Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/55

And o'er the vale descends the living cloud.
So, from the tents and ships, a lengthening train
Spreads all the beach, and wide o'ershades the plain.
Along the region runs a deafening sound;
Beneath their footsteps groans the trembling ground.
Fame flies before, the messenger of Jove,
And shining soars, and claps her wings above.
Nine sacred heralds now proclaiming loud
The monarch's will, suspend the listening crowd.
Soon as the throngs in order ranged appear,
And fainter murmurs died upon the ear,
The king of kings his awful figure raised;
High in his hand the golden sceptre blazed:
The golden sceptre, of celestial frame,
By Vulcan formed, from Jove to Hermes came:
To Pelops he the immortal gift resigned;
The immortal gift great Pelops left behind,
In Atreus' hand, which not with Atreus ends;
To rich Thyestes next the prize descends;
And now, the mark of Agamemnon's reign,
Subjects all Argos, and controls the main.
⁠On this bright sceptre now the king reclined,
And artful thus pronounced the speech designed:
"Ye sons of Mars! partake your leader's care,
Heroes of Greece, and brothers of the war!
Of partial Jove with justice I complain,
And heavenly oracles believed in vain.
A safe return was promised to our toils,
Renowned, triumphant, and enriched with spoils.
Now shameful flight alone can save the host,
Our blood, our treasure, and our glory lost.
So Jove decrees, resistless lord of all,
At whose command whole empires rise or fall:
He shakes the feeble props of human trust,
And towns and armies humbles to the dust.
What shame to Greece a fruitless war to wage,
Oh lasting shame in every future age!
Once great in arms, the common scorn we grow,
Repulsed and baffled by a feeble foe.
So small their number, that, if wars were ceased,
And Greece triumphant held a general feast,
All ranked by tens, whole decades, when they dine,
Must want a Trojan slave to pour the wine.
But other forces have our hopes o'erthrown,
And Troy prevails by armies not her own.
Now nine long years of mighty Jove are run,
Since first the labours of this war begun;
Our cordage torn, decayed our vessels lie,

And scarce ensure the wretched power to fly.