Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/276

274 I hung thee trembling in a golden chain,

And all the raging gods opposed in vain?

Headlong I hurled them from the Olympian hall,

Stunned in the whirl, and breathless with the fall.

For godlike Hercules these deeds were done,

Nor seemed the vengeance worthy such a son;

When, by thy wiles induced, fierce Boreas tossed

The shipwrecked hero on the Coan coast:

Him through a thousand forms of death I bore,

And sent to Argos, and his native shore.

Hear this, remember, and our fury dread,

Nor pull the unwilling vengeance on thy head;

Lest arts and blandishments successless prove,

Thy soft deceits, and well-dissembled love"

The Thunderer spoke; imperial Juno mourned,

And, trembling, these submissive words returned:

"By every oath that Powers immortal ties,

The foodful earth, and all infolding skies,

By thy black waves, tremendous Styx! that flow

Through the drear realms of gliding ghosts below:

By the dread honours of thy sacred head,

And that unbroken vow, our virgin bed!

Not by my arts the ruler of the main

Steeps Troy in blood, and ranges round the plain:

By his own ardour, his own pity, swayed

To help his Greeks, he fought, and disobeyed:

Else had thy Juno better counsels given,

And taught submission to the sire of heaven."

"Think'st thou with me, fair empress of the skies?"

The immortal father with a smile replies:

"Then soon the haughty sea-god shall obey,

Nor dare to act, but when we point the way.

If truth inspires thy tongue, proclaim our will

To yon bright synod on the Olympian hill;

Our high decree let various Iris know,

And call the god that bears the silver bow.

Let her descend, and from the embattled plain

Command the sea-god to his watery reign:

While Phœbus hastes great Hector to prepare

To rise afresh, and once more wake the war;

His labouring bosom re-inspires with breath,

And calls his senses from the verge of death.

Greece, chased by Troy e'en to Achilles' fleet,

Shall fall by thousands at the hero's feet.

He, not untouched with pity, to the plain

Shall send Patroclus, but shall send in vain.

What youths he slaughters under Ilion's walls!

E'en my loved son, divine Sarpedon, falls!

Vanquished at last by Hector's lance he lies,