Till, fafe at diftance, to his God he prays,
The God who darts around the world his rays.
O Smintheus! sprung from fair Latona's line,
Thou guardian power of Cilla the divine,
Thou fource of light! who Tenedos adores,
And whofe bright prefence gilds thy Chryfa's fhore:
If e'er with wreaths I hung thy facred fane,
Or fed the flames with fat of oxen flain;
God of the filver bow! thy fhafts employ,
Avenge thy fervant, and the Greeks destroy.
Thus Chryfes pray'd: The favouring power attends,
And from Olympus' lofty tops descends.
Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to wound 3
Fierce as he mov'd, his filver fhafts refound.
Breathing revenge, a sudden night he spread,
And gloomy darkness roll❜d about his head.
The fleet in view, he twang'd his deadly bow,
And hiffing fly the feather'd fates below,
On mules and dogs th' infection first began;
And last, the vengeful arrows fix'd in man.
For nine long nights through all the dusky air
The pyres thick-flaming shot a dismal glare.
But ere the tenth revolving day was run,
Infpir'd by Juno, Thetis' god-like fon
Conven'd to council all the Grecian train;
For much the Goddefs mourn'd her heroes flain.
Th' affembly feated, rifing o'er the rest,
Achilles thus the king of men addreft:
Why leave we not the fatal Trojan shore,
And measure back the seas we croft before ?
The plague destroying whom the sword would spare,
'Tis time to fave the few remains of war.
But let fome prophet, or fome facred fage,
Explore the cause of great Apollo's rage;
Or learn the wasteful vengeance to remove,
By myftic dreams, for dreams defcend from Jove.
If broken vows this heavy curse have laid,
Let altars fmoke, and hecatombs be paid.
So Heaven aton'd fhall dying Greece restore,
And Phoebus dart his burning fhafts no more.
He faid, and fat: when Chalcas thus reply'd :
Chalcas the wife, the Grecian priest and guide,
That facred feer, whofe comprehenfive view
The paft, the present, and the future knew :
Uprising flow, the venerable fage
Thus fpoke the prudence and the fears of age.
Belov'd of Jove, Achilles! would'st thou know
Why angry Phoebus bends his fatal bow?
First give thy faith, and plight a prince's word
Of fure protection, by thy power and sword.
For I muft fpeak what wisdom would conceal,
And truths, invidious to the great, reveal.
Bold is the tafk, when fubjects, grown too wife,
Inftruct a monarch where his error lies;
For though we deem the short-liv'd fury past,
'Tis fure, the Mighty will revenge at last.
To whom Pelides: From thy inmost foul
Speak what thou know'st, and speak without control.
Ev'n by that God I fwear, who rules the day,
To whom thy hands the vows of Greece convey,
And whose 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 hofts are led,
The king of kings, fhall 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 peft,
Apollo's vengeance for his injur'd priest,
Nor will the gods awaken'd fury ceafe.
But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,
Till the great king, without a ransom paid,
To her own Chryfa fend 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 fhining 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 mischiefs still,
Prophet of plagues, for ever boding ill!
Still muft 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 stain'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 first 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 caufe of all,
And suffer, rather than my people fall.
The prize, the beauteous prize, I will refign,
So dearly valued, and so justly 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't thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield,
The due reward of many a well-fought field?
The spoils of cities raz'd, and warriours flain,
We share with juftice, as with toil we gain :
But to refume whate'er thy avarice craves,
(That trick of tyrants) may be borne by faves.
Yet if our chief for plunder only fight,
The spoils of Ilion fhall 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 poffeft 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 reftore the maid ?
First let the just equivalent be paid;
Such as a king might ask; and let it be
A treasure worthy her, and worthy me.
Or grant me this, or with a monarch's claim,
This hand shall feize some other captive dame.
The mighty Ajax fhall his prize refign,
Ulyffes' spoils, or ev'n thy own be mine.
The man who suffers, 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.
Saon fhall the fair the fable fhip afcend,
And fome deputed prince the charge attend ;
This Creta's king, or Ajax fhall fulfill,
Or wife Ulyffes fee perform'd our will i
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 peft affuage.
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 distant Trojans never injur'd me:
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