Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/139

608—656 Against his country's foes the war to wage,

And rise the Hector of the future age!

So when, triumphant from successful toils,

Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,

Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,

And say, This chief transcends his father's fame:

While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy,

His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms

Restored the pleasing burden to her arms;

Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid,

Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed.

The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear,

She mingled with the smile a tender tear.

The softened chief with kind compassion viewed,

And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:

"Andromache! my soul's far better part,

Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?

No hostile hand can antedate my doom,

Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb;

Fixed is the term to all the race of earth,

And such the hard condition of our birth.

No force can then resist, no flight can save;

All sink alike, the fearful and the brave.

No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home,

There guide the spindle, and direct the loom:

Me glory summons to the martial scene,

The field of combat is the sphere for men.

Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim,

The first in danger as the first in fame."

Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes

His towery helmet, black with shading plumes.

His princess parts with a prophetic sigh,

Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye,

That streamed at every look: then, moving slow,

Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe.

There, while her tears deplored the godlike man,

Through all her train the soft infection ran;

The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed,

And mourn the living Hector as the dead.

But now, no longer deaf to honour's call,

Forth issues Paris from the palace wall.

In brazen arms that cast a gleamy ray,

Swift through the town the warrior bends his way.

The wanton courser thus, with reins unbound,

Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground;

Pampered and proud he seeks the wonted tides,

And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides:

His head now freed he tosses to the skies;