And whofe bleft oracles thy lips declare;
Long as Achilles breathes this vital air,
No daring Greek of all the numerous band
Against his priest shall lift an impious hand:
Not ev❜n the chief by whom our hosts are led,
The king of kings, shall touch that facred head.
Encourag'd thus, the blameless man replies :
Nor vows unpaid, nor flighted facrifice,
But he, our chief, provok❜d the raging pest,
Apollo's vengeance for his injur'd priest,
Nor will the gods awaken'd fury cease.
But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,
Till the great king, without a ransom paid,
To her own Chrysa send the black-ey'd maid.
Perhaps, with added facrifice and prayer,
The priest may pardon, and the God may spare.
The prophet spoke; when with a gloomy frown
The monarch started from his shining throne;
Black choler fill'd his breast that boil'd with ire,
And from his eye-balls flash'd the living fire.
Augur accurft! denouncing mifchiefs ftill,
Prophet of plagues, for ever boding ill!
Still must that tongue fome wounding meffage bring, And ftill thy prieftly pride provoke thy king?
For this are Phoebus' oracles explor'd,
To teach the Greeks to murmur at their Lord?
For this with falfehoods is my honour ftain'd,
Is Heaven offended, and a priest profan’d;
Because my prize, my beauteous maid I hold,
And heavenly charms prefer to proffer'd gold?
A maid, unmatch'd in manners as in face,
Skill'd in each art, and crown'd with every grace.
Not half fo dear were Clytemnestra's charms,
When firft her blooming beauties bleft my arms.
Yet if the Gods demand her, let her fail ;
Our cares are only for the public weal :
Let me be deem'd the hateful cause of all,
And fuffer, rather than my people fall.
The prize, the beauteous prize, I will resign,
So dearly valued, and fo juftly mine.
But fince for common good I yield the fair,
My private lofs let grateful Greece repair;
Nor unrewarded let your prince complain,
That he alone has fought and bled in vain.
Infatiate king! (Achilles thus replies)
Fond of the power, but fonder of the prize!
Would'st thou the Greeks their lawful prey fhould yield,
The due reward of many a well-fought field?
The fpoils of cities raz'd, and warriours flain,
We share with justice, as with toil we gain :
But to refume whate'er thy avarice craves,
(That trick of tyrants) may be borne by flaves.
Yet if our chief for plunder only fight,
The spoils of Ilion shall thy lofs requite,
Whene'er by Jove's decree our conquering powers 165
Shall humble to the duft her lofty towers.
Then thus the king: Shall I my prize refign
With tame content, and thou possest of thine ?
Great as thou art, and like a God in fight,
Think not to rob me of a foldier's right.
At thy demand shall I restore the maid ?
First let the juft equivalent be paid;
Such as a king might afk; and let it be
A treasure worthy her, and worthy me.
Or grant me this, or with a monarch's claim,
This hand fhall feize fome other captive dame.
The mighty Ajax shall his prize refign,
Ulyffes' spoils, or ev'n thy own be mine.
The man who fuffers, loudly may complain;
And rage he may, but he shall rage in vain.
But this when time requires-It now remains
We launch a bark to plow the watery plains,
And waft the facrifice to Chryfa's shores,
With chofen pilots, and with labouring oars.
Soon fhall the fair the fable ship afcend,
And fome deputed prince the charge attend;
This Creta's king, or Ajax fhall fulfill,
Or wife Ulyffes fee perform'd our will ;
Or, if our royal pleasure shall ordain,
Achilles' felf conduct her o'er the main ;
Let fierce Achilles, dreadful in his rage,
The God propitiate, and the pest assuage.
At this, Pelides, frowning stern, reply'd :
O tyrant, arm'd with infolence and pride!
Inglorious flave to intereft, ever join'd
With fraud unworthy of a royal mind!
What generous Greek, obedient to thy word,
Shall form an ambush, or fhall lift the fword?
What caufe have I to war at thy decree?
The diftant Trojans never injur'd me ;
To Phthia's realms no hoftile troops they led,
Safe in her vales my warlike courfers fed;
Far hence remov'd, the hoarse-refounding main,
And walls of rocks, fecure my native reign,
Whose fruitful-foil luxuriant harvests grace,
Rich in her fruits, and in her martial race...
Hither we fail'd a voluntary throng,
'T' avenge a private, not a public wrong:
What else to Troy th' affembled nations draws,
But thine, ungrateful, and thy brother's cause?
Is this the pay our blood and toils deserve ;
Disgrac'd and injur'd by the man we serve ?
And dar'ft thou threat to fnatch my prize away,
Due to the deeds of many a dreadful day ?
A prize as fmall, O tyrant! match'd with thine,
As thy own actions if compar'd to mine.
Thine in each conqueft is the wealthy prey,
Though mine the sweat and danger of the day.
Some trivial prefents to my ships I bear,
Or barren praises pay the wounds of war.
But know, proud monarch, I'm thy flave no more ;
My fleet fhall waft me to Theffalia's fhore.
Left by Achilles on the Trojan plain,
What spoils, what conquests, shall Atrides gain?
t To this the king: Fly, mighty warrior! fly,
Thy aid we need not, and thy threats defy.
There want not chiefs in such a cause to fight,
And Jove himself shall guard a monarch's right.
Of all the kings (the God's distinguish'd care)
To power fuperior none fuch hatred bear:
Strife and debate thy restless foul employ,
And wars and horrours are thy savage joy.
If thou haft strength, 'twas Heaven that strength bestow'd,
For know, vain man! thy valour is from God.
Hafte, launch thy veffels, fly with speed away,
Rule thy own realms with arbitrary sway :
I heed thee not, but prize at equal rate
Thy short-liv'd friendship, and thy groundlefs hate.
Go, threat thy earth-born Myrmidons; but here
Tis mine to threaten, prince, and thine to fear. 240
Know, if the God the beauteous dame demand,
My bark shall waft her to her native land;
But then prepare, imperious prince ! prepare,
Fierce as thou art, to yield thy captive fair :
Ev'n in thy tent I'll feize the blooming prize,
Thy lov'd Brifeïs with the radiant eyes.
Hence fhalt thou prove my might, and curfe the hour,
Thou ftood'ft a rival of imperial power;
And hence to all our host it fhall be known,
That kings are fubject to the Gods alone.
Achilles heard, with grief and rage oppreft,
His heart fwell'd high, and labour'd in his breast.
Distracting thoughts by turns his bofom rul'd,
Now fir'd by wrath, and now by reafon cool'd:
That prompts his hand to draw the deadly fword, 255
Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord;
This whispers foft, his vengeance to control,
And calm the rifing tempeft of his foul.
Just as in anguish of fufpence he stay'd,
While half unfheath'd appear'd the glittering blade, 260
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