Passages from The Iliad

He has no comfort to give her except the shape of what is coming.

So speaking, to the arms of his dear spouseHe gave the boy; she on her fragrant breastReceived him, weeping as she smiled. The chiefBeheld, and, moved with tender pity, smoothedHer forehead gently with his hand and said:—“Sorrow not thus, beloved one, for me.No living man can send me to the shadesBefore my time; no man of woman born,Coward or brave, can shun his destiny.But go thou home, and tend thy labors there—The web, the distaff—and command thy maidsTo speed the work: The cares of war pertainTo all men born in Troy, and most to me.”

A father reaches for his son, still dressed for killing.

So speaking, mighty Hector stretched his armsTo take the boy; the boy shrank crying backTo his fair nurse’s bosom, scared to seeHis father helmeted in glittering brass,And eying with affright the horse-hair plumeThat grimly nodded from the lofty crest.At this both parents in their fondness laughed;And hastily the mighty Hector tookThe helmet from his brow and laid it downGleaming upon the ground, and, having kissedHis darling son and tossed him up in play,Prayed thus to Jove and all the gods of heaven:

The poem stops the battle for a man you have never heard of.

He spake, and sent another arrow forthAt Hector with an eager aim. It missedIts mark, but struck Gorgythion down, the braveAnd blameless son of Priam; through his breastThe arrow went. Fair Castianira broughtThe warrior forth—a dame from Aesyma,Beautiful as a goddess. As withinA garden droops a poppy to the ground,Bowed by its weight and by the rains of spring,So drooped his head within the heavy casque.

A thousand fires on the plain, each one a man waiting for morning.

So, high in hope, they sat the whole night throughIn warlike lines, and many watch-fires blazed.As when in heaven the stars look brightly forthRound the clear-shining moon, while not a breezeStirs in the depths of air, and all the starsAre seen, and gladness fills the shepherd’s heart,So many fires in sight of Ilium blazed,Lit by the sons of Troy, between the shipsAnd eddying Xanthus: on the plain there shoneA thousand; fifty warriors by each fireSat in its light. Their steeds beside the cars—Champing their oats and their white barley—stood,And waited for the golden morn to rise.

Two armies advance on each other, and only one of them makes a sound.

Now when both armies were arrayed for war,Each with its chiefs, the Trojan host moved onWith shouts and clang of arms, as when the cryOf cranes is in the air, that, flying southFrom winter and its mighty breadth of rain,Wing their way over ocean, and at dawnBring fearful battle to the pygmy race,Bloodshed and death. But silently the GreeksWent forward, breathing valor, mindful stillTo aid each other in the coming fray.

He will wait for the fire to reach his own tent.

Mine swells with indignation when I thinkHow King Atrides mid the assembled GreeksHeaped insults on me, as if I had beenA wretched vagabond. But go ye nowAnd bear my message. I shall never thinkOf bloody war till noble Hector, sonOf Priam, slaughtering in his way the Greeks,Shall reach the galleys of the Myrmidons,To lay the fleet in flames. But when he comesTo my own tent and galley, he, I think,Though eager for the combat, will desist.”

The armour forged for a killer is engraved with a harvest and a song.

A vineyard also on the shield he graved,Beautiful, all of gold, and heavilyLaden with grapes. Black were the clusters all;The vines were stayed on rows of silver stakes.He drew a blue trench round it, and a hedgeOf tin. One only path there was by whichThe vintagers could go to gather grapes.Young maids and striplings of a tender ageBore the sweet fruit in baskets. Midst them all,A youth from his shrill harp drew pleasant sounds,And sang with soft voice to the murmuring strings.They danced around him, beating with quick feetThe ground, and sang and shouted joyously.

The poet admits, before he starts, that he cannot do it alone.

O Muses, goddesses who dwell on high,Tell me—for all things ye behold and know,While we know nothing and may only hearThe random tales of rumor—tell me whoWere chiefs and princes of the Greeks; for IShould fail to number and to name them all—Had I ten tongues, ten throats, a voice unaptTo weary, uttered from a heart of brass—Unless the Muses aided me. I nowWill sing of the commanders and the ships.