Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/360

Shakes down diseases, pestilence, and war;
So streamed the golden honours from his head,
Trembled the sparkling plumes, and the loose glories shed.
The chief beholds himself with wondering eyes;
His arms he poises, and his motions tries;
Buoyed by some inward force, he seems to swim,
And feels a pinion lifting every limb.
And now he shakes his great paternal spear,
Ponderous and huge, which not a Greek could rear:
From Pelion's cloudy top an ash entire
Old Chiron felled, and shaped it for his sire;
A spear which stern Achilles only wields,
The death of heroes, and the dread of fields.
Automedon and Alcimus prepare
The immortal coursers and the radiant car,
The silver traces sweeping at their side;
Their fiery mouths resplendent bridles tied;
The ivory-studded reins, returned behind,
Waved o'er their backs, and to the chariot joined.
The charioteer then whirled the lash around,
And swift ascended at one active bound.
All bright in heavenly arms, above his squire
Achilles mounts, and sets the field on fire;
Not brighter Phœbus in the ethereal way
Flames from his chariot, and restores the day.
High o'er the host, all terrible he stands,
And thunders to his steeds these dread commands:
"Xanthus and Balius! of Podarges' strain,
Unless ye boast that heavenly race in vain,
Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear,
And learn to make your master more your care:
Through faltering squadrons bear my slaughtering sword,
Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your lord"
The generous Xanthus, as the words he said,
Seemed sensible of woe, and drooped his head:
Trembling he stood before the golden wain,
And bowed to dust the honours of his mane;
When, strange to tell! so Juno willed, he broke
Eternal silence, and portentous spoke:
"Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear
Thy rage in safety through the files of war:
But come it will, the fatal time must come,
Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom;
Not through our crime, or slowness in the course,
Fell thy Patroclus, but by heavenly force:
The bright far-shooting god who gilds the day—
Confessed we saw him—tore his arms away.
No: could our swiftness o'er the winds prevail,
Or beat the pinions of the western gale,