INTRODUCTION

Homer's "Iliad" begins towards the close of the last of the ten years of the Trojan War: its incidents extend over some fifty days only, and it ends with the burial of Hector. The things which came before and after were told by other bards, who between them narrated the whole "cycle" of the events of the war, and so were called the Cyclic Poets. Of their works none have survived; but the story of what befell between Hector's funeral and the taking of Troy is told in detail, and well told, in a poem about half as long as the "Iliad". Some four hundred years after Christ there lived at Smyrna a poet of whom we know scarce anything, save that his first name was Quintus. He had saturated himself with the spirit of Homer, he had caught the ring of his music, and he perhaps had before him the works of those Cyclic Poets whose stars had paled before the sun.

We have practically no external evidence as to the date or place of birth of Quintus of Smyrna, or for the sources whence he drew his materials. His date is approximately settled by two passages in the poem, viz. vi. 531 sqq., in which occurs an illustration drawn from the man-and-beast fights of the amphitheatre, which were suppressed by Theodosius I. (379-395 A.D.); and xiii. 335 sqq., which contains a prophecy, the special particularity of which, it is maintained by Koechly, limits its applicability to the middle of the fourth century A.D.

His place of birth, and the precise locality, is given by himself in xii. 308-313, and confirmatory evidence is afforded by his familiarity, of which he gives numerous instances, with many natural features of the western part of Asia Minor.

With respect to his authorities, and the use he made of their writings, there has been more difference of opinion. Since his narrative covers the same ground as the "Aethiopis" ("Coming of Memnon") and the "Iliupersis" ("Destruction of Troy") of Arctinus (circ. 776 B.C.), and the "Little Iliad" of Lesches (circ. 700 B.C.), it has been assumed that the work of Quintus "is little more than an amplification or remodelling of the works of these two Cyclic Poets." This, however, must needs be pure conjecture, as the only remains of these poets consist of fragments amounting to no more than a very few lines from each, and of the "summaries of contents" made by the grammarian Proclus (circ. 140 A.D.), which, again, we but get at second-hand through the "Bibliotheca" of Photius (ninth century). Now, not merely do the only descriptions of incident that are found in the fragments differ essentially from the corresponding incidents as described by Quintus, but even in the summaries, meagre as they are, we find, as German critics have shown by exhaustive investigation, serious

discrepancies enough to justify us in the conclusion that, even if Quintus had the works of the Cyclic poets before him, which is far from certain, his poem was no mere remodelling of theirs, but an independent and practically original work. Not that this conclusion disposes by any means of all difficulties. If Quintus did not follow the Cyclic poets, from what source did he draw his materials? The German critic unhesitatingly answers, "from Homer." As regards language, versification, and general spirit, the matter is beyond controversy; but when we come to consider the incidents of the story, we find deviations from Homer even more serious than any of those from the Cyclic poets. And the strange thing is, that each of these deviations is a manifest detriment to the perfection of his poem; in each of them the writer has missed, or has rejected, a magnificent opportunity. With regard to the slaying of Achilles by the hand of Apollo only, and not by those of Apollo and Paris, he might have pleaded that Homer himself here speaks with an uncertain voice (cf.

"Iliad" xv. 416-17, xxii. 355-60, and xxi. 277-78). But, in describing the fight for the body of Achilles ("Odyssey" xxiv. 36 sqq.), Homer makes Agamemnon say:

"So we grappled the livelong day, and we had not refrained us then, But Zeus sent a hurricane, stilling the storm of the battle of men."

Now, it is just in describing such natural phenomena, and in blending them with the turmoil of battle, that Quintus is in his element; yet for such a scene he substitutes what is, by comparison, a lame and impotent conclusion. Of that awful cry that rang over the sea heralding the coming of Thetis and the Nymphs to the death-rites of her son, and the panic with which it filled the host, Quintus is silent. Again, Homer ("Odyssey" iv. 274-89) describes how Helen came in the night with Deiphobus, and stood by the Wooden Horse, and called to each of the hidden warriors with the voice of his own wife. This thrilling scene Quintus omits, and substitutes nothing of his own. Later on, he makes Menelaus slay Deiphobus unresisting, "heavy with wine," whereas Homer ("Odyssey" viii. 517-20) makes him offer such a magnificent resistance, that Odysseus and Menelaus together could not kill him without the help of Athena. In fact, we may say that, though there are echoes of the "Iliad" all through the poem, yet, wherever Homer has, in the "Odyssey", given the

outline-sketch of an effective scene, Quintus has uniformly neglected to develop it, has sometimes substituted something much weaker—as though he had not the "Odyssey" before him!

For this we have no satisfactory explanation to offer. He may have set his own judgment above Homer—a most unlikely hypothesis: he may have been consistently following, in the framework of his story, some original now lost to us: there may be more, and longer, lacunae in the text than any editors have ventured to indicate: but, whatever theory we adopt, it must be based on mere conjecture.

The Greek text here given is that of Koechly (1850) with many of Zimmermann's emendations, which are acknowledged in the notes. Passages enclosed in square brackets are suggestions of Koechly for supplying the general sense of lacunae. Where he has made no such suggestion, or none that seemed to the editors to be adequate, the lacuna has been indicated by asterisks, though here too a few words have been added in the translation, sufficient to connect the sense.

—A. S. Way

CONTENTS

BOOK

I How died for Troy the Queen of the Amazons, Penthesileia. II How Memnon, Son of the Dawn, for Troy's sake fell in the Battle. III How by the shaft of a God laid low was Hero Achilles. IV How in the Funeral Games of Achilles heroes contended. V How the Arms of Achilles were cause of madness and death unto Aias. VI How came for the helping of Troy Eurypylus, Hercules' grandson. VII How the Son of Achilles was brought to the War from the Isle of Scyros. VIII How Hercules' Grandson perished in fight with the Son of Achilles. IX How from his long lone exile returned to the war Philoctetes. X How Paris was stricken to death, and in vain sought help of Oenone. XI How the sons of Troy for the last time fought from her walls and her towers. XII How the Wooden Horse was fashioned, and brought into Troy by her people. XIII How Troy in the night was taken and sacked with fire and slaughter. XIV How the conquerors sailed from Troy unto judgment of tempest and shipwreck.

BOOK I:

How died for Troy the Queen of the Amazons, Penthesileia.

When godlike Hector by Peleides slain Passed, and the pyre had ravined up his flesh, And earth had veiled his bones, the Trojans then Tarried in Priam's city, sore afraid Before the might of stout-heart Aeacus' son: As kine they were, that midst the copses shrink From faring forth to meet a lion grim, But in dense thickets terror-huddled cower; So in their fortress shivered these to see That mighty man. Of those already dead They thought of all whose lives he reft away As by Scamander's outfall on he rushed, And all that in mid-flight to that high wall He slew, how he quelled Hector, how he haled His corse round Troy;—yea, and of all beside Laid low by him since that first day whereon O'er restless seas he brought the Trojans doom. Ay, all these they remembered, while they stayed Thus in their town, and o'er them anguished grief Hovered dark-winged, as though that very day All Troy with shrieks were crumbling down in fire.

Then from Thermodon, from broad-sweeping streams, Came, clothed upon with beauty of Goddesses, Penthesileia—came athirst indeed For groan-resounding battle, but yet more Fleeing abhorred reproach and evil fame, Lest they of her own folk should rail on her Because of her own sister's death, for whom Ever her sorrows waxed, Hippolyte, Whom she had struck dead with her mighty spear, Not of her will—'twas at a stag she hurled. So came she to the far-famed land of Troy. Yea, and her warrior spirit pricked her on, Of murder's dread pollution thus to cleanse Her soul, and with such sacrifice to appease The Awful Ones, the Erinnyes, who in wrath For her slain sister straightway haunted her Unseen: for ever round the sinner's steps They hover; none may 'scape those Goddesses. And with her followed twelve beside, each one A princess, hot for war and battle grim, Far-famous each, yet handmaids unto her: Penthesileia far outshone them all. As when in the broad sky amidst the stars The moon rides over all pre-eminent, When through the thunderclouds the cleaving heavens

Open, when sleep the fury-breathing winds; So peerless was she mid that charging host. Clonie was there, Polemusa, Derinoe, Evandre, and Antandre, and Bremusa, Hippothoe, dark-eyed Harmothoe, Alcibie, Derimacheia, Antibrote, And Thermodosa glorying with the spear. All these to battle fared with warrior-souled Penthesileia: even as when descends Dawn from Olympus' crest of adamant, Dawn, heart-exultant in her radiant steeds Amidst the bright-haired Hours; and o'er them all, How flawless-fair soever these may be, Her splendour of beauty glows pre-eminent; So peerless amid all the Amazons Unto Troy-town Penthesileia came. To right, to left, from all sides hurrying thronged The Trojans, greatly marvelling, when they saw The tireless War-god's child, the mailed maid, Like to the Blessed Gods; for in her face Glowed beauty glorious and terrible. Her smile was ravishing: beneath her brows Her love-enkindling eyes shone like to stars, And with the crimson rose of shamefastness Bright were her cheeks, and mantled over them Unearthly grace with battle-prowess clad.

Then joyed Troy's folk, despite past agonies, As when, far-gazing from a height, the hinds Behold a rainbow spanning the wide sea, When they be yearning for the heaven-sent shower, When the parched fields be craving for the rain; Then the great sky at last is overgloomed, And men see that fair sign of coming wind And imminent rain, and seeing, they are glad, Who for their corn-fields' plight sore sighed before; Even so the sons of Troy when they beheld There in their land Penthesileia dread Afire for battle, were exceeding glad; For when the heart is thrilled with hope of good, All smart of evils past is wiped away: So, after all his sighing and his pain, Gladdened a little while was Priam's soul. As when a man who hath suffered many a pang From blinded eyes, sore longing to behold The light, and, if he may not, fain would die, Then at the last, by a cunning leech's skill, Or by a God's grace, sees the dawn-rose flush, Sees the mist rolled back from before his eyes,— Yea, though clear vision come not as of old, Yet, after all his anguish, joys to have

Some small relief, albeit the stings of pain Prick sharply yet beneath his eyelids;—so Joyed the old king to see that terrible queen— The shadowy joy of one in anguish whelmed For slain sons. Into his halls he led the Maid, And with glad welcome honoured her, as one Who greets a daughter to her home returned From a far country in the twentieth year; And set a feast before her, sumptuous As battle-glorious kings, who have brought low Nations of foes, array in splendour of pomp, With hearts in pride of victory triumphing. And gifts he gave her costly and fair to see, And pledged him to give many more, so she Would save the Trojans from the imminent doom. And she such deeds she promised as no man Had hoped for, even to lay Achilles low, To smite the wide host of the Argive men, And cast the brands red-flaming on the ships. Ah fool!—but little knew she him, the lord Of ashen spears, how far Achilles' might In warrior-wasting strife o'erpassed her own!

But when Andromache, the stately child Of king Eetion, heard the wild queen's vaunt, Low to her own soul bitterly murmured she: "Ah hapless! why with arrogant heart dost thou Speak such great swelling words? No strength is thine To grapple in fight with Peleus' aweless son. Nay, doom and swift death shall he deal to thee. Alas for thee! What madness thrills thy soul? Fate and the end of death stand hard by thee! Hector was mightier far to wield the spear Than thou, yet was for all his prowess slain, Slain for the bitter grief of Troy, whose folk The city through looked on him as a God. My glory and his noble parents' glory Was he while yet he lived—O that the earth Over my dead face had been mounded high, Or ever through his throat the breath of life Followed the cleaving spear! But now have I Looked—woe is me!—on grief unutterable, When round the city those fleet-footed steeds Haled him, steeds of Achilles, who had made Me widowed of mine hero-husband, made My portion bitterness through all my days."

So spake Eetion's lovely-ankled child Low to her own soul, thinking on her lord. So evermore the faithful-hearted wife Nurseth for her lost love undying grief.

Then in swift revolution sweeping round Into the Ocean's deep stream sank the sun, And daylight died. So when the banqueters Ceased from the wine-cup and the goodly feast, Then did the handmaids spread in Priam's halls For Penthesileia dauntless-souled the couch Heart-cheering, and she laid her down to rest; And slumber mist-like overveiled her eyes [depths Like sweet dew dropping round. From heavens' blue Slid down the might of a deceitful dream At Pallas' hest, that so the warrior-maid Might see it, and become a curse to Troy And to herself, when strained her soul to meet; The whirlwind of the battle. In this wise The Trito-born, the subtle-souled, contrived: Stood o'er the maiden's head that baleful dream In likeness of her father, kindling her Fearlessly front to front to meet in fight Fleetfoot Achilles. And she heard the voice, And all her heart exulted, for she weened That she should on that dawning day achieve A mighty deed in battle's deadly toil Ah, fool, who trusted for her sorrow a dream Out of the sunless land, such as beguiles

Full oft the travail-burdened tribes of men, Whispering mocking lies in sleeping ears, And to the battle's travail lured her then!

But when the Dawn, the rosy-ankled, leapt Up from her bed, then, clad in mighty strength Of spirit, suddenly from her couch uprose Penthesileia. Then did she array Her shoulders in those wondrous-fashioned arms Given her of the War-god. First she laid Beneath her silver-gleaming knees the greaves Fashioned of gold, close-clipping the strong limbs. Her rainbow-radiant corslet clasped she then About her, and around her shoulders slung, With glory in her heart, the massy brand Whose shining length was in a scabbard sheathed Of ivory and silver. Next, her shield Unearthly splendid, caught she up, whose rim Swelled like the young moon's arching chariot-rail When high o'er Ocean's fathomless-flowing stream She rises, with the space half filled with light Betwixt her bowing horns. So did it shine Unutterably fair. Then on her head She settled the bright helmet overstreamed With a wild mane of golden-glistering hairs. So stood she, lapped about with flaming mail, In semblance like the lightning, which the might, The never-wearied might of Zeus, to earth

Hurleth, what time he showeth forth to men Fury of thunderous-roaring rain, or swoop Resistless of his shouting host of winds. Then in hot haste forth of her bower to pass Caught she two javelins in the hand that grasped Her shield-band; but her strong right hand laid hold On a huge halberd, sharp of either blade, Which terrible Eris gave to Ares' child To be her Titan weapon in the strife That raveneth souls of men. Laughing for glee Thereover, swiftly flashed she forth the ring Of towers. Her coming kindled all the sons Of Troy to rush into the battle forth Which crowneth men with glory. Swiftly all Hearkened her gathering-ery, and thronging came, Champions, yea, even such as theretofore Shrank back from standing in the ranks of war Against Achilles the all-ravager. But she in pride of triumph on she rode Throned on a goodly steed and fleet, the gift Of Oreithyia, the wild North-wind's bride, Given to her guest the warrior-maid, what time She came to Thrace, a steed whose flying feet Could match the Harpies' wings. Riding thereon Penthesileia in her goodlihead

Left the tall palaces of Troy behind. And ever were the ghastly-visaged Fates Thrusting her on into the battle, doomed To be her first against the Greeks—and last! To right, to left, with unreturning feet The Trojan thousands followed to the fray, The pitiless fray, that death-doomed warrior-maid, Followed in throngs, as follow sheep the ram That by the shepherd's art strides before all. So followed they, with battle-fury filled, Strong Trojans and wild-hearted Amazons. And like Tritonis seemed she, as she went To meet the Giants, or as flasheth far Through war-hosts Eris, waker of onset-shouts. So mighty in the Trojans' midst she seemed, Penthesileia of the flying feet.

Then unto Cronos' Son Laomedon's child Upraised his hands, his sorrow-burdened hands, Turning him toward the sky-encountering fane Of Zeus of Ida, who with sleepless eyes Looks ever down on Ilium; and he prayed: "Father, give ear! Vouchsafe that on this day Achaea's host may fall before the hands Of this our warrior-queen, the War-god's child; And do thou bring her back unscathed again Unto mine halls: we pray thee by the love Thou bear'st to Ares of the fiery heart Thy son, yea, to her also! is she not Most wondrous like the heavenly Goddesses? And is she not the child of thine own seed? Pity my stricken heart withal! Thou know'st All agonies I have suffered in the deaths Of dear sons whom the Fates have torn from me By Argive hands in the devouring fight. Compassionate us, while a remnant yet Remains of noble Dardanus' blood, while yet This city stands unwasted! Let us know From ghastly slaughter and strife one breathing-space!"

In passionate prayer he spake:—lo, with shrill scream Swiftly to left an eagle darted by And in his talons bare a gasping dove. Then round the heart of Priam all the blood Was chilled with fear. Low to his soul he said: "Ne'er shall I see return alive from war Penthesileia!" On that selfsame day The Fates prepared his boding to fulfil; And his heart brake with anguish of despair.

Marvelled the Argives, far across the plain Seeing the hosts of Troy charge down on them, And midst them Penthesileia, Ares' child. These seemed like ravening beasts that mid the hills Bring grimly slaughter to the fleecy flocks; And she, as a rushing blast of flame she seemed That maddeneth through the copses summer-scorched, When the wind drives it on; and in this wise Spake one to other in their mustering host: "Who shall this be who thus can rouse to war The Trojans, now that Hector hath been slain— These who, we said, would never more find heart To stand against us? Lo now, suddenly Forth are they rushing, madly afire for fight! Sure, in their midst some great one kindleth them To battle's toil! Thou verily wouldst say This were a God, of such great deeds he dreams! Go to, with aweless courage let us arm Our own breasts: let us summon up our might In battle-fury. We shall lack not help Of Gods this day to close in fight with Troy."