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Ilion Bk-I
What say the vaunters of Greece to the virgin Penthesilea?” High was the Argive’s answer confronting the mighty in Troya. “Princes of Pergama, whelps of the lion who roar for the mellay, Suffer my speech! It shall ring like a spear on the hearts of the mighty. Blame not the herald; his voice is an impulse, an echo, a channel Now for the timbrels of peace and now for the drums of the battle. And I have come from no cautious strength, from no half-hearted speaker, But from the Phthian. All know him! Proud is his soul as his fortunes, Swift as his sword and his spear are the speech and the wrath from his bosom. I am his envoy, herald am I of the conquering Argives. Has not one heard in the night when the breezes whisper and shudder, Dire, the voice of a lion unsatisfied, gnawed by his hunger, Seeking his prey from the gods? For he prowls through the glens of the mountains, Errs a dangerous gleam in the woodlands, fatal and silent. So for a while he endures, for a while he seeks and he suffers Patient yet in his terrible grace as assured of his banquet; But he has lacked too long and he lifts his head and to heaven Roars in his wonder, incensed, impatiently. Startled the valleys Shrink from the dreadful alarum, the cattle gallop to shelter. Arming the herdsmen cry to each other for comfort and courage.” So Talthybius spoke, as a harper voicing his prelude Touches his strings to a varied music, seeks for a concord; Long his strain he prepares. But one broke in on the speaker, — Sweet was his voice like a harp’s though heard in the front of the onset, — One of the sons of Fate by the people loved whom he ruined, Leader in counsel and battle, the Priamid, he in his beauty Carelessly walking who scattered the seeds of Titanic disaster. “Surely thou dreamedst at night and awaking thy dreams have not left thee! Hast thou not woven thy words to intimidate children in Argos Sitting alarmed in the shadows who listen pale to their nurses? Greek, thou art standing in Ilion now and thou facest her princes. Use not thy words but thy king’s. If friendship their honey-breathed burden, Friendship we clasp from Achilles, but challenge outpace with our challenge Meeting the foe ere he moves in his will to the clash of encounter. Such is the way of the Trojans since Phryx by the Hellespont halting Seated Troy on her hill with the Ocean for comrade and sister.”
Page – 346 Shaking in wrath his filleted head Talthybius answered: “Princes, ye speak their words who drive you! Thus said Achilles: Rise, Talthybius, meet in her spaces the car of the morning; Challenge her coursers divine as they bound through the plains of the Troad. Hasten, let not the day wear gold ere thou stand in her ramparts. Herald charged with my will to a haughty and obstinate nation, Speak in the palace of Priam the word of the Phthian Achilles. Freely and not as his vassal who leads, Agamemnon, the Argive, But as a ruler in Hellas I send thee, king of my nations. Long I have walked apart from the mellay of gods in the Troad, Long has my listless spear leaned back on the peace of my tent-side, Deaf to the talk of the trumpets, the whine of the chariots speeding; Sole with my heart I have lived, unheeding the Hellene murmur, Chid when it roared for the hunt the lion pack of the war-god, Day after day I walked at dawn and in blush of the sunset, Far by the call of the seas and alone with the gods and my dreaming, Leaned to the unsatisfied chant of my heart and the rhythms of ocean, Sung to by hopes that were sweet-lipped and vain. For Polyxena’s brothers Still are the brood of the Titan Laomedon slain in his greatness, Engines of God unable to bear all the might that they harbour. Awe they have chid from their hearts, nor our common humanity binds them, Stay have they none in the gods who approve, giving calmness to mortals: But like the Titans of old they have hugged to them grandeur and ruin. Seek then the race self-doomed, the leaders blinded by heaven — Not in the agora swept by the winds of debate and the shoutings Lion-voiced, huge of the people! In Troya’s high-crested mansion Speak out my word to the hero Deiphobus, head of the mellay, Paris the racer of doom and the stubborn strength of Aeneas. Herald of Greece, when thy feet shall be pressed on the gold and the marble, Rise in the Ilian megaron, curb not the cry of the challenge. Thus shalt thou say to them striking the ground with the staff of defiance, Fronting the tempests of war, the insensate, the gamblers with downfall. “Princes of Troy, I have sat in your halls, I have slept in your chambers; Not in the battle alone as a warrior glad of his foemen, Glad of the strength that mates with his own, in peace we encountered. Marvelling I sat in the halls of my enemies, close to the bosoms Scarred by the dints of my sword and the eyes I had seen through the battle,
Page – 347 Ate rejoicing the food of the East at the tables of Priam Served by the delicatest hands in the world, by Hecuba’s daughter, Or with our souls reconciled in some careless and rapturous midnight Drank of the sweetness of Phrygian wine, admiring your bodies Shaped by the gods indeed, and my spirit revolted from hatred, — Softening it yearned in its strings to the beauty and joy of its foemen, Yearned from the death that o’ertakes and the flame that cries and desires Even at the end to save and even on the verge to deliver Troy and her wonderful works and her sons and her deep-bosomed daughters. Warned by the gods who reveal to the heart what the mind cannot hearken Deaf with its thoughts, I offered you friendship, I offered you bridal, Hellas for comrade, Achilles for brother, the world for enjoyment Won by my spear. And one heard my call and one turned to my seeking. Why is it then that the war-cry sinks not to rest by the Xanthus? We are not voices from Argolis, Lacedaemonian tricksters, Splendid and subtle and false; we are speakers of truth, we are Hellenes, Men of the northland faithful in friendship and noble in anger, Strong like our fathers of old. But you answered my truth with evasion Hoping to seize what I will not yield and you flattered your people. Long have I waited for wisdom to dawn on your violent natures. Lonely I paced o’er the sands by the thousand-throated waters Praying to Pallas the wise that the doom might turn from your mansions, Buildings delightful, gracious as rhythms, lyrics in marble, Works of the transient gods, and I yearned for the end of the war-din Hoping that Death might relent to the beautiful sons of the Trojans. Far from the cry of the spears, from the speed and the laughter of axles, Heavy upon me like iron the intolerable yoke of inaction Weighed like a load on a runner. The war-cry rose by Scamander; Xanthus was crossed on a bridge of the fallen, not by Achilles. Often I stretched out my hand to the spear, for the Trojan beaches Rang with the voice of Deiphobus shouting and slaying the Argives; Often my heart like an anxious mother for Greece and her children Leaped, for the air was full of the leonine roar of Aeneas. Always the evening fell or the gods protected the Argives. Then by the moat of the ships, on the hither plain of the Xanthus New was the voice that climbed through the din and sailed on the breezes,
Page – 348 High, insistent, clear, and it shouted an unknown war-cry Threatening doom to the peoples. A woman had come in to aid you, Regal and insolent, fair as the morning and fell as the northwind, Freed from the distaff who grasps at the sword and she spurns at subjection Breaking the rule of the gods. She is turbulent, swift in the battle. Clanging her voice of the swan as a summons to death and disaster, Fleet-footed, happy and pitiless, laughing she runs to the slaughter; Strong with the gait that allures she leaps from her car to the slaying, Dabbles in blood smooth hands like lilies. Europe astonished Reels from her shock to the Ocean. She is the panic and mellay, War is her paean, the chariots thunder of Penthesilea. Doom was her coming, it seems, to the men of the West and their legions; Ajax sleeps for ever, Meriones lies on the beaches. One by one they are falling before you, the great in Achaia. Ever the wounded are borne like the stream of the ants when they forage Past my ships, and they hush their moans as they near and in silence Gaze at the legions inactive accusing the fame of Achilles. Still have I borne with you, waited a little, looked for a summons, Longing for bridal torches, not flame on the Ilian housetops, Blood in the chambers of sweetness, the golden amorous city Swallowed by doom. Not broken I turned from the wrestle Titanic, Hopeless, weary of toil in the ebb of my glorious spirit, But from my stress of compassion for doom of the kindred nations, But for her sake whom my soul desires, for the daughter of Priam. And for Polyxena’s sake I will speak to you yet as your lover Once ere the Fury, abrupt from Erebus, deaf to your crying, Mad with the joy of the massacre, seizes on wealth and on women Calling to Fire as it strides and Ilion sinks into ashes. Yield; for your doom is impatient. No longer your helpers hasten, Legions swift to your call; the yoke of your pride and your splendour Lies not now on the nations of earth as when Fortune desired you, Strength was your slave and Troya the lioness hungrily roaring Threatened the western world from her ramparts built by Apollo. Gladly released from the thraldom they hated, the insolent shackles Curbing their manhood the peoples arise and they pray for your ruin; Piled are their altars with gifts; their blessings help the Achaians. Memnon came, but he sleeps, and the faces swart of his nation
Page – 349 Darken no more like a cloud over thunder and surge of the onset. Wearily Lycia fights; far fled are the Carian levies. Thrace retreats to her plains preferring the whistle of stormwinds Or on the banks of the Strymon to wheel in her Orphean measure, Not in the revel of swords and fronting the spears of the Hellenes. Princes of Pergama, open your gates to our Peace who would enter, Life in her gracious clasp and forgetfulness, grave of earth’s passions, Healer of wounds and the past. In a comity equal, Hellenic, Asia join with Greece, one world from the frozen rivers Trod by the hooves of the Scythian to farthest undulant Ganges. Tyndarid Helen resign, the desirable cause of your danger, Back to Greece that is empty long of her smile and her movements. Broider with riches her coming, pomp of her slaves and the waggons Endlessly groaning with gold that arrive with the ransom of nations. So shall the Fury be pacified, she who exultant from Sparta Breathed in the sails of the Trojan ravisher helping his oarsmen. So shall the gods be appeased and the thoughts of their wrath shall be cancelled, Justice contented trace back her steps and for brands of the burning Torches delightful shall break into Troy with the swords of the bridal. I like a bridegroom will seize on your city and clasp and defend her Safe from the envy of Argos, from Lacedaemonian hatred, Safe from the hunger of Crete and the Locrian’s violent rapine. But if you turn from my voice and you hearken only to Ares Crying for battle within you deluded by Hera and Pallas, Swiftly the fierce death’s surges shall close over Troy and her ramparts Built by the gods shall be stubble and earth to the tread of the Hellene. For to my tents I return not, I swear it by Zeus and Apollo, Master of Truth who sits within Delphi fathomless brooding Sole in the caverns of Nature and hearkens her underground murmur, Giving my oath to his keeping mute and stern who forgets not, Not from the panting of Ares’ toil to repose, from the wrestle Locked of hope and death in the ruthless clasp of the mellay Leaving again the Trojan ramparts unmounted, leaving Greece unavenged, the Aegean a lake and Europe a province. Choosing from Hellas exile, from Peleus and Deidamia, Choosing the field for my chamber of sleep and the battle for hearthside
Page – 350 I shall go warring on till Asia enslaved to my footsteps Feels the tread of the God in my sandal pressed on her bosom. Rest shall I then when the borders of Greece are fringed with the Ganges; Thus shall the past pay its Titan ransom and, Fate her balance Changing, a continent ravished suffer the fortune of Helen. This I have sworn allying my will to Zeus and Ananke.”‘” So was it spoken, the Phthian challenge. Silent the heroes Looked back amazed on their past and into the night of their future. Silent their hearts felt a grasp from gods and had hints of the heavens. Hush was awhile in the room, as if Fate were trying her balance Poised on the thoughts of her mortals. At length with a musical laughter Sweet as the jangling of bells upon anklets leaping in measure Answered aloud to the gods the virgin Penthesilea. “Long I had heard in my distant realms of the fame of Achilles, Ignorant still while I played with the ball and ran in the dances Thinking not ever to war; but I dreamed of the shock of the hero. So might a poet inland who imagines the rumour of Ocean, Yearn with his lust for the giant upheaval, the dance as of hill-tops, Toss of the yellow mane and the tawny march and the voices Lionlike claiming earth as a prey for the clamorous waters. So have I longed as I came for the cry and the speed of Achilles. But he has lurked in his ships, he has sulked like a boy that is angry. Glad am I now of his soul that arises hungry for battle, Glad, whether victor I live or defeated travel the shadows. Once shall my spear have rung on the shield of the Phthian Achilles. Peace I desire not. I came to a haughty and resolute nation, Honour and fame they cherish, not life by the gift of a foeman. Sons of the ancient house on whom Ilion looks as on Titans, Chiefs whom the world admires, do you fear then the shock of the Phthian? Gods, it is said, have decided your doom. Are you less in your greatness? Are you not gods to reverse their decrees or unshaken to suffer? Memnon is dead and the Carians leave you? Lycia lingers? But from the streams of my East I have come to you, Penthesilea.” “Virgin of Asia,” answered Talthybius, “doom of a nation Brought thee to Troy and her haters Olympian shielded thy coming, Vainly who feedest men’s hearts with a hope that the gods have rejected. Doom in thy sweet voice utters her counsels robed like a woman.”
Page – 351 Answered the virgin disdainfully, wroth at the words of the Argive: “Hast thou not ended the errand they gave thee, envoy of Hellas? Not, do I think, as our counsellor cam’st thou elected from Argos, Nor as a lover to Troy hast thou hastened with amorous footing Hurting thy heart with her forwardness. Hatred and rapine sent thee, Greed of the Ilian gold and lust of the Phrygian women, Voice of Achaian aggression! Doom am I truly; let Gnossus Witness it, Salamis speak of my fatal arrival and Argos Silent remember her wounds.” But the Argive answered the virgin: “Hearken then to the words of the Hellene, Penthesilea. Virgin to whom earth’s strongest are corn in the sweep of thy sickle, Lioness vain of thy bruit who besiegest the paths of the battle! Art thou not satiate yet? hast thou drunk then so little of slaughter? Death has ascended thy car; he has chosen thy hand for his harvest. But I have heard of thy pride and disdain, how thou scornest the Argives And of thy fate thou complainest that ever averse to thy wishes Cloisters the Phthian and matches with weaklings Penthesilea. “Not of the Ithacan boar nor the wild-cat littered in Locris Nor of the sleek-coat Argive wild-bulls sates me the hunting;” So hast thou said, “I would bury my spear in the lion of Hellas.” Blind and infatuate, art thou not beautiful, bright as the lightning? Were not thy limbs made cunningly linking sweetness to sweetness? Is not thy laughter an arrow surprising hearts imprudent? Charm is the seal of the gods upon woman. Distaff and girdle, Work of the jar at the well and the hush of our innermost chambers, These were appointed thee, but thou hast scorned them, O Titaness, grasping Rather the shield and the spear. Thou, obeying thy turbulent nature, Tramplest o’er laws that are old to the pleasure thy heart has demanded. Rather bow to the ancient Gods who are seated and constant. But for thyself thou passest and what hast thou gained for the aeons Mingled with men in their works and depriving the age of thy beauty? Fair art thou, woman, but fair with a bitter and opposite sweetness Clanging in war when thou matchest thy voice with the shout of assemblies. Not to this end was thy sweetness made and the joy of thy members, Not to this rhythm Heaven tuned its pipe in thy throat of enchantment, Armoured like men to go warring forth and with hardness and fierceness Mix in the strife and the hate while the varied meaning of Nature
Page – 352 Perishes hurt in its heart and life is emptied of music. Long have I marked in your world a madness. Monarchs descending Court the imperious mob of their slaves and their suppliant gesture Shameless and venal offends the majestic tradition of ages: Princes plead in the agora; spurred by the tongue of a coward, Heroes march to an impious war at a priestly bidding. Gold is sought by the great with the chaffering heart of the trader. Asia fails and the Gods are abandoning Ida for Hellas. Why must thou come here to perish, O noble and exquisite virgin, Here in a cause not thine, in a quarrel remote from thy beauty, Leaving a land that is lovely and far to be slain among strangers? Girl, to thy rivers go back and thy hills where the grapes are aspirant. Trust not a fate that indulges; for all things, Penthesilea, Break with excess and he is the wisest who walks by a measure. Yet, if thou wilt, thou shalt meet me today in the shock of the battle: There will I give thee the fame thou desirest; captive in Hellas, Men shall point to thee always, smiling and whispering, saying, “This is the woman who fought with the Greeks, overthrowing their heroes; This is the slayer of Ajax, this is the slave of Achilles.”‘” Then with her musical laughter the fearless Penthesilea: “Well do I hope that Achilles enslaved shall taste of that glory Or on the Phrygian fields lie slain by the spear of a woman.” But to the herald Achaian the Priamid, leader of Troya: “Rest in the halls of thy foes and ease thy fatigue and thy winters. Herald, abide till the people have heard and reply to Achilles. Not as the kings of the West are Ilion’s princes and archons, Monarchs of men who drive their nations dumb to the battle. Not in the palace of Priam and not in the halls of the mighty Whispered councils prevail and the few dispose of the millions; But with their nation consulting, feeling the hearts of the commons Ilion’s princes march to the war or give peace to their foemen. Lightning departs from her kings and the thunder returns from her people Met in the ancient assembly where Ilus founded his columns And since her famous centuries, names that the ages remember Leading her, Troya proclaims her decrees to obedient nations.” Ceasing he cried to the thralls of his house and they tended the Argive. Brought to a chamber of rest in the luminous peace of the mansion,
Page – 353 Grey he sat and endured the food and the wine of his foemen, Chiding his spirit that murmured within him and gazed undelighted, Vexed with the endless pomps of Laomedon. Far from those glories Memory winged it back to a sward half-forgotten, a village Nestling in leaves and low hills watching it crowned with the sunset. So for his hour he abode in earth’s palace of lordliest beauty, But in its caverns his heart was weary and, hurt by the splendours, Longed for Greece and the smoke-darkened roof of a cottage in Argos, Eyes of a woman faded and children crowding the hearthside. Joyless he rose and eastward expected the sunrise on Ida.
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