Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/441

556—604 The work of soldiers, where the hero sat.

Large was the door, whose well-compacted strength

A solid pine-tree barred of wondrous length;

Scarce three strong Greeks could lift its mighty weight,

But great Achilles singly closed the gate.

This Hermes, such the power of gods, set wide;

Then swift alighted the celestial guide,

And thus, revealed: "Hear, prince, and understand,

Thou owest thy guidance to no mortal hand;

Hermes I am, descended from above,

The king of arts, the messenger of Jove.

Farewell : to shun Achilles' sight I fly;

Uncommon are such favours of the sky,

Nor stand confessed to frail mortality.

Now fearless enter, and prefer thy prayers;

Adjure him by his father's silver hairs,

His son, his mother I urge him to bestow

Whatever pity that stern heart can know."

Thus having said, he vanished from his eyes,

And in a moment shot into the skies:

The king, confirmed from heaven, alighted there,

And left his aged herald on the car.

With solemn pace through various rooms he went,

And found Achilles in his inner tent:

There sat the hero; Alcimus the brave,

And great Autornedon, attendance gave;

These served his person at the royal feast;

Around, at awful distance, stood the rest

Unseen by these, the king his entry made;

And, prostrate now before Achilles laid,

Sudden—a venerable sight—appears;

Embraced his knees, and bathed his hands in tears;

Those direful hands his kisses pressed, imbrued

E'en with the best, the dearest of his blood!

As when a wretch, who, conscious of his crime,

Pursued for murder, flies his native clime,

Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amazed!

All gaze, all wonder: thus Achilles gazed:

Thus stood the attendants stupid with surprise:

All mute, yet seemed to question with their eyes:

Each looked on other, none the silence broke,

Till thus at last the kingly suppliant spoke:

"Ah think, thou favoured of the powers divine!

Think of thy father's age, and pity mine!

In me, that father's reverend image trace,

Those silver hairs, that venerable face;

His trembling limbs, his helpless person, see!

In all my equal, but in misery!

Yet now, perhaps, some turn of human fate