FROM POPE'S HOMER'S ILIAD.
E faid, and paft with fad prefaging heart
To feek his fpoufe, his foul's far dearer part;
At home he fought her, but he fought in vain;
She, with one maid of all her menial train,
Had thence retir'd; and with her fecond joy,
The young Aftyanax, the hope of Troy.
Penfive she stood on Ilion's tow'ry height,
Beheld the war, and ficken'd at the fight;
There her fad eyes in vain her lord explore,
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.
But he who found not whom his foul defir'd,
Whofe virtue charm'd him as her beauty fir'd,
Stood in the gates, and afk'd what way fhe bent
Her parting ftep? If to the fane she went,
Where late the mourning matrons made refort;
Or fought her fifters in the Trojan court?
Not to the court, (reply'd th' attendant train)
Nor mix'd with matrons, to Minerva's fane:
To Ilion's fteepy tow'r fhe bent her way,
To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day.
Troy fled, fhe heard, before the Grecian fword
She heard, and trembled for her abfent lord;
Distracted with furprife, the feem'd to fly,
Fear on her cheek, and forrow in her eye.
The nurse attended with her infant boy,
The young Aftyanax, the hope of Troy.
Hector, this heard, return'd without delay;
Swift through the town he trod his former way,
Through streets of palaces, and walks of state;
And met the mourner at the Scean gate.
With hafte to meet him fprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wife, Aëtion's wealthy heir
(Cilician Thebè great Aëtion fway'd,
And Hippoplacus' wide extended shade):
The nurse stood near, in whose embraces prest,
His only hope hung smiling at her breast,
Whom each foft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born ftar that gilds the morn.
To this lov'd infant Hector gave the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream;
Aftyanax the Trojans call'd the boy,
From his great father, the defence of Troy.
Silent the warriour smil'd, and pleas'd, refign'd
To tender paffions all his mighty mind.
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bofom labour'd with a boding figh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.
Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ab, too forgetful of thy wife and fon!
And think'ft thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow I, an helpless orphan he!
For fure, fuch courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's facrifice.
Greece in her fingle heros ftrove in vain :
Now hofts oppose thee, and thou must be flain!
Oh, grant me, God! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of Heav'n, an early tomb!
So fhall my days in one fad tenour run,
And end with forrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains my griefs to share,.
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebe waste, and flew my warlike fire!
His fate compaffion in the victor bred;
he yet rever'd the dead,
His radiant arms preferv'd from hoftile spoil,
And laid him decent on the fun'ral pile;
Then rais'd a mountain where his bones were burn'de
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorn'd,
Jove's filvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren fliade, and in his honour grow.
By the fame arm my fev'n brave brothers fell;
In one fad day beheld the gates of hell:
While the fat herds and fnowy flocks they fed 3
Amid their fields the hapless heros bled!
My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's filvan lands:
Redeem'd too late, fhe scarce beheld again
Her pleafing empire and her native plain,
When, ah! oppreft by life-consuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.
Yet while my Hector still survives; I
My father, mother brethren, all, in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share :
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon' wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy :
Thou, from this tow'r defend th' important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,
That pafs Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have givin,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from Heav'n,
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay, my Hector, here, and guard his Troy.
The chief reply'd: that post shall be my care,
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the fons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the
Attaint the luftre of my former name, [ground,
Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame ?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My foul impels me to the embattled plains:
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories and my own.
Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates;
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !)
The day when thou, imperial Troy ! must bend,
And see thy warriours fall, thy glories end.
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore,
Not all my brothers gafping on the shore;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread;
I fee thee trembling, weeping, captive led !
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes,
of which fo large a part was thine!
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's fpring.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry, behold the mighty Hector's wife!
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to fee,
Embitters all thy woes, by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,
A thousand griefs fhall waken at the name!
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Prefs'd with a load of monumental clay !
Thy Hector wrapt in everlasting sleep,
Shall neither hear thee figh, nor fee thee weep!
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