XIV. The Arming of Achilles.
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FROM THE ILIAD.—Book XIX. 357 to the end.
I
As snow-flakes are driven through the wintry heaven,
When Boreas fiercely blows,
So thick and so fast, helms beaming bright,
And bossy shields, and corslets tight,
And ash-spears ready for the fight,
Out from the ships arose.
II
And their brilliant beam, in dazzling stream,
Skyward ascending soared,
And the shine which their armor shed around
Lit with a laugh the kindling ground,
While their trampling feet raised a thunder sound,
As they closed about their lord.
III
His teeth he gnashed, and his eyeballs flashed
Like the flame of a burning brand;
His soul with grief and rage was fraught;
And wrapping his heart in vengeful thought,
He harnessed himself in the armor wrought
And given by Hephæstos' hand.
IV
First, with the grasp of silver clasp,
His greaves did he buckle on;
Then he armed his breast with a bright cuirass,
Flung round his shoulders his sword of brass,
Uplifted his shield, a ponderous mass,
Like the moon from afar it shone.
V
As when sailors, who keep on the storm-vexed deep
Their way with unwilling oar,
The blaze of a distant fire espy
From some lonely fold in the mountains high,
When forced by the blast their course they ply,
Driven away from their native shore;
VI
So to heaven shot the light from the buckler bright
That guarded Achilles' breast.
Next lifted he up to sheath his head
His helmet of strength fit for combat dread,
Around like a star was its lustre shed
Beneath the horse-hair crest.
VII
And the golden thread so thickly spread
By Hephæstos the cone around,
Waved in the air, as the chief essayed
If close to his shape were the armor laid,
If his shapely limbs in free motion played,
Within its harness bound.
VIII
With the lightsome spring of a bird's fleet wing
Buoyant they bore him on;
And next from the spear-case he went to take
His father's spear, huge, massy, of make
Which no other hand in the host could shake
Save his good right hand alone.
IX
[An ash-tree spear for his father dear
Hewed down by Chiron's stroke
From Pelion's summits where waves the wood,
He sent it to drip in warriors' blood.]
Meanwhile the squires by the horses stood
As they set them beneath the yoke.
X
They fasten the trace, and they firmly place
In the bending jaws the bit;
Back to the car the reins are thrown,
And seizing the whip to his hand well known,
Sprung to his seat Automedōn,
Where long he had loved to sit.
XI
And behind that seat in arms complete,
Stood Achilles girt for war;
He glowed like the sun in his noon-day gyre,
And his chiding voice sounded fierce and dire,
As thus to the chargers of his sire
He shouted from the car.
XII
“My bright bay horse—my fleet of course,
Podargé's far-famed brood,—
Yours be it your master back to bear
From the battle-field now with surer care,
Leave me not as you left Patroclus there,
All weltering in his blood.”
XIII
Then out upspoke from beneath the yoke
His dapple-foot steed of bay,
Low stooped his head, and the yoke around
His mane encircling swept over the ground,
For Heré had given him vocal sound
Achilles' fate to say.
XIV
“Once yet again from the battle-plain,
Safe back we bear thee home.
But thy hour of death is hastening nigh,
All blameless are we, yet thou must die,
Slain by the hand of a godhead high,
Such is Fate's relentless doom.
XV
“By no lack of speed, no sloth of steed,
Patroclus' arms were lost;
It was he, most glorious god of light,
The son of fair Leto, of tresses bright,
Who slew him amid the foremost fight,
And gave Hector the fame to boast.
XVI
“By our flight as fast as Zephyrus' blast
Was thy chariot whirled along,
Yet here it is fated thy bones be laid,
By a god's strong power and a mortal's blade!”
Mute was the horse when these words were said,
For the Furies chained his tongue.
XVII
Then with angry word the swift-foot lord,
Thus spoke his prophetic horse:—
“Why, Xanthus, in boding tone,
Hast thou my coming death fore-shown?
Needless to tell what so well is known,
That here I lay my corse.
XVIII
“It is fixed by Fate that I end my date
From my father's land afar:
But still, ere my day of life runs out,
No war shall the Trojans lack or rout.”
So said he; and, with a thundering shout,
Drove his steeds to the thickest war.
