Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/436

Polites, Paris, Agathon, he calls;
His threats Deïphobus and Dius hear,
Hippothoüs, Pammon, Helenus the seer,
And generous Antiphon; for yet these nine
Survived, sad relics of his numerous line:
⁠"Inglorious sons of an unhappy sire!
Why did not all in Hector's cause expire?
Wretch that I am! my bravest offspring slain,
You, the disgrace of Priam's house, remain!
Mestor the brave, renowned in ranks of war,
With Troilus, dreadful on his rushing car,
And last great Hector, more than man divine,
For sure he seemed not of terrestrial line!
All those relentless Mars untimely slew,
And left me these, a soft and servile crew,
Whose days the feast and wanton dance employ,
Gluttons and flatterers, the contempt of Troy.
Why teach ye not my rapid wheels to run,
And speed my journey to redeem my son?
⁠The sons their father's wretched age revere,
Forgive his anger, and produce the car.
High on the seat the cabinet they bind:
The new-made car with solid beauty shined:
Box was the yoke, embossed with costly pains,
And hung with ringlets to receive the reins:
Nine cubits long, the traces swept the ground;
These to the chariot's polished pole they bound,
Then fixed a ring the running reins to guide,
And, close beneath, the gathered ends were tied.
Next with the gifts, the price of Hector slain,
The sad attendants load the groaning wain:
Last to the yoke the well-matched mules they bring,
The gift of Mysia to the Trojan king.
But the fair horses, long his darling care,
Himself received, and harnessed to his car:
Grieved as he was, he not this task denied;
The hoary herald helped him at his side.
While careful these the gentle coursers joined,
Sad Hecuba approached with anxious mind;
A golden bowl, that foamed with fragrant wine,
Libation destined to the power divine,
Held in her right, before the steeds she stands,
And thus consigns it to the monarch's hands:
⁠"Take this, and pour to Jove; that, safe from harms,
His grace restore thee to our roof and arms.
Since, victor of thy fears, and slighting mine,
Heaven, or thy soul, inspire this bold design,
Pray to that God, who, high on Ida's brow,

Surveys thy desolated realms below,