Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/36

 And heaped the camp with mountains of the dead;

The king of men his reverend priest defied,

And, for the king's offence, the people died.

For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain

His captive daughter from the victor's chain.

Suppliant the venerable father stands;

Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands:

By these he begs: and, lowly bending down,

Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown.

He sued to all, but chief implored for grace

The brother-kings of Atreus' royal race:

"Ye kings and warriors! may your vows be crowned,

And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground;

May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er,

Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

But oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain,

And give Chryseïs to these arms again;

If mercy fail, yet let my presents move,

And dread avenging Phœbus, son of Jove."

The Greeks in shouts their joint assent declare,

The priest to reverence, and release the fair.

Not so Atrides: he, with kingly pride,

Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied:

"Hence on thy life, and fly these hostile plains,

Nor ask, presumptuous, what the king detains:

Hence, with thy laurel crown, and golden rod,

Nor trust too far those ensigns of thy god.

Mine is thy daughter, priest, and shall remain;

And prayers, and tears, and bribes shall plead in vain;

Till time shall rifle every useful grace,

And age dismiss her from my cold embrace,

In daily labours of the loom employed,

Or doomed to deck the bed she once enjoyed.

Hence then! to Argos shall the maid retire,

Far from her native soil, and weeping sire."

The trembling priest along the shore returned,

And in the anguish of a father mourned.

Disconsolate, not daring to complain,

Silent he wandered by the sounding main:

Till, safe at distance, to his god he prays,

The god who darts around the world his rays:

"O Smintheus! sprung from fair Latona's line,

Thou guardian Power of Cilla the divine,

Thou source of light! whom Tenedos adores,

And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa's shores;

If e'er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane,

Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain;