Page:Homer - Iliad, translation Pope, 1909.djvu/447

850—897 The power descending hovered o'er his head,

And, "Sleep'st thou, father?" thus the vision said:

"Now dost thou sleep, when Hector is restored?

Nor fear the Grecian foes, or Grecian lord? Thy presence here should stern Atrides see,

Thy still-surviving sons may sue for thee;

May offer all thy treasures yet contain,

To spare thy age; and offer all in vain."

Waked with the word, the trembling sire arose,

And raised his friend: the god before him goes:

He joins the mules, directs them with his hand,

And moves in silence through the hostile land.

When now to Xanthus' yellow stream they drove,

Xanthus, immortal progeny of Jove,

The winged deity forsook their view,

And in a moment to Olympus flew.

Now shed Aurora round her saffron ray,

Sprung through the gates of light, and gave the day.

Charged with their mournful load to Dion go

The sage and king, majestically slow.

Cassandra first beholds, from Ilion's spire,

The sad procession of her hoary sire;

Then, as the pensive pomp advanced more near,

Her breathless brother stretched upon the bier,

A shower of tears o'erflows her beauteous eyes,

Alarming thus all Ilion with her cries:

"Turn here your steps, and here your eyes employ,

Ye wretched daughters, and ye sons of Troy!

If e'er ye rushed in crowds, with vast delight,

To hail your hero glorious from the fight;

Now meet him dead, and let your sorrows flow!

Your common triumph, and your common woe."

In thronging crowds they issue to the plains,

Nor man, nor woman, in the walls remains:

In every face the self-same grief is shewn,

And Troy sends forth one universal groan.

At Scæa's gates they meet the mourning wain,

Hang on the wheels, and grovel round the slain.

The wife and mother, frantic with despair,

Kiss his pale cheek, and rend their scattered hair;

Thus wildly wailing, at the gates they lay;

And there had sighed and sorrowed out the day;

But godlike Priam from the chariot rose;

"Forbear," he cried, "this violence of woes;

First to the palace let the car proceed,

Then pour your boundless sorrows o'er the dead."

The waves of people at his word divide;

Slow rolls the chariot through the following tide: