O'er the hopes of the people of France; for around their republic there clung,

As a swarm of poisonous vermin, a sordid and traitorous crew
Leagued in a league of liars to murder the just and the true.
Not yet could they rule at their pleasure, but grievously weighed on the land,
Stifling her voice of acclaim and withholding her generous hand
That fain would have welcomed her sister; but now she stood sullen and dumb,
Choked by the brood on her breast: but a worse thing still was to come.

VI.

For now as the year went on, and, as isles in a ravenous sea,
Rome and Venice alone stood forth and dared to be free,
Once more did the King of Sardinia, sore stung with shame at the sight,

Draw forth his sword from its scabbard, defying the Austrian might.
In vain; for the Austrian cannon once more on Novara's day
Blasted his useless brand and swept his succour away.

That tale heard the Romans in sorrow, yet bowed not their spirits to fear,
Nor yet when another tidings, yet bitterer, came to their ear.
For now as the spring days lengthened and April smiled on the land
Came news of an army of France sailed forth for the Tyrrhene strand,
But with it no greeting of cheer, as of brother to brother, was sent;
Dark words spake the rulers of France and veiled in gloom their intent.

And now had they traverst the sea, and landed, and now overbore

(Half fraud half force was that seizure) the port of the Roman shore.
Then Oudinot envoys sent, and prayed of the Romans to yield
Their gates to the host of the stranger, come thither for succour and shield.
But stern and clear came the answer: ‘No nearer come to our wall:
Force with force shall be met: on thy head be what evil befall.’

Then Oudinot marched on the city; the bells in the Capitol tower
Rang out to the people their signal and called them to gather their power;
And swift on the on-coming French came the ranks of the Romans down,
From noon to the evening they fought by the western gates of the town;
Then turned the invader before them, and left in their hands for a prey

Three hundred soldiers of France: so chased they the spoiler away.

VII.

But Oudinot chafed at his shame, and sware that the city should yield,
Were it force or fraud that should win it, if so his reproach might be healed.
Yet still for a month must he tarry, for now was a parley begun
Between Rome and the Envoy of France, who fain even then would have won
His country to justice and mercy; but baseness and treason prevailed,
As the voice of the vile grew stronger, the nobler faltered and failed.
What profit to tell of such parley, the backward and forward debate,
The defeat of the strivings of honour, the triumph of envy and hate?

Meanwhile, all unheeding the evil, the Spring on her magical way
Past on over Italy's mountains and wakened the glory of May;
And the young leaves whispered together, the elm to the plane-tree fair,
And far thro' the height of the heaven brake upward the infinite air.
But no Roman youth by a maiden might hearken the nightingale sing,
Or alone in the flowery silence catch faintly the footsteps of Spring:
One voice had the Spring for him only, to battle for freedom and right,
One voice sounding high o'er the cannon and clear in the crash of the fight.

But first the three hundred captives were led thro' the streets of Rome
By the side of the Romans to kneel in the shrine of the world-famed Dome;

Then back to their comrades they sent them, with brotherly voice of acclaim,
To bear to their captain this message, best crown of the Roman fame:
‘Let these be for witness between us, not yet will we deem it can be
That republic strive with republic, the free do wrong to the free.’

VIII.

Then next on the army of Naples they turned, and drave them to flee
In rout with their craven king: scarce safe on his throne might he be;
For hard on his track followed after with fiery and terrible hand
Garibaldi, breaker of bondage, arousing the folk of the land.
But he paused in the midst of pursuit, for to Rome they called him again,

For the parley with France was ended, the month's debate was in vain:
And now a new army of Frenchmen had sailed for the south once more,
Twofold the first in its number, and trod the devoted shore.
O infamy cruel and foul! O crime that might darken the day!
O shame of a noble nation, a brand on her forehead for aye!
But Europe stood by and beheld it, the free stood by with the slaves,
As the baneful fleet of the stranger bare death to Rome o'er the waves.
And thou, fair daughter of freedom, proud isle of the tameless deep,
Was thine arm then shortened to save, or thine eyelids heavy with sleep?
Wert thou too even as others who knew not freedom of old

Drugged to a selfish stupor and bartering honour for gold?
Could even that name that thou hatedst, the evil Corsican name,
Not stir thee to send forth a champion once more to illumine thy fame,
Some Nelson or fiery Dundonald to swoop on the hostile prey
And the swarming sails of the spoiler to sweep from the ocean away,
Some Wellesley to plant in the front of a people that strove to be free
Unswerving battalions of Britain, a rock in the rage of the sea?
Not so: but thy true sons grieved; it was ill that this thing should be done,
That a people should perish for freedom and help from thy hand have none.

So now to their comrades expectant the strangers came up from the sea;

Seven times five were their thousands, the Romans' but six times three.
Yet to Oudinot even such odds could scarce give cheer for the strife,
For his base cause cankered his valour and lay as a blight on his life:
Still feared he fair fight with the Romans, the men who had smitten him sore,
And he stained with a lie his banner, the pride of the tricolor.
So worthy his errand he proved him, so fit for his vile emprise,
Fit tool of the Bonaparte traitor, the son and father of lies.
Let treason come first for assurance, then force should follow his wile
To preserve him what fraud should have gained—so plotted he darkly in guile.
And a day for the end of the truce he fixed with the Romans, and sware

That until that day should have dawned his host in its place should forbear.
So he sware, and the Romans believed him, and looked to their arms for that day—
Thus far at least would they trust him—and waited secure for the fray.
But or ever the truce was ended, by night had his army clomb
To the Marian Mount on the north, and seized on that bulwark of Rome:
Nor heeded he aught the upbraiding that shamed him from friend and foe,
But paltered with quibbling speech and devised yet a deadlier blow.
For now when a night and a morrow and yet one last night still
Were all unspent of the truce, then against the Janiculan hill
He sent forth at evening his soldiers, eight thousand men of his best,

To seize on the height by treason, where silent in darkness and rest
Four hundred were guarding the summit: then suddenly looked they, and lo,
All around rushing on to the slaughter swarmed countless the throng of the foe.
Yet swerved they no whit from the battle, but on thro' the fiery hail
Sprang forward in wrath to the onset and bore them bravely and well.
And ever where densest and fiercest the torrent of enemies poured
Blazed high in the front of the fight Garibaldi's terrible sword;
Back shrank their bravest before it, and turned in fear from the wall;
And clear as the voice of a clarion rang ever the voice of his call.
From night to the dawn and the noonday and on to the twilight again

They bare up that battle gigantic, sore spent with labour and pain.
But before and behind were the foemen, they swarmed on them twenty to one,
Till the combat unequal was o'er, the Janiculan vantage was won.
There Dandolo, worthy his Venice, lay dead in the blood-steeped throng,
Daverio, Masina, Mameli, his young breast silenced from song.
These, with the faithful who followed, their hearts unshaken of fear,
Stood forth against odds overwhelming and fell in the front with a cheer,
These, with the hundreds more who should live in their country's praise
By the lips of men and of maidens, the camp's and the hearth-stone's lays.
Nay, let not the glory sleep or the high deeds suffer wrong

That should march to the music of time and the tide of sonorous song.
By these from her ancient abasement was Italy lifted on high,
From these came the breath of her life, for they proved that her sons could die.

IX.

But now when the heights were lost, and the hosts with the end of day
Had rest from the noise of the onset, the shattering shock of the fray,
Then knew the defenders of Rome that theirs was a desperate strife,
And deadly the blow that was dealt at their young republic's life.
Yet now in the hour of her trial the city's manifold soul
By the stress of her fierce tribulation was knit to a lordlier whole,

To a commonwealth nobler and purer than Fabius or Regulus saw,
With the hopes of the Earth in her flag and the breath of love in her law.
As of old time the Titan beloved, who braved the omnipotent's ire,
And gave men wisdom and hope and the sacred seed of the fire,
Nailed down at the limit of earth, unterrified on to the end,
For his word would not turn for the torment, his high soul falter or bend,
Tho' the sea and the heaven mingled, and reeled at the shattering shock,
Tho' the firm ground shrank at the lightning and yawned for the riven rock
Hellward hurled with its burden, the Titan triumphant in pain—
So endured that anguish the Romans, and still would they gird them again

To follow the leaders they loved, and bravely by day and by night
Bare up thro' the crash of the cannon, the travail and strain of the fight.
And they who had otherwhere fought, with a great exultation came
To do battle once more for a cause that in all lands still was the same:
And thro' them whose fight was their first the thrill of a new joy ran,
The austere sweet joy of the combat, whose home is the blood of a man:
But an ardour diviner far was blent with that fire of the blood,
As the flame of the lightning celestial on flaming trees of a wood.
And the women of Rome, the heroic, the mothers and maidens and wives,
Still sent forth their dearest to battle, and recked not their desolate lives,

Still tended the mangled limbs and lifted the swooning head,
Still solaced the thirst and the anguish, and silently wept for the dead.

All that month they endured, and fiercer and fiercer the sun
Smote down on their dwindling numbers with pain and with toil fordone;
And the shells screamed shrill thro' the air and slaying the weak with the strong,
Slaying the babe in the cradle asleep to his mother's song,
Slaying the mother beside him and blasting the poor man's home,
Nor sparing the shrine and the column, memorial marvels of Rome:
Till at last in the final night, when the fires of God from on high
Blazed brighter than fires of the sulphur, and terribly out of the sky

Thro' the shrouding gloom of the midnight, more dark for the storm-cloud's fold,
Louder yet than the cannon, the peal of the thunder rolled,
Then Rome struck her fiercest and last: in vain, for with dawning day,
As a warrior slain of his wounds, forspent to her utmost she lay.

X.

So the glorious Defence was ended; the treacherous foe forsworn
Marched in thro' the deathlike gloom of the streets of the city forlorn.
Yet found he not there Garibaldi, for he with the last of his band
Was gone forth on a desperate venture, if haply the length of the land
They might traverse afar to the northward and reach unto Venice at last:

So on to their fate heroic, well knowing their peril, they past.
And the strangers marched thro' the town, but their triumph was poisoned with shame
For the lie-stained banner of France and their false republican name.
And they seemed in that silence sepulcral as men who outrage the dead,
And each felt gloom in his breast and the blood of the brave on his head.
Yet knew not they then how at last in the two-and-twentieth year
There should come unto Rome a redemption, to France strange anguish and fear,
Nor how France, made pure from her sin in a furnace of fiery pain,
Should hurl from her bosom the vampire and rise into honour again.

They went up to the heart of Rome, the august Capitolian hill,

Where, awaiting the foe, the Assembly sat calm in their places and still,
Even they whom the people had chosen and laid its power in their hands;
But now breaking in on their council came Oudinot's armëd bands
And scattered them far into exile and barred behind them the door,
And deemed that the voices of freedom should speak from that hill no more.
Yet or ever that deed was done, on the eve of that lawless day,
Had a voice from that hill gone forth which should sound thro' the world alway.
All thro' the storm of the siege they had laboured early and late
To fulfil their charge from the people, to fashion the laws of the state,
And even as the feet of the foemen came in o'er the blood-stained ground,

They proclaimed to the city her statutes, unheeding the ruin around.

Thus had the Romans wrought, as a deed of the Romans of yore,
That so, whether late or soon, when the tyranny all should be o'er,
Then Justice from exile returning, led back by a kindlier star,
Should know that her own did not doubt, had foreseen her return from afar,
That the transient had known her eternal, the homeless had wrought her a home,
Yea, a shrine for her Godhead to dwell in, the laws of republican Rome.

XI.

Yet tarried a few in the city whose hearts not yet would allow
All ended they strove for so bravely, but haply, they deemed, even now

Some chance might arise unreckoned to spring on the foe secure
And hurl him to dust from his triumph, some vengeance sudden and sure.
And there with those sad stern hearts one sadder and sterner than all,
Mazzini, waited in silence if haply such chance should befall.
Freely he went and came, and moved in the light of the day,
But none laid hand on his freedom or lifted weapon to slay.
Seven days he tarried in vain, and then, when all hope was fled,
Went forth from the sorrowful city that mourned for her freedom dead.
Northward and westward he fared, and made for the Tyrrhene strand
Right on thro' the wild Campagna, the fateful feverous land.

Farther and farther he fared, till only the world-famed Dome,
Bathed in the splendour of even, could speak to his sorrow of Rome.
Then he laid him down in the twilight, amidst of the perilous plain,
And yielded his eyelids to sleep, and forgot for a little his pain;
And a wind from the wild Campagna, the plague-vext pasture and fen,
Moaned round the people's shepherd, the leader and prophet of men.
But lo, in his dreams as he slumbered the firmament rolled away,
Lost in an ampler arch and a dawn of diviner day;
And it seemed as the tenth heaven opened, all heights of the heavens above,
Moved as a wheel that is moved by the might of ineffable Love;

And a Presence divine possest him, a silence fell thro' his soul,
And he seemed as himself no longer, but merged in an infinite whole;
Then slowly his sense came back, but returning seemed it to be
As though the old life were a dream, and the dream reality:
And a murmur fell thro' the air, as an angel's message it seemed,
And spake to the people's shepherd;—he smiled at the voice as he dreamed:
‘Lo this for thy heart, this word, O loved one, O lover of men;
When the long-lost light shall arise, and the gloom shall be lifted again,
When the golden yearspring shall dawn, completing the secular sum,
In the hour of the great resurrection, the life of the world to come,

There shall live in the glow of that sunrise the glow of thy brief sun set,
And the risen shall long for the fall'n, nor the unforgetting forget.’
Thus spake that voice, and was silent; the phantasy fled from his brain,
And he rose in the dawn from his slumber, unhurt of the feverous plain;
And he journeyed on to the sea and entered a ship on the strand
Bound for Massilian wharves, for a port of the strangers' land;
And they loosed the ship from her mooring and spread her sails to the wind,
For a breeze from the mounting sun was arisen and blew from behind:
So the bright waves bare him along, and the shores of his Italy
Faded away from his eyes, as the swift ship sped thro' the sea.

Lyric and Elegiac Poems.

WORDSWORTH.

O thou who labourest in life's weary ways,
With eyes grown dim in unavailing gaze
For some dim goal that ever seems to flee,
Some mocking shade of fruitless phantasy—
If but thy soul can vibrate in reply
To air-borne spells of potent poesy,
If of thyself thou canst indeed rejoice
To hear the mighty Mother's solemn voice—
Come, whosoe'er thou art, and rest thy head
Where Wordsworth bears thee to a mountain bed:
There are wild flowers, more fair than gardens grow,
That on moist rock and breezy moorland blow,
Parnassian stars of tender-veinëd white,
Or frail anemones, the spring's delight,

Thick-springing woodruff, dear in balmy death,
And, best of all, the wind-swept heather's breath.
There shalt thou hear the happy summer through
The unwearying murmur of the stock-dove's coo,
Or else, more wondrous for the poet's word,
‘At once far off and near,’ the cuckoo-bird.
And herewithal shall come to thee the sound
Of crag-born waters falling aye around,
Where fern and birch beside the amber pool
Quiver in bright spray of the torrent cool.
And when from that fair couch thou shalt arise,
His hand shall lead thee on toward the skies.
Then higher yet, beyond the voice of rills,
Drink in the holy silence of the hills.
There tarrying late thou first shalt know aright
The choral starry congress of the night:
And thy still soul in free exulting awe
Shall feel the majesty of duteous law.
No farther needs the hand that led thee on,
Thou art alone, thy gentle guide is gone.

Yet oft thenceforth when for such moments high,
Plunged in the world, thy weary heart may sigh,
Shall that kind poet lead thee forth again
To those calm heights, and ease thee of thy pain.
Therefore for ever let his name be blest,
For tired souls sought him, and he gave them rest.

A GARDEN FABLE.

A bird once loved a flower,
The flower shrank afraid;
Her life so brief an hour
Had gemmed the garden glade.

Each day the bird returning
Sang to her long and long:
More tender notes and burning
Were never poured in song.

Still seemed she unrelenting,
Though half her heart was won:
Heart-chilled, the bird lamenting
Flew forth through wind and sun.

Quick goer and quick comer,
He roved with changing flight;
In cares and joys of summer
Forgot his first delight.

Of many a phase and fashion
The after songs he sung,
But ne'er so pure a passion
As when the year was young.

The flower still unfolding
Beneath the lengthening days
Gathered from all beholding
Wonder and love and praise.

Yet still her heart was lonely;
Though gayer birds might sing,
One voice she longed for only,
That voice she heard in spring.

But when the winter slew her
She ne'er had heard again
That song the west wind blew her,
That pure and eager strain.

AN EXILE.

Ah childlike soul and tender,
How came she all this way?
What fate severe could send her
To seek our dreary day?

Or did compassion draw her
To this dim world of care,
That all might know who saw her
Her home was otherwhere?

Our cloudy gloom clings round her,
She knows not whence she came,
The frost of life has bound her
And hates her seraph flame.

Yet halting still or speeding
Some lamp of light she bears,
While through the world unheeding
Her lonely way she fares.

For still with wistful longing
She fain would play her part,
The angel thoughts are thronging
About her wounded heart.

But loads her touch had lightened
For her sake heavier grow,
And souls her grace had brightened
Are darker for her woe.

SPONSA DEO.

It is enough; let be; she may not rise
To follow with thy feet: she may not hear
Love's words or thine, only because her ear
Is hearkening some diviner harmonies.
And in the liquid depth of those pure eyes
Some inward vision of a far-off sphere
Aloof, apart, for ever holdeth her,
A virgin consecrate to holier skies.
So leave her thus, that spirit dear and fair,
Nor wronging her nor wronged, for all thy pain;
But deem thee one who, caught up unaware
Into some place of Paradise, again
Earthward must fall once more, yet still may bear
Within him echoes of the angel-strain.

STANZAS.

The fabled sculptor's idol fair,
Whereto his spirit service kept,
By stress of love's long-ambient air
To life of glowing gladness leapt.

But thou, alas, beloved head,
Hast felt the subtle spell reversed,
The life-blood drop by drop has fled
From that bright face we knew at first.

Yet hast thou gained more touching grace
For all the brightness sorrow stole,
This marble beauty of thy face,
This holy sadness of thy soul.

STANZAS.

Nay, ask me not if she be wise,
Most loving heart of hearts is she,
And like a yearling babe's her eyes
Are large with love's solemnity.

‘Yet this and that were better done
Far otherwise: why dwell with dreams?’—
The gentlest words of blame begun
Fade on my lips, because it seems

As though some tender fawn had fled
Far from the herd, and glided near,
And in my hand had laid her head,
Too tired to think of doubt or fear.

And I must rear upon the plain
Some shelter from the torrid heat,
And soothe one hour from toil and pain
That throbbing heart, those weary feet.

The hour is short, the mountain-steep
Far off hath called me to depart;
Fair thing, what meanest thou to weep
And wound my all unwilling heart?

Even hadst thou strength with me to go,
Yet by mysterious destiny
Thou no abiding aid may'st know
From any hand that eye can see.

Ah may some aid auguster far
And some far mightier hand than mine
Lead thee where those still waters are
For which thy heart and spirit pine.

It must be. Soul without a home,
This word is in thy wistful eyes,
That somewhere thy true kindred roam
The God-lit plains of Paradise.

THE DOUBTS OF GRIEF.

And is she truly dear to God
Who made a thing so fair of her?
The painful path her feet have trod
Has not for that been easier.

Perchance beyond the barrier dim
Whereto her sad steps draw anigh
God waits for her whose eyes on him
Are waiting till their daylight die.

Perchance, perchance—but ah, we know
Of all this nothing; it may be
That where the thin ghosts gloomward go
Is sleep, and silence utterly.

At least even so no dreams shall mock
That sleep with their beguiling wings
Which now her fitful slumbers rock,
Then leave her to the truth of things.

That sleep it is another sleep
Than any she has known before,
Dreamless it is, and calm, and deep,
And needs not any watching o'er.

TO THE WEST WIND.

Thy name is sweet in song, ‘wind of the western sea,’
But not as those sweet songs call call I to-night to thee,
I to no nursling's nest, no love-enfolded home,
Beckon the beat of thy wings to sweep o'er the flying foam.

Sweep onward o'er the land, yet another sea sweep o'er,
Greet her I greeted once but now may greet no more,
Mingle thy sighs with hers, if yet her breast can sigh,
And breathe upon her brows, West Wind, breathe tenderly.

I see her stand in the twilight and gaze from the alien shore,
Her sweet eyes dim with watching and her heart with sorrow sore:

For the pang of an ancient longing, thro' the dreary day represt,
At the tender touch of the even has risen and rent her breast.

Surely her eyes were soft, surely her voice was mild,
And her heart crystal-clear as the holy heart of a child,
And the stars beheld her praying, the morning and evening star;
But the burden of time was heavy, the hand of God was afar.

Therefore I would, strong Wind, that the rush of thy wandering wings
Might seize and sweep her away from all these evil things:
She was ever more spirit than earth, and the fetters of earth are outworn;
Let her spirit arise and be free, as a breath with thy breath to be borne.

THE ARMOUR OF ACHILLES.

(Iliad XVIII) .

So in the battle they strove with rage as a raging flame;
But Nestor's son to Achilles a fleet-footed messenger came.
Him by his high-beaked ships he found on the shore apart
Boding that thing which was; and in trouble he spake to his heart:

‘Ay me, wherefore now do the long-haired Achaians again
Throng in flight to their ships and yield their place in the plain?
Now I pray that the Gods have not wrought that evil I inly dread,
Whereof hath my mother spoken, and told me that ere I be dead
The best of my Myrmidons leaves me and leaves the light of the day.
Now must Patroclus surely have died in his strength in the fray,
Slain by his reckless zeal: yet I bade him turn from the fight
When the ships had been saved from the fire, nor match him with Hector's might.’

Thus while he mused in his mind of Nestor's son was he ware:
Hot tears weeping he came, and grievous tidings he bare:

‘Woe is me, Peleus' son, for the news thou must hearken from me,
Bitter news—ah would that the ill thing might not be.
Fall'n is Patroclus in fight: for his body they battle amain,
Stript, for the armour he wore bright-helmeted Hector hath ta'en.’

Thus he spake, but Achilles a cloud of grief covered o'er,
Dust on his goodly head and dust on his clothes did he pour,
And himself in the dust full-length, as a wreck of his mightiness, lay,
Tearing his hair with his hands; and the bondmaids beholding, the prey
Of his own and Patroclus' spear, ran forth with a cry from the tent
And beat on their breasts with their hands, and the strength of their knees was spent.

And Antilochus wept and moaned as he held the hands of his chief
Lest he smite through his throat with a sword; so bitterly groaned he in grief.
Then Achilles wailed aloud, and the sound of his agony
Came down to his lady mother, far down in the deep of the sea,
As she sat by her ancient sire; and she wailed in answer again,
And the sea-nymphs, Nereus' daughters, flocked round at the voice of her pain.
Beating their breasts they came from their homes in the ocean below,
And thronged thro' the silvery cavern, till Thetis spake in her woe:

‘Listen, sister nymphs, that ye know why my heart is sore:
Woe for my fate, ah woe that the best of men's children I bore;

Best among heroes I bore him in beauty of body and might,
And upward to manhood he shot as a young tree shoots to the light.
Like a plant in a fruitful field I reared him, and sent him afar
To sail in the high-beaked ships and to fight in the Ilian war.
Him shall I never again in his sire's Peleïan hall
Welcome back to his home; and now, even now, ere he fall,
Grief is his portion in life, and help hath he none from me.
Yet now will I go to him hence, that my dear son's face I may see,
And hear of the woe that hath found him tho' far from the battle he bide.’

She said, and she left the cavern, and all the nymphs at her side

Weeping arose, and around them was sundered the surge of the brine:
And they came to the Trojan shore, and each after each in a line
Rose to the beach where Achilles was set mid the Myrmidons' ships;
And his mother stood by his side while the deep groans came from his lips;
In her hands with a bitter cry the head of her son she took,
And a wingëd word of question in pity and anguish spoke:
‘Child, why weepest thou sore? what sorrow hath come to my son?
Hide it not; tell it me forth; one thing at least has been done,
One thing thou pray'dst for to Zeus, that sometime in need of thy arm
The Achaians be hurled on their ships and suffer dishonour and harm.’

Then swift-foot Achilles made answer, and spake to her, groaning in woe:
‘That prayer, mother mine, hath Zeus fulfilled even so;
But how shall that glad me at all, since my own dear comrade is gone,
Best of my comrades, Patroclus, whose life was dear as my own?
Him have I lost, and Hector hath seized on the armour he wore,
Wonderful, beautiful armour, that Gods to my father bore
In the day when they drave thee forth to lie by a mortal's side—
Would thou hadst stayed with thy nymphs and he had a mortal bride.
And now, that a thousandfold sorrow be thine for the sake of thy son,
Ne'er shalt thou welcome him home: for of life among men will I none

But and if by my spear and none other shall Hector perish, and pay
His life for the life of my friend whom he gave to dishonour a prey.’

Then weeping, Thetis made answer: ‘Full soon, O my son, must be sped
Thy life, if this word thou achieve, for thou diest when Hector is dead.’

Then mightily moved, to his mother made swift-foot Achilles reply:
‘Nay, but at once with all speed, since I saved not my friend, let me die.
Far from his country he fell, and lacked my help in his death.
And now, since I go not back to the land that gave me my breath,
Nor light to Patroclus brought, nor to any of all that have died
By the terrible hand of Hector, but here by the ships I abide

As a profitless burden of earth—yet of all the chiefs in their mail
There is none my peer in the fight, though in counsel some better avail—
Therefore may wrangling and wrath among gods and men be accurst,
Wrath that makes wrongful and mad the man that was wise at the first,
Wrath that within man's breast far sweeter than honey can glide,
Waxing like smoke, such wrath as I felt at Atrides' pride.
But bygones will we let be, and be silent, for all our pain,
Curbing the heart in our breast with the curb of necessity's chain.
Now go I forth; let me find him who blasted the life of my friend,
Hector; then let me die as Zeus and the gods shall intend.

Not e'en the belovëd of Zeus, not Heracles, fled from his fate,
But his destined doom overcame him, and Hera's merciless hate.
Even so also shall I, if my fate hath been fashioned the same,
Lie full low, being dead: but now let me stablish my fame:
Let me set some Trojan women, some deep-bosomed Dardanid wives,
Staunching their tears with their hands and bewailing their desolate lives;
Let them know the long respite is over, that I am come back to the fray:
Hold me not then in thy love, for not for thy holding I stay.’

Then to her son made answer the silver-foot queen of the sea:
‘True are the words thou hast spoken, my child; no blame can it be

That thou ward sheer doom from thy comrades, sore spent with labour and pain.
But thy beautiful arms of bronze in the hands of the Trojans remain;
Bright-helmed Hector bears them himself on his shoulders in pride,
Short though I ween is his triumph, for death hovers hard at his side.
But thou go not down to the battle nor mix in the mellay of fight
Till thine eyes shall again behold me returned with the dawning light:
With the dawning light will I come, when the dayspring breaks on the land,
Bearing thee beautiful armour, the work of Hephaestus' hand.’

Thus as she ended her speech she turned from Achilles away,
And spake to her sea-born sisters that compassed her round on her way:

‘Ye thro' the ample recess of the ocean far under the foam
Hie to the old sea-father, and there in his deep sea-home
Tell him your tale, while I to Olympus' heavenly hill,
To Hephaestus cunning of hand will betake me, if haply his will
Be moved for my sake on my son all-glorious arms to bestow.’

She spake, and the nymphs at her word sank down to the depths below.
But silver-foot Thetis sped upward, and on to Olympus above,
To entreat for the glorious armour, a gift for the son of her love.

So to Olympus she fared; but with terrible tumult of flight
The Achaians fled to their ships before Hector's slaughterous might.

Nor longer now, as it seemed, might their warriors' striving avail
To drag forth the corpse of Patroclus from out of the javelins' hail.
For the host and the horses of Troy all around him and over him came,
Led by the son of Priam, in strength as the strength of the flame.
Thrice by the feet he seized him and mightily called to his men,
Thrice the Aiantes charged, and backward hurled him again:
Yet he swerved not in pride of his strength, but now on the foe he would bound,
Now crying his cry stand firm, and he gave no inch of the ground.
As a hungry and fiery lion may plant his foot on his prey,
And the shepherds at watch in the open avail not to chase him away,

So availed not the two Aiantes for all their valour to beat
Hector, Priam's son, from the body that lay by their feet.
And now would he surely have ta'en it, and won him boundless renown,
But behold, to the son of Peleus came wind-footed Iris down:
Down from Olympus she sped, and the message she brought was the hest
Hera had sent her to bear, unknown unto Zeus and the rest.
And she stood by Achilles' side and her wingëd message began:

‘Rouse thee, Peleus' son, most glorious preeminent man!
Bear to Patroclus thine aid, for whose body the din of the fray
Goes up in the front of the ships. There each one the other they slay;

These on the side of the dead strive sore to defend him from wrong,
Those toward wind-swept Ilios are furious to force him along.
Most fierce of them all is Hector, for fain would he set on a stake
The head of him that is slain, smitten off from the tender neck.
But come, lie thus no longer, let pity and holy dread
Forbid that the dogs of Troy should feast on Patroclus dead.
Thine the reproach, if to him such evil entreatment shall be.’

‘Goddess Iris,’ he said, ‘what God sends thy message to me?’
Then she: ‘It was Hera that sent me, Kronion's royal bride,
Nor knoweth it high-throned Zeus nor any immortal beside

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Of all that have dwellings on high on Olympus' snow-wreathed head.’

And to her again in answer swift-footed Achilles said:
‘And how shall I mix in the mellay? my armour the Trojans have ta'en,
And my mother bade me abide nor arm for the battle again
Till she come as she vowed to my sight and arms from Hephaestus bear.
Other man know I none whose armour my body might wear,
Save Telamon's son, great Aias; I haply might carry his shield;
But methinks in the front of the battle himself he is busied afield
Smiting the foe with his spear and defending Patroclus dead.’

And to him once more in answer the wind-footed Iris said:

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‘Well are we also aware that thy armour is seized even so;
But go up on the mound as thou art and show thyself plain to the foe,
If haply the Trojans in terror may pause and give back at the sight,
And the sons of Achaians have respite one moment from toiling in fight,
For respite, tho' but for a moment, is precious in pain of the fray.’

Thus as she ended her speech sped swift-footed Iris away.
But Achilles rose from the ground; and over his shoulders strong
Pallas her aegis cast, and his head as he moved along
She crowned with a golden cloud, and the flame of a fire therein:
And as from an island town that a folk of foemen would win,

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Battling all day around it, and smoke goes up to the sky,
But at sunset the signals flame, and the blaze of them flashes on high
For the dwellers around to behold, that their ships may bring help to the war,
So from Achilles' head blazed forth that splendour afar.
And he stood on the outer mound, nor mingled yet in the crowd,
Minding his Mother's behest; but he stood and shouted aloud;
And the voice of Pallas Athene redoubling the voice of his shout
Sounded afar, and the Trojans she vext with terror and rout.
For clear as the voice of a clarion that rings from a leaguered wall
Rang out as from metal sonorous the voice of Aeacides' call.

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And they heard Aeacides' voice, and their hearts were clouded with gloom;
And the horses reared in the chariots with boding prophetic of doom;
And amazed were the charioteers when they saw that terrible light
On the head of great-hearted Achilles blaze fierce by Athene's might.
Thrice did Achilles his cry send forth from his place on the mound,
Thrice were Troy's host and their helpers amazed with dread at the sound.
And even at that moment were smitten, their spears and their chariots among,
Twelve of the best of their men. Then forth from the darts of the throng
With gladness drew the Achaeans the corpse of Patroclus dead,
And laid it apart on a litter; and all his friends by the bed

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Stood and lamented aloud; and Achilles himself came near;
Hot tears weeping he came, for his true friend borne on the bier,
Slain of his wounds, he beheld, whom with chariot and steeds to the war
Forth had he sent that day, but must welcome him home no more.

Then Hera the large-eyed queen sent down the unwearying Sun
To depart to the Ocean-stream, though he willed not his course should be done:
So the Sun to his setting went, and the host with the end of day
Had rest from the noise of the war-cry, the shattering shock of the fray.

But the Trojans loosed from their chariots the hard-driven horses fleet,
And gathered their host in assembly or ever they went to their meat.

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Upright they stood; none sat, for on all was a grievous fear,
For they knew the long respite was over, had seen Achilles appear.
Then Polydamas, Panthus' son, spake first of the company,
For the things before and after he only of all could see.
Comrade of Hector was he, and the night of their birth was the same,
But the one in the battle of spears and the other in speech overcame.
He in their midst stood up and spake with intent benign:

‘Friends, take ye all good heed; this counsel at least is mine;
Wait not here for the morning beside the ships on the plain
Far from our sheltering wall, but return to the city again.
So long as against Agamemnon this one man his anger nurst

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So long was the army Achaian far easier to fight than at first.
Ay, and I too exulted to think that the ships should be won.
But now have I dread exceeding of Peleus' swift-footed son:
For his soul is exceeding fierce, nor now will he longer be fain
To abide any more where the armies have battled till now in the plain,
But the battle his hand shall wage, for our wives and our city shall be.
Then back let us go to our walls: it is truth that ye hearken from me.
For now by the night he is holden, but if with the morn he appear
From his tents full-armed for the onset, and find us tarrying here,
Well shall we know it is he, and glad shall they be in that hour

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Whom the Ilian walls may receive nor vultures and dogs devour.
Such evil be far from my hearing! But if to my word ye give heed,
Then the night shall give strength to our counsel, for safe is our city indeed,
Fenced round with its gates and bolts and towers lofty and strong.
So then with the first of the morning the walls and the towers along
Our stand will we take. Woe to him if to fight by the wall he be fain:
With his steeds in vain overspent, to his ships shall he get him again.
Not even his wrath shall avail through the ring of our rampart to burst
And the strength of our city to storm; but the dogs shall devour him first.’

He ended, but bright-helmed Hector arose and spake with a frown:

108

‘No friend I to thy speech, since it biddeth us back to the town
To be cooped there again: of such cooping ye surely were sated before.
For of old in the speech of mankind was told the tale of the store
That lay in the city of Priam, the treasure of bronze and of gold:
But now is the treasure perished, the chief of the substance is sold
Through Maeonia and Phrygia abroad, since Zeus to afflict us was fain.
But now that the son of Kronos hath given me glory to gain
In the fight at the enemy's ships, and to hurl their host to the sea,
Let the people hearken, fond man, to no more of these fancies from thee.
There shall none of the Trojans obey thee; who would, myself will I stay.

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But come, let us all be advised and do even now as I say.
Get ye now to your meat in your order throughout the host,
And let each in the line keep ward, and wake to watch at his post.
And whoever is grieved for his goods, let him give of them freely away
To the Trojan folk: better thus than they fall to Achaians a prey.
So then full-armed for the battle once more with the dawning light
At the hollow ships of the foe will we rouse the fury of fight.
And what if the great Achilles indeed have bestirred him anew
To come forth from his ships to the war? It may be that the deed he shall rue.
I at least will stand up against him nor yield till the issue decide

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If for him or for me in the battle the conqueror's glory abide.
Free are the chances of war, and lightly the slayer is slain.’

He said, and the Trojans applauded, and knew not his counsel was vain;
For Pallas bereft them of wisdom, that all might Hector obey,
And none to Polydamas hearken who counselled the wiser way.
So to their meal they gat them: but through the Achaians there went
All night for Patroclus fallen the noise of a loud lament.
And first in the long lamentation his moan Pelides made,
As broad on the breast of his comrade his manslaying hands he laid.
Groaning aloud he mourned, as a deep-maned lion may mourn

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Whose whelps from their lair in the thicket some stag-shooting hunter hath torn;
And the lion returning grieves, and afar thro' the wilds of the wood
He speeds on the track of the spoiler; for anger is fierce in his blood.
So groaned in his grieving Achilles, and thus mid the Myrmidons said:

‘Vain, ay me, was the promise that once to his father I made,
Cheering Menoitios with words as we stood in the halls of his home,
For I said I would bring him again, with his share of the spoil should he come
From the taking of Ilios city, a glorious son to his sire.
But lo, Zeus bringeth to nought the counsels of men's desire.
For my blood and the blood of Patroclus alike must redden the plain
Here in the Trojan land: for me too never again

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Shall the old knight Peleus welcome who waits for me there in his hall,
Nor Thetis my mother: this earth shall possess my bones when I fall.
But now since thou, O Patroclus, must first under earth be laid,
Bury thee will I not yet till sacrifice here have I made
Of the head and the armour of Hector the proud-hearted slayer of thee;
And in front of thy funeral pile shall a bloody sacrifice be,
Twelve fair sons of the Trojans whose throats mine anger shall cleave.
Till then shalt thou lie as thou art by the ships, and around thee shall grieve
Deep-bosomed Trojan damsels with daily and nightly tears,
Whom we seized in the cities of men that we sacked by the might of our spears.’

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He said, and a mighty tripod he bade them set on the fire,
That the blood should be washed from the dead, and they brought it at his desire.
Water they poured within it, and wood they kindled below,
And the fire flamed up round the tripod, the water warmed at its glow.
So then when the water bubbled they washed the wounds from the gore,
And filled them with oil of the olive and unguents of nine years' store;
And they laid on a bed the body, and wrapped it in linen from sight
From the head even down to the feet, and around it a robe of white.

So all night with Achilles the Myrmidons moaned for the dead.
But Zeus meanwhile unto Hera, his wife and his sister, said:

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‘This thing next hast thou done, O Hera the large-eyed queen,
Thou hast stirred up Achilles to battle: nay, surely thyself then, I ween,
To the long-haired Achaians art mother, their race must be sprung of thy line.’
Then to him queen Hera made answer: ‘What word, son of Kronos, is thine?’
Even a man would do what he might to a man in his hour,
Though far less craft can he know, and hath only a mortal's pow'r.
Shall not I then much more, who of goddesses boast me the best,
First both by right of my birth and because I am wife of thy breast,
And thou among all the immortals art lord and ruler divine—
Shall I not work on the Trojans some ill for the wrath that is mine?’

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Thus to each other they spake. But Thetis the silver-foot queen
Came up to Hephaestus' house, amid dwellings of Gods far-seen,
Bronze-wrought, starry, eternal, the work of the Lame God's skill.
Him at his bellows she found, and toiling in haste to fulfil
His work in the sweat of his brow; for twenty tripods he wrought
To stand round the walls of the chamber; with golden wheels they were fraught
That themselves they might move from their place to the gods' assembly when he
Should bid them, or back to the chamber should travel, a wonder to see.
Only the handles were lacking; these joined he, and hammered the chains.
So while thereon he laboured with inborn cunning and pains,

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Came silver-foot Thetis anigh him; and her fair Charis espied,
She of the shining fillet, the Lame Artificer's bride,
And she came to meet the Goddess, and clasped her hand as she said:

‘Wherefore, long-robed Thetis, to this our house art thou sped,
Noble and dear in our sight? Not oft art thou wont to be here.
But come with me first in the house, that I make thee some guest-like cheer.’
She said, and she led her within and set her there on a seat
Rich-wrought, studded with silver, and gave her a stool for her feet.
And she went to the wise Hephaestus and called him to come with speed:
‘Come thou hither, Hephaestus, of thee here is Thetis hath need.’

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‘Noble and great,’ he answered, ‘the Goddess who enters my hall.
She saved me from evil once, when I fell with a terrible fall
By the act of my shameless mother; to hide her lame child she was fain;
But Thetis and Ocean's daughter Eurynome saved me from pain:
For they took the child to their bosoms, and so with them nine full years
Goblets and pins and chains and twisted rings for the ears,
All manner of cunning device, I forged in the hollow cave,
While around me the infinite Ocean flowed on with his murmuring wave.
None other of gods or men that place of my hiding might know;
Only Eurynome knew it, and Thetis, who saved me from woe.

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Now Thetis is come to our house; it behoves that I pay her my debt
As to one that hath rescued my life; and do thou guest-gifts for her set,
While I all my gear put away and the bellows that kindle the flame.’

He ended, and up from the anvil in uncouth mightiness came.
Limping his gait, but his legs misshapen moved stoutly along.
And his bellows he set on a side, and all the tools that belong
To the work of the fire and the forge he stored in a silver chest;
And he sponged his face and his hands, strong neck and shaggy-haired breast.
Then his tunic he donned, took his staff, and limping moved to the door.
Handmaids of gold, that the semblance of living damsels wore,

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Bare up the steps of the King: unto them by the powers of heaven
Knowledge and strength and skill and articulate voice had been given.
So they bare up his going; and he with a halting gait
Came to the presence of Thetis, and hard by her seat he sate;
And he clasped her hand within his, and called her by name, and said:

‘Wherefore, long-robed Thetis, to this our house art thou sped
Noble and dear in our sight? Not oft art thou wont to be here.
Speak what thou hast in thy thought; to my spirit to serve thee were dear,
If fate may the service allow and my craft may avail to achieve.’

Then Thetis spake with a tear: ‘Hast thou known any goddess to grieve’

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Among all that inhabit Olympus, with griefs so many and sore
As these that the son of Kronos hath singled me forth to deplore?
First for a mortal's yoke, out of all the nymphs of the sea,
He chose me, and gave me to Peleus his bride unwilling to be:
And now in the hall of his home lies Peleus, Aiakos' son,
Spent with malign old age: but to me is new sorrow begun.
For he gave me a son to rear to be first among heroes in might,
And upward to manhood he shot as a young tree shoots to the light.
Like a plant in a fruitful field I reared him, and sent him afar
To sail in the high-beaked ships and to fight in the Ilian war

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Him shall I never again in his sire's Peleïan hall
Welcome back to his home; and now, even now ere he fall,
Grief is his portion in life, and help hath he none from me.
For the girl the Achaians chose him, the prize of his valour to be,
Her from his hands for himself did the king Agamemnon tear.
So with grief he wasted his heart: but the Trojans backward bare
The Achaian folk to their ships, nor suffered them forth in the field.
Then went forth the Argive elders and prayed Achilles to yield,
Promising gifts. Himself he refused their affliction to stay,
But Patroclus he clad in his armour, and sent him forth to the fray,

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And a band of the Myrmidons with him. They fought till the sun went down
There by the Skaian gates, and that day would have taken the town,
But lo in the midst of his slaying, Menoitios' valiant son
Phoebus felled in the front, and glory for Hector won.
So to thy knees am I come for my short-lived son to entreat
Shield and helmet and greaves, close-fitting his ankles and feet,
And a breastplate, wrought of thy hand: for the arms that he had, to the foe
Were lost by his friend that is slain: and he lies on the earth in his woe.’

‘Cheer thee,’ the Lame God answered, ‘for this no care do thou feel;
For would that so surely from death I had power thy son to steal
In the hour of his fate, as surely his hands shall presently hold

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Arms that shall afterward ever be wondrous to all that behold.’

He said, and he left her there, and his way to the bellows he made,
And turned their blast on the furnace and bade them lend him their aid.
Twenty bellows in all on the place of the melting blew
Now here and now there their blast, as the Master would they should do.
At their breath grew the furnace hot, and Hephaestus cast therein
Silver and precious gold and the strength of the bronze and tin.
On the anvil-block set he the anvil, and then for his sturdy stroke
In the one hand wielded the hammer, the tongs in the other he took.

First a stout shield he made, and wrought thereon o'er and o'er:

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Triple its shining rim, and silver the handle it bore.
Five were the folds of the shield, and over its surface he wrought
Many and marvellous things from the cunning store of his thought.

There in the shield did he fashion the earth and the sea and the sky,
And the sun that wearieth never, the moon with her full-orbed eye;
Also the constellations that crown the sky with their light,
Pleiads and Hyads he wrought, and Orion's starry might;
And the Bear, whom some call the Wain, that his watch on Orion keeps,
Turned in his place, and alone is unbathed in the Ocean deeps.

Also two fair cities of men on the shield he portrayed:

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In the one of a bridal feast and of banquets the image he made,
And the brides through the streets of the city the people were leading along
By the light of blazing torches, and loud was the bridal song:
And the young men whirled in the dance to the pipes' and the viols' sound,
And the women each at her threshold were gazing in wonder around.

But the folk in the place of assembly thronged thick where a quarrel was tried
Between two that debated the price of the blood of a man that had died.
One claimed to have paid it in full, and pledged to the people his word,
But the other his saying denied; so both were afoot to be heard
By a judge who should settle their strife, and the people on this side and that

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Cheered; but the heralds within kept them back from the place where there sat
Old men in the sacred circle on seats of well-polished stone:
In their hands were the staves of heralds; these raised they, and one by one
Judged on the cause: in the midst two talents of gold were laid,
To be given to him who among them his word should most justly have said.

But the walls of the other city two armies had girded about,
Bright in the sheen of their arms. And their counsel was sundered in doubt,
Whether to utterly waste it or whether divide for a prey
All the spoil they should seize in the fastness. But those not yet would obey,
But armed them anon for an ambush: their wives and their children small

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They left within with the aged to stand and defend the wall:
Then they went forth, and Athene and Ares led them to war.
Golden the Gods were wrought and golden the raiment they bore:
Goodly and great with their arms, clear-seen like Gods in the shield
Showed they, while smaller behind them the men followed on to the field.
And they came to the place of the ambush, where cattle to drink were wont,
And sat down in the bed of a river: two scouts apart in the front
Kept watch till the flocks of the sheep and the crook-horned oxen they spied.
Then the herds came anon to the water, and herdsmen twain by their side
Playing their pipes as they went, and they took no thought of the snare.

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But the others saw them and sallied, the herds and the white flocks fair
They cut off round about from their keepers, and slaughtered the men thereby.
But the rest in their place of assembly could hear from the water a cry,
And drave forth their high-stepping horses, and swiftly were come to the bank,
And there by the side of the river each stood and fought in his rank,
Hurling his bronze-tipped spear; and among them mingling were seen
Furies of Strife and of Onset, and Death with remorseless mien.
One wounded, another unwounded, he grasped yet alive for his prey,
And another fallen and dead he dragged by his feet thro' the fray.
And the robe that he wore on his shoulders was red with the blood of the slain.

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So there in the shield like men living the warriors battled amain,
And the corpses of them that had fallen each dragged from the foe for a spoil.

Then wrought he a soft fallow-field, a plot of exuberant soil
Wide-spreading, thrice upturned; and ploughmen ploughed in the track
Of the oxen driven before them and turning forward and back.
And whenever they finished the furrow and turned at the end of the line,
Then came there a man to the ploughers and gave them a goblet of wine:
So they turned them about in their labour to journey once more thro' the field.
And behold, the ground behind them, tho' wrought in the gold of the shield,
Blackened like new-cleft furrows, a marvel of craft to be seen.

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Then wrought he a fruitful close where wielding their sickles keen
Reapers reaped; and the handfuls were falling thick to the ground,
Or were gathered by binders of sheaves in ropes of straw to be bound.
Three were the binders of sheaves, which behind them boys gave to their hand
Gathering them ever in armfuls. And near them the lord of the land
Stood with his staff by the swathe and silently joyed in his heart.
And heralds under an oak made ready a banquet apart,
For an ox had been slain for the reapers, and women the white meal strewed.

Also he wrought in the shield a vineyard wealthy and good:
Dark were the grapes of the vines and the vine-poles of silver therein,

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With a trench of the blue steel round, and along it a fence of tin.
One path only it had whereon might the vintagers fare,
And the fruit in baskets of wicker blithe striplings and maidens bare:
And a boy in their midst with a viol made music sweet to the ear,
As he sang them the song of Linus with delicate voice and clear:
And they to his song and his music together kept time with their tread.

Then he wrought there a herd of cattle with straight horns each on its head:
Of gold and tin were the kine, and they went from their sheds to feed
By the bank of a murmuring river, a home of the waving reed.
Four herdsmen in gold came with them, and nine dogs followed their way.

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But in front two terrible lions had seized on a bull for their prey.
Loudly bellowed the bull as they dragged him in terror and pain,
And the young men behind with their dogs on the track came speeding amain.
Now the lions were tearing his hide and devoured his flesh thro' his wounds,
But the herdsmen in chase were upon them, and tarred on their swift-footed hounds,
As they shrank from biting the lions and stood and barked from anigh.

Then a pasture of white-fleeced sheep in a glade had he fashioned thereby,
And folds for the sheep, and sheds, and huts with roofs covered o'er.

Then a dance the Artificer fashioned, and such it seemed as of yore
Daedalus' cunning devised for bright-haired Ariadne in Crete.

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Young men and much-wooed maidens he fashioned in dance of their feet,
Each clasping each by the wrist; fair linen the maidens had on,
And the young men well woven-tunics that softly with olive-oil shone.
Gold swords girded with silver each young man bare by his side,
Fair wreaths on their heads had the maidens; their deft feet nimbly they plied,
Smoothly and swift as a wheel that a potter whirls thro' his hands
Proving it whether it run; and now again in their bands
Each to the other advanced. Two tumblers whirled thro' the throng
Of the gazers glad at the dancing; and all these moved to the song
Of a minstrel divine in the midst, while his viol in unison pealed.

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Then lastly to compass the rest, at the rim of the marvellous shield,
The strength of the River of Ocean about and around it he rolled.

And when the strong shield was finished, a breast-plate more bright to behold
Than the flame of a fire he fashioned, and greaves of the shining tin,
And a fair-wrought helm for the head, with a golden crest therein.

So when the Artificer ended, and all the armour was done,
At the feet of Achilles' mother he laid it, to bear to her son.
Then forth like a falcon she flew from Olympus' snow-girt floor,
And the gift of the glittering arms to her child from Hephaestus bore.

It occurred to me while writing The Defence of Rome that the metre there used might possibly convey, more approximately than any hitherto employed in a modern language, some image of the peculiar qualities of the Homeric hexameter, especially its unequalled combination of rapidity with dignity of movement. Should this experimental specimen of a translation of the Iliad attract readers to whom the original is unknown (and acceptability to readers of this kind is a needful justification of translations in verse), I shall hope not improbably to continue the attempt. E. M.