Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/396

394 The gazing gods lean forward from the sky:

To whom, while eager on the chase they look,

The sire of mortals and immortals spoke:

"Unworthy sight! the man, beloved of heaven,

Behold, inglorious round yon city driven!

My heart partakes the generous Hector's pain;

Hector, whose zeal whole hecatombs has slain,

Whose grateful fumes the gods received with joy,

From Ida's summits, and the towers of Troy:

Now see him flying! to his fears resigned,

And Fate, and fierce Achilles, close behind.

Consult, ye Powers, 'tis worthy your debate,

Whether to snatch him from impending fate,

Or let him bear, by stern Pelides slain,

Good as he is, the lot imposed on man?"

Then Pallas thus: "Shall he whose vengeance forms

The forky bolt, and blackens heaven with storms,

Shall he prolong one Trojan's forfeit breath,

A man, a mortal, pre-ordained to death?

And will no murmurs fill the courts above?

No gods indignant blame their partial Jove?"

"Go then," returned the sire, "without delay;

Exert thy will: I give the Fates their way."

Swift at the mandate pleased Tritonia flies,

And stoops impetuous from the cleaving skies.

As through the forest, o'er the vale and lawn,

The well-breathed beagle drives the flying fawn;

In vain he tries the covert of the brakes,

Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes:

Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews,

The certain hound his various maze pursues:

Thus step by step, where'er the Trojan wheeled,

There swift Achilles compassed round the field.

Oft as to reach the Dardan gates he bends,

And hopes the assistance of his pitying friends,

Whose showering arrows, as he coursed below,

From the high turrets might oppress the foe,

So oft Achilles turns him to the plain:

He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain.

As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace

One to pursue, and one to lead the chase,

Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake,

Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake:

No less the labouring heroes pant and strain;

While that but flies, and this pursues, in vain.

What god, O Muse! assisted Hector's force,

With Fate itself so long to hold the course?

Phœbus it was: who, in his latest hour,

Endued his knees with strength, his nerve with power;