Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/133

315—363 Surpassed the nymphs of Troy's illustrious race.

Long in a strict embrace she held her son,

And pressed his hand, and tender thus begun:

"O Hector! say, what great occasion calls

My son from fight, when Greece surrounds our walls?

Comest thou to supplicate the almighty power,

With lifted hands from Ilion's lofty tower?

Stay, till I bring the cup with Bacchus crowned,

In Jove's high name, to sprinkle on the ground,

And pay due vows to all the gods around.

Then with a plenteous draught refresh thy soul,

And draw new spirits from the generous bowl;

Spent as thou art with long laborious fight,

The brave defender of thy country's right."

" Far hence be Bacchus' gifts," the chief rejoined;

"Inflaming wine, pernicious to mankind,

Unnerves the limbs, and dulls the noble mind.

Let chiefs abstain, and spare the sacred juice,

To sprinkle to the gods, its better use.

By me that holy office were profaned;

Ill fits it me, with human gore distained,

To the pure skies these horrid hands to raise,

Or offer heaven's great sire polluted praise.

You, with your matrons, go, a spotless train,

And burn rich odours in Minerva's fane.

The largest mantle your full wardrobes hold,

Most prized for art, and laboured o'er with gold,

Before the goddess' honoured knees be spread,

And twelve young heifers to her altar led.

So may the Power, atoned by fervent prayer,

Our wives, our infants, and our city spare,

And far avert Tydides' wasteful ire,

Who mows whole troops, and makes all Troy retire.

Be this, O mother, your religious care;

I go to rouse soft Paris to the war;

If yet, not lost to all the sense of shame,

The recreant warrior hear the voice of fame.

Oh would kind earth the hateful wretch embrace,

That pest of Troy, that ruin of our race!

Deep to the dark abyss might he descend,

Troy yet should flourish, and my sorrows end."

This heard, she gave command; and summoned came

Each noble matron and illustrious dame.

The Phrygian queen to her rich wardrobe went,

Where treasured odours breathed a costly scent.

There lay the vestures of no vulgar art,

Sidonian maids embroidered every part,

Whom from soft Sidon youthful Paris bore,

With Helen touching on the Tyrian shore.