Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/135

413—461 And wasteful war in all its fury burns.

Ungrateful man! deserves not this thy care,

Our troops to hearten, and our toils to share?

Rise, or behold the conquering flames ascend,

And all the Phrygian glories at an end."

"Brother, 'tis just," replied the beauteous youth,

"Thy free remonstrance proves thy worth and truth:

Yet charge my absence less, O generous chief!

On hate to Troy, than conscious shame and grief;

Here, hid from human eyes, thy brother sat,

And mourned in secret his, and Ilion's, fate.

'Tis now enough; now glory spreads her charms,

And beauteous Helen calls her chief to arms.

Conquest to-day my happier sword may bless;

'Tis man's to fight, but heaven's to give success.

But while I arm, contain thy ardent mind,

Or go, and Paris shall not lag behind."

He said, nor answered Priam's warlike son;

When Helen thus with lowly grace begun:

"O generous brother—if the guilty dame

That caused these woes deserve a sister's name—

Would heaven, ere all these dreadful deeds were done,

The day that showed me to the golden sun

Had seen my death! Why did not whirlwinds bear

The fatal infant to the fowls of air?

Why sunk I not beneath the whelming tide,

And 'midst the roarings of the waters died?

Heaven filled up all my ills, and I accursed

Bore all, and Paris of those ills the worst.

Helen at least some braver spouse might claim,

Warmed with some virtue, some regard of fame!

Now, tired with toils, thy fainting limbs recline,

With toils sustained for Paris' sake and mine:

The gods have linked our miserable doom,

Our present woe, and infamy to come:

Wide shall it spread, and last through ages long,

Example sad, and theme of future song."

The chief replied: "This time forbids to rest;

The Trojan bands, by hostile fury pressed,

Demand their Hector, and his arm require;

The combat urges, and my soul's on fire.

Urge thou thy knight to march where glory calls

And timely join me, ere I leave the walls.

Ere yet I mingle in the direful fray,

My wife, my infant, claim a moment's stay;

This day—perhaps the last that sees me here—

Demands a parting word, a tender tear;

This day some god who hates our Trojan land

May vanquish Hector by a Grecian hand."