Appendix Poems in Greek and in French Greek Epigram Lorsque rien n'existait Sur les grands sommets blancs Note on the Texts Index of Titles Index of First Lines

BOOK III

The Book of the Assembly

But as the nation beset betwixt doom and a shameful surrender

Waited mute for a voice that could lead and a heart to encourage,

Up in the silence deep Laocoon rose up, far-heard, —

Heard by the gods in their calm and heard by men in their passion —

Cloud-haired, clad in mystic red, flamboyant, sombre,

Priam's son Laocoon, fate-darkened seer of Apollo.

As when the soul of the Ocean arises rapt in the dawning

And mid the rocks and the foam uplifting the voice of its musings

Opens the chant of its turbulent harmonies, so rose the far-borne

Voice of Laocoon soaring mid columns of Ilion's glories,

Claiming the earth and the heavens for the field of its confident rumour.

"Trojans, deny your hearts to the easeful flutings of Hades!

Live, O nation!" he thundered forth and Troy's streets and her pillars

Sent back their fierce response. Restored to her leonine spirits

Ilion rose in her agora filling the heavens with shoutings,

Bearing a name to the throne of Zeus in her mortal defiance.

As when a sullen calm of the heavens discourages living,

Nature and man feel the pain of the lightnings repressed in their bosoms,

Dangerous and dull is the air, then suddenly strong from the anguish

Zeus of the thunders starts into glories releasing his storm-voice,

Earth exults in the kiss of the rain and the life-giving laughters,

So from the silence broke forth the thunder of Troya arising;

Fiercely she turned from prudence and wisdom and turned back to greatness

Casting her voice to the heavens from the depths of her fathomless spirit.

Raised by those clamours, triumphant once more on this scene of his greatness,

Tool of the gods, but he deemed of his strength as a leader in Nature,

Took for his own a voice that was given and dreamed that he fashioned

Fate that fashions us all, Laocoon stood mid the shouting

Leaned on the calm of an ancient pillar. In eyes self-consuming

Kindled the flame of the prophet that blinds at once and illumines;

Quivering thought-besieged lips and shaken locks of the lion,

Lifted his gaze the storm-led enthusiast. Then as the shouting

Tired of itself at last disappeared in the bosom of silence,

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A page of Illion

Once more he started erect and his voice o'er the hearts of his hearers

Swept like Ocean's impatient cry when it calls from its surges,

Ocean loud with a thought sublime in its measureless marching,

Each man felt his heart like foam in the rushing of waters.

"Ilion is vanquished then! she abases her grandiose spirit

Mortal found in the end to the gods and the Greeks and Antenor,

And when a barbarous chieftain's menace and insolent mercy

Bring here their pride to insult the columned spirit of Ilus,

Trojans have sat and feared! For a man has arisen and spoken,

One whom the gods in their anger have hired. Since the Argive prevailed not,

Armed with his strength and his numbers, in Troya they sought for her slayer,

Gathered their wiles in a voice and they chose a man famous and honoured,

Summoned Ate to aid and corrupted the heart of Antenor.

Flute of the breath of the Hell-witch, always he scatters among you

Doubt, affliction and weakness chilling the hearts of the fighters,

Always his voice with its cadenced and subtle possession for evil

Breaks the constant will and maims the impulse heroic.

Therefore while yet her heroes fight and her arms are unconquered,

Troy in your hearts is defeated! The souls of your Fathers have heard you

Dallying, shamefast, with vileness, lured by the call of dishonour.

Such is the power Zeus gave to the winged words of a mortal!

Foiled in his will, disowned by the years that stride on for ever,

Yet in the frenzy cold of his greed and his fallen ambition

Doom from heaven he calls down on his countrymen, Trojan abuses

Troy, his country, extolling her enemies, blessing her slayers.

Such are the gods Antenor has made in his heart's own image

That if one evil man have not way for his greed and his longing

Cities are doomed and kings must be slain and a nation must perish!

But from the mind of the free and the brave I will answer thy bodings,

Gold-hungry raven of Troy who croakst from thy nest at her princes.

Only one doom irreparable treads down the soul of a nation,

Only one downfall endures; 'tis the ruin of greatness and virtue,

Mourning when Freedom departs from the life and the heart of a people,

Into her room comes creeping the mind of the slave and it poisons

Manhood and joy and the voice to lying is trained and subjection

Easy feels to the neck of man who is next to the godheads.

Not of the fire am I terrified, not of the sword and its slaying;

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Vileness of men appals me, baseness I fear and its voices.

What can man suffer direr or worse than enslaved from a victor

Boons to accept, to take safety and ease from the foe and the stranger,

Fallen from the virtue stern that heaven permits to a mortal?

Death is not keener than this nor the slaughter of friends and our dear ones.

Out and alas! earth's greatest are earth and they fail in the testing,

Conquered by sorrow and doubt, fate's hammerers, fires of her furnace.

God in their souls they renounce and submit to their clay and its promptings.

Else could the heart of Troy have recoiled from the loom of the shadow

Cast by Achilles' spear or shrunk at the sound of his car-wheels?

Now he has graven an oath austere in his spirit unpliant

Victor at last to constrain in his stride the walls of Apollo

Burning Troy ere he sleeps. 'Tis the vow of a high-crested nature;

Shall it break ramparted Troy? Yea, the soul of a man too is mighty

More than the stone and the mortar! Troy had a soul once, O Trojans,

Firm as her god-built ramparts. When by the spears overtaken,

Strong Sarpedon fell and Zeus averted his visage,

Xanthus red to the sea ran sobbing with bodies of Trojans,

When in the day of the silence of heaven the far-glancing helmet

Ceased from the ways of the fight, and panic slew with Achilles

Hosts who were left unshepherded pale at the fall of their greatest,

Godlike Troy lived on. Do we speak mid a city's ruins?

Lo! she confronts her heavens as when Tros and Laomedon ruled her.

All now is changed, these mutter and sigh to you, all now is ended;

Strength has renounced you, Fate has finished the thread of her spinning.

Hector is dead, he walks in the shadows; Troilus fights not;

Resting his curls on the asphodel he has forgotten his country:

Strong Sarpedon lies in Bellerophon's city sleeping:

Memnon is slain and the blood of Rhesus has dried on the Troad:

All of the giant Asius sums in a handful of ashes.

Grievous are these things; our hearts still keep all the pain of them treasured,

Hard though they grow by use and iron caskets of sorrow.

Hear me yet, O fainters in wisdom snared by your pathos,

Know this iron world we live in where Hell casts its shadow.

Blood and grief are the ransom of men for the joys of their transience,

For we are mortals bound in our strength and beset in our labour.

This is our human destiny; every moment of living

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Toil and loss have gained in the constant siege of our bodies.

Men must sow earth with their hearts and their tears that their country may prosper;

Earth who bore and devours us that life may be born from our remnants.

Then shall the Sacrifice gather its fruits when the war-shout is silent,

Nor shall the blood be in vain that our mother has felt on her bosom

Nor shall the seed of the mighty fail where Death is the sower.

Still from the loins of the mother eternal are heroes engendered,

Still Deiphobus shouts in the war-front trampling the Argives,

Strong Aeneas' far-borne voice is heard from our ramparts,

Paris' hands are swift and his feet in the chases of Ares.

Lo, when deserted we fight by Asia's soon-wearied peoples,

Men ingrate who enjoyed the protection and loathed the protector,

Heaven has sent us replacing a continent Penthesilea!

Low has the heart of Achaia sunk since it shook at her war-cry.

Ajax has bit at the dust; it is all he shall have of the Troad;

Tall Meriones lies and measures his portion of booty.

Who is the fighter in Ilion thrills not rejoicing to hearken

Even her name on unwarlike lips, much more in the mellay

Shout of the daughter of battles, armipotent Penthesilea?

If there were none but these only, if hosts came not surging behind them,

Young men burning-eyed to outdare all the deeds of their elders,

Each in his beauty a Troilus, each in his valour a Hector,

Yet were the measures poised in the equal balance of Ares.

Who then compels you, O people unconquered, to sink down abjuring

All that was Troy? For O, if she yield, let her use not ever

One of her titles! shame not the shades of Teucer and Ilus,

Soil not Tros! Are you awed by the strength of the swift-foot Achilles?

Is it a sweeter lure in the cadenced voice of Antenor?

Or are you weary of Time and the endless roar of the battle?

Wearier still are the Greeks! their eyes look out o'er the waters

Nor with the flight of their spears is the wing of their hopes towards Troya.

Dull are their hearts; they sink from the war-cry and turn from the spear-stroke

Sullenly dragging backwards, desiring the paths of the Ocean,

Dreaming of hearths that are far and the children growing to manhood

Who are small infant faces still in the thoughts of their fathers.

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Therefore these call you to yield lest they wake and behold in the dawn-light

All Poseidon whitening lean to the west in his waters

Thick with the sails of the Greeks departing beaten to Hellas.

Who is it calls? Antenor the statesman, Antenor the patriot,

Thus who loves his country and worships the soil of his fathers!

Which of you loves like him Troya? which of the children of heroes

Yearns for the touch of a yoke on his neck and desires the aggressor?

If there be any so made by the gods in the nation of Ilus,

Leaving this city which freemen have founded, freemen have dwelt in,

Far on the beach let him make his couch in the tents of Achilles,

Not in this mighty Ilion, not with this lioness fighting,

Guarding the lair of her young and roaring back at her hunters.

We who are souls descended from Ilus and seeds of his making,

Other-hearted shall march from our gates to answer Achilles.

What! shall this ancient Ilion welcome the day of the conquered?

She who was head of the world, shall she live in the guard of the Hellene

Cherished as slavegirls are, who are taken in war, by their captors?

Europe shall walk in our streets with the pride and the gait of the victor?

Greeks shall enter our homes and prey on our mothers and daughters?

This Antenor desires and this Ucalegon favours.

Traitors! whether 'tis cowardice drives or the sceptic of virtue,

Cold-blooded age, or gold insatiably tempts from its coffers

Pleading for safety from foreign hands and the sack and the plunder.

Leave them, my brothers! spare the baffled hypocrites! Failure

Sharpest shall torture their hearts when they know that still you are Trojans.

Silence, O reason of man! for a voice from the gods has been uttered!

Dardanans, hearken the sound divine that comes to you mounting

Out of the solemn ravines from the mystic seat on the tripod!

Phoebus, the master of Truth, has promised the earth to our peoples.

Children of Zeus, rejoice! for the Olympian brows have nodded

Regal over the world. In earth's rhythm of shadow and sunlight

Storm is the dance of the locks of the God assenting to greatness,

Zeus who with secret compulsion orders the ways of our nature;

Veiled in events he lives and working disguised in the mortal

Builds our strength by pain, and an empire is born out of ruins.

Then if the tempest be loud and the thunderbolt leaping incessant

Shatters the roof, if the lintels flame at last and each cornice

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Shrieks with the pain of the blast, if the very pillars totter,

Keep yet your faith in Zeus, hold fast to the word of Apollo.

Not by a little pain and not by a temperate labour

Trained is the nation chosen by Zeus for a dateless dominion.

Long must it labour rolled in the foam of the fathomless surges,

Often neighbour with death and ere Ares grow firm to its banners

Feel on the pride of its Capitol tread of the triumphing victor,

Hear the barbarian knock at its gates or the neighbouring foeman

Glad of the transient smile of his fortune suffer insulting; —

They, the nation eternal, brook their taunts who must perish!

Heaviest toils they must bear; they must wrestle with Fate and her Titans,

And when some leader returns from the battle sole of his thousands

Crushed by the hammers of God, yet never despair of their country.

Dread not the ruin, fear not the storm-blast, yield not, O Trojans.

Zeus shall rebuild. Death ends not our days, the fire shall not triumph.

Death? I have faced it. Fire? I have watched it climb in my vision

Over the timeless domes and over the rooftops of Priam;

But I have looked beyond and have seen the smile of Apollo.

After her glorious centuries, after her world-wide triumphs,

If near her ramparts outnumbered she fights, by the nations forsaken,

Lonely again on her hill, by her streams, and her meadows and beaches,

Once where she revelled, shake to the tramp of her countless invaders,

Testings are these from the god. For Fate severe like a mother

Teaches our wills by disaster and strikes down the props that would weaken,

Fate and the Thought on high that is wiser than yearnings of mortals.

Troy has arisen before, but from ashes, not shame, not surrender!

Souls that are true to themselves are immortal; the soulless for ever

Lingers helpless in Hades a shade among shades disappointed.

Now is the god in my bosom mighty compelling me, Trojans,

Now I release what my spirit has kept and it saw in its vision;

Nor will be silent for gibe of the cynic or sneer of the traitor.

Troy shall triumph! Hear, O ye peoples, the word of Apollo.

Hear it and tremble, O Greece, in thy youth and the dawn of thy future;

Rather forget while thou canst, but the gods in their hour shall remind thee.

Tremble, O nations of Asia, false to the greatness within you.

Troy shall surge back on your realms with the sword and the yoke of the victor.

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Troy shall triumph! Though nations conspire and gods lead her foemen,

Fate that is born of the spirit is greater than they and will shield her.

Foemen shall help her with war; her defeats shall be victory's moulders.

Walls that restrain shall be rent; she shall rise out of sessions unsettled.

Oceans shall be her walls at the end and the desert her limit;

Indus shall send to her envoys; her eyes shall look northward from Thule.

She shall enring all the coasts with her strength like the kingly Poseidon,

She shall o'ervault all the lands with her rule like the limitless azure."

Ceasing from speech Laocoon, girt with the shouts of a nation,

Lapsed on his seat like one seized and abandoned and weakened; nor ended

Only in iron applause, but throughout with a stormy approval

Ares broke from the hearts of his people in ominous thunder.

Savage and dire was the sound like a wild beast's tracked out and hunted,

Wounded, yet trusting to tear out the entrails live of its hunters,

Savage and cruel and threatening doom to the foe and opponent.

Yet when the shouting sank at last, Ucalegon rose up

Trembling with age and with wrath and in accents hurried and piping

Faltered a senile fierceness forth on the maddened assembly.

"Ah, it is even so far that you dare, O you children of Priam,

Favourites vile of a people sent mad by the gods, and thou risest,

Dark Laocoon, prating of heroes and spurning as cowards,

Smiting for traitors the aged and wise who were grey when they spawned thee!

Imp of destruction, mane of mischief! Ah, spur us with courage,

Thou who hast never prevailed against even the feeblest Achaian.

Rather twice hast thou raced in the rout to the ramparts for shelter,

Leading the panic, and shrieked as thou ranst to the foemen for mercy

Who were a mile behind thee, O matchless and wonderful racer.

Safely counsel to others the pride and the firmness of heroes.

Thou wilt not die in the battle! For even swiftest Achilles

Could not o'ertake thee, I ween, nor wind-footed Penthesilea.

Mask of a prophet, heart of a coward, tongue of a trickster,

Timeless Ilion thou alone ruinest, helped by the Furies.

I, Ucalegon, first will rend off the mask from thee, traitor.

For I believe thee suborned by the cynic wiles of Odysseus

And thou conspirest to sack this Troy with the greed of the Cretan."

Hasting unstayed he pursued like a brook that scolds amid pebbles,

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Voicing angers shrill; for the people astonished were silent.

Long he pursued not; a shouting broke from that stupor of fury,

Men sprang pale to their feet and hurled out menaces lethal;

All that assembly swayed like a forest swept by the stormwind.

Obstinate, straining his age-dimmed eyes Ucalegon, trembling

Worse yet with anger, clamoured feebly back at the people,

Whelmed in their roar. Unheard was his voice like a swimmer in surges

Lost, yet he spoke. But the anger grew in the throats of the people

Lion-voiced, hurting the heart with sound and daunting the nature,

Till from some stalwart hand a javelin whistling and vibrant

Missing the silvered head of the senator rang disappointed

Out on the distant wall of a house by the side of the market.

Not even then would the old man hush or yield to the tempest.

Wagging his hoary beard and shifting his aged eyeballs,

Tossing his hands he stood; but Antenor seized him and Aetor,

Dragged him down on his seat though he strove, and chid him and silenced,

"Cease, O friend, for the gods have won. It were easier piping

High with thy aged treble to alter the rage of the Ocean

Than to o'erbear this people stirred by Laocoon. Leave now

Effort unhelpful, wrap thy days in a mantle of silence;

Give to the gods their will and dry-eyed wait for the ending."

So now the old men ceased from their strife with the gods and with Troya;

Cowed by the storm of the people's wrath they desisted from hoping.

But though the roar long swelled, like the sea when the winds have subsided,

One man yet rose up unafraid and beckoned for silence,

Not of the aged, but ripe in his look and ruddy of visage,

Stalwart and bluff and short-limbed, Halamus son of Antenor.

Forward he stood from the press and the people fell silent and listened,

For he was ever first in the mellay and loved by the fighters.

He with a smile began: "Come, friends, debate is soon ended

If there is right but of lungs and you argue with javelins. Wisdom

Rather pray for her aid in this dangerous hour of your fortunes.

Not to exalt Laocoon, too much praising his swiftness,

Trojans, I rise; for some are born brave with the spear in the war-car,

Others bold with the tongue, nor equal gifts unto all men

Zeus has decreed who guides his world in a round that is devious

Carried this way and that like a ship that is tossed on the waters.

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Why should we rail then at one who is lame by the force of Cronion?

Not by his will is he lame; he would race, if he could, with the swiftest.

Yet is the halt man no runner, nor, friends, must you rise up and slay me,

If I should say of this priest, he is neither Sarpedon nor Hector.

Then, if my father whom once you honoured, ancient Antenor,

Hugs to him Argive gold which I see not, his son in his mansion,

Me too accusest thou, prophet Laocoon? Friends, you have watched me

Sometimes fight. Did you see with my house's allies how I gambolled,

Changed, when with sportive spear I was tickling the ribs of my Argives,

Nudges of friendly counsel inviting to entry in Troya?

Men, these are visions of lackbrains; men, these are myths of the market.

Let us have done with them, brothers and friends; hate only the Hellene.

Prophet, I bow to the oracles. Wise are the gods in their silence,

Wise when they speak; but their speech is other than ours and their wisdom

Hard for a mortal mind to hold and not madden or wander;

But for myself I see only the truth as a soldier who battles

Judging the strength of his foes and the chances of iron encounter.

Few are our armies, many the Greeks, and we waste in the combat

Bound to our numbers, — they by the ocean hemmed from their kinsmen,

We by our fortunes, waves of the gods that are harder to master,

They like a rock that is chipped, but we like a mist that disperses.

Then if Achilles, bound by an oath, bring peace to us, healing,

Bring to us respite, help, though bought at a price, yet full-measured,

Strengths of the North at our side and safety assured from the Achaian,

For he is true though a Greek, will you shun this mighty advantage?

Peace at least we shall have, though gold we lose and much glory;

Peace we will use for our strength to breathe in, our wounds to recover,

Teaching Time to prepare for happier wars in the future.

Pause ere you fling from you life; you are mortals, not gods in your glory.

Not for submission to new ally or to ancient foeman

Peace these desire; for who would exchange wide death for subjection?

Who would submit to a yoke? Or who shall rule Trojans in Troya?

Swords are there still at our sides, there are warriors' hearts in our bosoms.

Peace your senators welcome, not servitude, breathing they ask for.

But if for war you pronounce, if a noble death you have chosen,

That I approve. What fitter end for this warlike nation,

Knowing that empires at last must sink and perish all cities,

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Than to preserve to the end posterity's praise and its greatness

Ceasing in clangour of arms and a city's flames for our death-pyre?

Choose then with open eyes what the dread gods offer to Troya.

Hope not now Hector is dead and Sarpedon, Asia inconstant,

We but a handful, Troy can prevail over Greece and Achilles.

Play not with dreams in this hour, but sternly, like men and not children,

Choose with a noble and serious greatness fates fit for Troya.

Stark we will fight till buried we fall under Ilion's ruins,

Or, unappeased, we will curb our strength for the hope of the future."

Not without praise of his friends and assent of the thoughtfuller Trojans,

Halamus spoke and ceased. But now in the Ilian forum

Bright, of the sungod a ray, and even before he had spoken

Sending the joy of his brilliance into the hearts of his hearers,

Paris arose. Not applauded his rising, but each man towards him

Eagerly turned as if feeling that all before which was spoken

Were but a prelude and this was the note he has waited for always.

Sweet was his voice like a harp's, when it chants of war, and its cadence

Softened with touches of music thoughts that were hard to be suffered,

Sweet like a string that is lightly struck, but it penetrates wholly.

"Calm with the greatness you hold from your sires by the right of your nature

I too would have you decide before Heaven in the strength of your spirits,

Not to the past and its memories moored like the thoughts of Antenor

Hating the vivid march of the present, nor towards the future

Panting through dreams like my brother Laocoon vexed by Apollo.

Dead is the past; the void has possessed it; its drama is ended,

Finished its music. The future is dim and remote from our knowledge;

Silent it lies on the knees of the gods in their luminous stillness.

But to our gaze God's light is a darkness, His plan is a chaos.

Who shall foretell the event of a battle, the fall of a footstep?

Oracles, visions and prophecies voice but the dreams of the mortal,

And 'tis our spirit within is the Pythoness tortured in Delphi.

Heavenly voices to us are a silence, those colours a whiteness.

Neither the thought of the statesman prevails nor the dream of the prophet,

Whether one cry, Thus devise and thy heart shall be given its wanting,'

Vainly the other, The heavens have spoken; hear then their message.'

Who can point out the way of the gods and the path of their travel,

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Who shall impose on them bounds and an orbit? The winds have their treading, —

They can be followed and seized, not the gods when they move towards their purpose.

They are not bound by our deeds and our thinkings. Sin exalted

Seizes secure on the thrones of the world for her glorious portion,

Down to the bottomless pit the good man is thrust in his virtue.

Leave to the gods their godhead and, mortal, turn to thy labour;

Take what thou canst from the hour that is thine and be fearless in spirit;

This is the greatness of man and the joy of his stay in the sunlight.

Now whether over the waste of Poseidon the ships of the Argives

Empty and sad shall return or sacred Ilion perish,

Priam be slain and for ever cease this imperial nation,

These things the gods are strong to conceal from the hopings of mortals.

Neither Antenor knows nor Laocoon. Only of one thing

Man can be sure, the will in his heart and his strength in his purpose:

This too is Fate and this too the gods, nor the meanest in Heaven.

Paris keeps what he seized from Time and from Fate while unconquered

Life speeds warm through his veins and his heart is assured of the sunlight.

After 'tis cold, none heeds, none hinders. Not for the dead man

Earth and her wars and her cares, her joys and her gracious concessions,

Whether for ever he sleeps in the chambers of Nature unmindful

Or into wideness wakes like a dreamer called from his visions.

Ilion in flames I choose, not fallen from the heights of her spirit.

Great and free has she lived since they raised her twixt billow and mountain,

Great let her end; let her offer her freedom to fire, not the Hellene.

She was not founded by mortals; gods erected her ramparts,

Lifted her piles to the sky, a seat not for slaves but the mighty.

All men marvelled at Troy; by her deeds and her spirit they knew her

Even from afar, as the lion is known by his roar and his preying.

Sole she lived royal and fell, erect in her leonine nature.

So, O her children, still let her live unquelled in her purpose

Either to stand with your feet on the world oppressing the nations

Or in your ashes to lie and your name be forgotten for ever.

Justly your voices approve me, armipotent children of Ilus;

Straight from Zeus is our race and the Thunderer lives in our nature.

Long I have suffered this taunt that Paris was Ilion's ruin

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Born on a night of the gods and of Ate, clothed in a body.

Scornful I strode on my path secure of the light in my bosom,

Turned from the muttering voices of envy, their hates who are fallen,

Voices of hate that cling round the wheels of the triumphing victor;

Now if I speak, 'tis the strength in me answers, not to belittle,

That excusing which most I rejoice in and glory for ever,

Tyndaris' rape whom I seized by the will of divine Aphrodite.

Mortal this error that Greece would have slumbered apart in her mountains,

Sunk, by the trumpets of Fate unaroused and the morning within her,

Only were Paris unborn and the world had not gazed upon Helen.

Fools, who say that a spark was the cause of this giant destruction!

War would have stridden on Troy though Helen were still in her Sparta

Tending an Argive loom, not the glorious prize of the Trojans,

Greece would have banded her nations though Paris had drunk not Eurotas.

Coast against coast I set not, nor Ilion opposite Argos.

Phryx accuse who upreared Troy's domes by the azure Aegean,

Curse Poseidon who fringed with Greece the blue of his waters:

Then was this war first decreed and then Agamemnon was fashioned;

Armed he strode forth in the secret Thought that is womb of the future.

Fate and Necessity guided those vessels, captained their armies.

When they stood mailed at her gates, when they cried in the might of their union,

Troy, renounce thy alliances, draw back humbly from Hellas,'

Should she have hearkened persuading her strength to a shameful compliance,

Ilion queen of the world whose voice was the breath of the storm-gods?

Should she have drawn back her foot as it strode towards the hills of the Latins?

Thrace left bare to her foes, recoiled from Illyrian conquests?

If all this without battle were possible, people of Priam,

Blame then Paris, say then that Helen was cause of the struggle.

But I have sullied the hearth, I have trampled the gift and the guest-rite,

Heaven I have armed with my sin and unsealed the gaze of the Furies,

So was Troy doomed who righteous had triumphed, locked with the Argive.

Fools or hypocrites! Meanest falsehood is this among mortals,

Veils of purity weaving, names misplacing ideal

When our desires we disguise and paint the lusts of our nature.

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Men, ye are men in your pride and your strength, be not sophists and tonguesters.

Lie not! prate not that nations live by righteousness, justice

Shields them, gods out of heaven look down wroth on the crimes of the mighty!

Known have men what thing has screened itself mouthing these semblances. Crouching

Dire like a beast in the green of the thickets, selfishness silent

Crunches the bones of its prey while the priest and the statesman are glozing.

So are the nations soothed and deceived by the clerics of virtue,

Taught to reconcile fear of the gods with their lusts and their passions;

So with a lie on their lips they march to the rapine and slaughter.

Truly the vanquished were guilty! Else would their cities have perished,

Shrieked their ravished virgins, their peasants been hewn in the vineyards?

Truly the victors were tools of the gods and their glorious servants!

Else would the war-cars have ground triumphant their bones whom they hated?

Servants of God are they verily, even as the ape and the tiger.

Does not the wild-beast too triumph enjoying the flesh of his captives?

Tell us then what was the sin of the antelope, wherefore they doomed her,

Wroth at her many crimes? Come, justify God to his creatures!

Not to her sins was she offered, not to the Furies or Justice,

But to the strength of the lion the high gods offered a victim,

Force that is God in the lion's breast with the forest for altar.

What, in the cities stormed and sacked by Achilles in Troas

Was there no just man slain? Was Brises then a transgressor?

Hearts that were pierced in his walls, were they sinners tracked by the Furies?

No, they were pious and just and their altars burned for Apollo,

Reverent flamed up to Pallas who slew them aiding the Argives.

Or if the crime of Paris they shared and his doom has embraced them,

Whom had the island cities offended, stormed by the Locrian,

Wave-kissed homes of peace but given to the sack and the spoiler?

Was then King Atreus just and the house accursed of Pelops,

Tantalus' race, whose deeds men shuddering hear and are silent?

Look! they endure, their pillars are firm, they are regnant and triumph.

Or are Thyestean banquets sweet to the gods in their savour?

Only a woman's heart is pursued in their wrath by the Furies!

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