Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ILIAD: THE EPISODE OF SARPEDON (2), by HOMER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ILIAD: THE EPISODE OF SARPEDON (2), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When now the chief his valiant friends beheld
Last Line: Where endless honours wait the sacred shade.
Subject(s): Achilles; Mythology - Classical; Trojan War


When now the Chief his valiant Friends beheld
Grov'ling in Dust, and gasping on the Field,
With this Reproach his flying Host he warms,
Oh Stain to Honour! oh Disgrace of Arms!
Forsake, inglorious, the contended Plain;
This Hand unaided shall the War sustain:
The Task be mine the Hero's Strength to try,
Who mows whole Troops, and makes whole Armies fly.
He said, and leap'd from off his lofty Car;
Patroclus lights, and sternly waits the War.
As when two Vulturs on the Mountain's Height
Stoop with their sounding Pinions to the Fight;
They cuff, they tear, they raise a screaming Cry;
The Desart ecchoes, and the Rocks reply;
The Warriors thus oppos'd in Arms engage,
With equal Valour, and with equal Rage.
Jove view'd the Combate, whose Event foreseen,
He thus bespoke his Sister and his Queen.
The Hour draws on; the Destinies ordain,
My God-like Son shall press the Phrygian Plain:
Already on the Verge of Death he stands,
His Life is ow'd to fierce Patroclus' Hands.
What Passions in a Parent's Breast debate!
Say, shall I snatch him from Impending Fate;
And send him safe to Lycia, distant far
From all the Dangers and the Toils of War;
Or to his Doom my bravest Off-spring yield,
And fatten, with Celestial Blood, the Field?
Then thus the Goddess with the radiant Eyes:
What Words are these, O Sov'reign of the Skies?
Short is the Date prescrib'd to Mortal Man;
Shall Jove, for one, extend the narrow Span,
Whose Bounds, were fix'd before his Race began?
How many Sons of Gods, foredoom'd to Death,
Before proud Ilion must resign their Breath!
Were thine exempt, Debate wou'd rise above,
And murm'ring Pow'rs condemn their partial Jove.
Give the bold Chief a glorious Fate in Fight;
And when th'ascending soul has wing'd her Flight,
Let Sleep and Death convey, by thy Command,
The breathless Body to his Native Land.
His Friends and People, to his future Praise,
A Marble Tomb and Pyramid shall raise,
And lasting Honours to his Ashes give;
His Fame ('tis all the Dead can have!) shall live.
She said; the Cloud-Compeller overcome,
Assents to Fate, and ratifies the Doom.
Then, touch'd with Grief, the weeping Heav'ns distill'd
A Show'r of Blood o'er all the fatal Field.
The God, his Eyes averting from the Plain,
Laments his Son, predestin'd to be slain,
Far from the Lycian Shores, his happy Native Reign.
Now met in Arms the Combatants appear,
Each heav'd the Shield, and pois'd the lifted Spear:
From strong Patroclus' Hand the Jav'lin fled,
And pass'd the Groin of valiant Thrasymed,
The Nerves unbrac'd no more his Bulk sustain,
He falls, and falling, bites the bloody Plain.
Two sounding Darts the Lycian Leader threw,
The first aloof with erring Fury flew,
The next more fatal pierc'd Achilles' Steed,
The gen'rous Pedasus, of Theban Breed;
Fix'd in the Shoulder's Joint, he reel'd around;
Rowl'd in the bloody Dust, and paw'd the slipp'ry Ground.
His sudden Fall the entangled Harness broke;
Each Axle groan'd; the bounding Chariot shook;
When bold Automedon, to disengage
The starting Coursers, and restrain their Rage,
Divides the Traces with his Sword, and freed
Th'incumber'd Chariot from the dying Steed:
The rest move on, obedient to the Rein;
The Car rowls slowly o'er the dusty Plain.
The towring Chiefs to fiercer Fight advance,
And first Sarpedon tost his weighty Lance,
Which o'er the Warrior's Shoulder took its Course,
And spent, in empty Air, its dying Force.
Not so Patroclus never-erring Dart;
Aim'd at his Breast, it pierc'd the mortal Part
Where the strong Fibres bind the solid Heart.
Then as the stately Pine, or Poplar tall,
Hewn for the Mast of some great Admiral,
Nods, groans, and reels, 'till with a crackling Sound
It sinks, and spreads its Honours on the Ground;
Thus fell the King; and laid on Earth Supine,
Before his Chariot stretch'd his Form divine:
He grasp'd the Dust, distain'd with streaming Gore,
And, pale in Death, lay groaning on the Shore.
So lyes a Bull beneath the Lion's Paws,
While the grim Savage grinds with foamy Jaws
The trembling Limbs, and sucks the smoking Blood;
Deep Groans and hollow Roars rebellow thro' the Wood.
Then to the Leader of the Lycian Band,
The dying Chief address'd his last Command.
Glaucus, be bold, Thy Task be first to dare
The glorious Dangers of destructive War,
To lead my Troops, to combate at their Head,
Incite the Living, and supply the Dead.
Tell 'em, I charg'd them with my latest Breath,
Not unreveng'd to bear Sarpedon's Death.
What Grief, what Shame must Glaucus undergo,
If these spoil'd Arms adorn a Grecian Foe?
Then as a Friend, and as a Warrior, fight;
Defend my Corps, and conquer in my Right;
That taught by great Examples, All may try
Like thee to vanquish, or like me to die.
He ceas'd; the Fates supprest his lab'ring Breath,
And his Eyes darken'd with the Shades of Death:
Th'insulting Victor with Disdain bestrode
The prostrate Prince, and on his Bosom trod;
Then drew the Weapon from his panting Heart,
The reeking Fibres clinging to the Dart;
From the wide Wound gush'd out a Stream of Blood,
And the Soul issu'd in the Purple Flood.
Then thus to Phoebus, in the Realms above,
Spoke from his Throne the Cloud-compelling Jove:
Descend my Phoebus, on the Phrygian Plain,
And from the Fight convey Sarpedon slain;
Then bathe his Body in the crystal Flood,
With Dust dishonour'd, and deform'd with Blood:
O'er all his Limbs Ambrosial Odours shed,
And with Celestial Robes adorn the mighty Dead.
Those Honours paid, his sacred Corps bequeath
To the soft Arms of silent Sleep and Death;
They to his Friends the mournful Charge shall bear;
His Friends a Tomb and Pyramid shall rear;
These unavailing Rites he may receive,
These, after Death, are All a God can give!
Apollo bows, and from Mount Ida's Height
Swift to the Field precipitates his Flight;
Thence, from the War, the breathless Hero bore,
Veil'd in a Cloud, to silver Simois Shore:
There bath'd his honourable Wounds, and drest
His Manly Members in th'Immortal Vest,
And with Perfumes of sweet Ambrosial Dews,
Restores his Freshness, and his Form renews.
Then Sleep and Death, two Twins of winged Race,
Of matchless Swiftness, but of silent Pace,
Receiv'd Sarpedon, at the God's Command,
And in a Moment reach'd the Lycian Land;
The Corps amidst his weeping Friends they laid,
Where endless Honours wait the Sacred Shade.





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