Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore,
Since great Achilles and Atrides strove;
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.
Whose limbs, unburied on the hostile shore,
Devouring dogs and greedy vultures tare,
Since first Atrides and Achilles strove;
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.
Declare, O muse, in what ill-fated hour
Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?
Latona’s son a dire contagion spread,
And heap’d the camp with mountains of the dead;
The king of men his reverend priest defy’d,
And for the king’s offence the people dy’d.
Declare, O goddess, what offended power
Enflam’d their rage, in that ill-omen’d hour;
anger, fatal, hapless
Phœbus himself the dire debate procur’d,
fierce
T’ avenge the wrongs his injur’d priest endur’d;
For this the god a dire infection spread,
And heap’d the camp with millions of the dead:
The king of men the sacred sire defy’d,
And for the king’s offence the people dy’d.
For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain
His captive daughter from the victor’s chain;
Suppliant the venerable father stands,
Apollo’s awful ensigns grace his hands,
By these he begs, and, lowly bending down,
Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown.
For Chryses sought by presents to regain
costly gifts to gain
His captive daughter from the victor’s chain;
Suppliant the venerable father stands,
Apollo’s awful ensigns grac’d his hands,
By these he begs, and, lowly bending down
The golden sceptre and the laurel crown,
Presents the sceptre
For these as ensigns of his god he bare,
The god that sends his golden shafts afar;
Then low on earth, the venerable man,
Suppliant before the brother kings began.
He sued to all, but chief implor’d for grace
The brother kings of Atreus’ royal race;
Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crown’d,
And Troy’s proud walls lie level with the ground;
May Jove restore you, when your toils are o’er,
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.
To all he sued, but chief implor’d for grace
The brother kings of Atreus’ royal race.
Ye sons of Atreus, may your vows be crown’d,
Kings and warriors
Your labours, by the gods be all your labours crown’d;
So may the gods your arms with conquest bless,
And Troy’s proud walls lie level with the ground:
Till laid
And crown your labours with deserv’d success
May Jove restore you, when your toils are o’er,
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.
But, oh! relieve a wretched parent’s pain,
And give Chryseis to these arms again;
If mercy fail, yet let my present move,
And dread avenging Phœbus, son of Jove.
But, oh! relieve a hapless parent’s pain,
And give my daughter to these arms again;
Receive my gifts; if mercy fails, yet let my present move,
And fear the god that deals his darts around,
avenging Phosbus, son of Jove.