The Isle of Achilles (From the Greek)

Τὁν φἱλτατὁν σοι παἱδ' ἑμοἱ τ', Ἁχιλλἑαὑψει δὑμους ναἱοντα νησιωτικοὑςΔευκἡν κατ' ἁκτἡν ἑντὁς Εὑξεἱνου πὁρου.

Voyaging northwards by the western strandOf the Euxine sea we came to where the landSinks low in salt morass and wooded plain:Here mighty Ister pushes to the main,Forking his turbid flood in channels threeTo plough the sands wherewith he chokes the sea.

Against his middle arm, not many a mileIn the offing of black water is the isleNamed of Achilles, or as Leukê known,Which tender Thetis, counselling aloneWith her wise sire beneath the ocean-waveUnto her child's departed spirit gave,Where he might still his love and fame enjoy,Through the vain Danaan cause fordone at Troy.Thither Achilles passed, and long fulfill'dHis earthly lot, as the high gods had will'd,Far from the rivalries of men, from strife,From arms, from woman's love and toil of life.Now of his lone abode I will unfoldWhat there I saw, or was by others told.

There is in truth a temple on the isle;Therein a wooden statue of rude styleAnd workmanship antique with helm of lead:Else all is desert, uninhabited;Only a few goats browse the wind-swept rocks,And oft the stragglers of their starving flocksAre caught and sacrificed by whomsoe'er,Whoever of chance or purpose hither fare:About the fence lie strewn their bleaching bones.

But in the temple jewels and precious stones,Upheapt with golden rings and vials lie,Thankofferings to Achilles, and thereby,Written or scratch'd upon the walls in view,Inscriptions, with the givers' names thereto,Some in Romaic character, some Greek,As each man in the tongue that he might speakWrote verse of praise, or prayer for good to come,To Achilles most, but to Patroclus some;For those who strongly would Achilles moveApproach him by the pathway of his love.

Thousands of birds frequent the sheltering shrine,The dippers and the swimmers of the brine,Sea-mew and gull and diving cormorant,Fishers that on the high cliff make their hauntSheer inaccessible, and sun themselvesHuddled arow upon the narrow shelves:--And surely no like wonder e'er hath beenAs that such birds should keep the temple clean;But thus they do: at earliest dawn of dayThey flock to sea and in the waters play,And when they well have wet their plumage light,Back to the sanctuary they take flightSplashing the walls and columns with fresh brine,Till all the stone doth fairly drip and shine,When off again they skim asea for moreAnd soon returning sprinkle steps and floor,And sweep all cleanly with their wide-spread wings.

From other men I have learnt further things.If any of free purpose, thus they tell,Sail'd hither to consult the oracle,--For oracle there was,--they sacrificedSuch victims as they brought, if such sufficed,And some they slew, some to the god set free:But they who driven from their course at seaChanced on the isle, took of the goats thereonAnd pray'd Achilles to accept his own.Then made they a gift, and when they had offer'd once,If to their question there was no response,They added to the gift and asked again;Yea twice and more, until the god should deignAnswer to give, their offering they renew'd;Whereby great riches to the shrine ensued.And when both sacrifice and gifts were madeThey worship'd at the shrine, and as they pray'dSailors aver that often hath been seenA man like to a god, of warrior mien,A beauteous form of figure swift and strong;Down on his shoulders his light hair hung longAnd his full armour was enchast with gold:While some, who with their eyes might nought behold,Say that with music strange the air was stir'd;And some there are, who have both seen and heard:And if a man wish to be favour'd more,He need but spend one night upon the shore;To him in sleep Achilles will appearAnd lead him to his tent, and with good cheerShow him all friendliness that men desire;Patroclus pours the wine, and he his lyreTakes from the pole and plays the strains thereonWhich Cheiron taught him first on Pelion.

These things I tell as they were told to me,Nor do I question but it well may be:For sure I am that, if man ever was,Achilles was a hero, both becauseOf his high birth and beauty, his country's call,His valour of soul, his early death withal,For Homer's praise, the crown of human art;And that above all praise he had at heartA gentler passion in her sovran sway,And when his love died threw his life away.

Bright, my belovèd, be thy day,This eve of Summer's fall:And Autumn mass his flowers gayTo crown thy festival!