SING, O daughter of heaven, of Peleus’ son, of Achilles, Him whose terrible wrath brought thousand woes on Achaia. Many a stalwart soul did it hurl untimely to Hades, Souls of the heroes of old: and their bones lay strown on the sea-sands, Prey to the vulture and dog. Yet was Zeus fulfilling a purpose; Since that far-off day, when in hot strife parted asunder Atreus’ sceptred son, and the chos’n of heaven, Achilles. Say then, which of the Gods bid arise up battle between them? Zeus’s and Leto’s son. With the king was kindled his anger: Then went sickness abroad, and the people died of the sickness: For that of Atreus’ son had his priest been lightly entreated, Chryses, Apollo’s priest. For he came to the ships of Achaia, Bearing a daughter’s ransom, a sum not easy to number: And in his hand was the emblem of Him, far-darting Apollo, High on a sceptre of gold: and he made his prayer to the Grecians; Chiefly to Atreus’ sons, twin chieftains, ordering armies “Chiefs sprung of Atreus’ loins; and ye, brazen-greavèd Achaians! So may the Gods this day, the Olympus-palacèd, grant you Priam’s city to raze, and return unscathed to your homesteads: Only my own dear daughter I ask; take ransom and yield her, Rev’rencing His great name, son of Zeus, far-darting Apollo.” Then from the host of Achaians arose tumultuous answer: “Due to the priest is his honour; accept rich ransom and yield her.” But there was war in the spirit of Atreus’ son, Agamemnon; Disdainful he dismissed him, a right stern fiat appending:— “Woe be to thee, old man, if I find thee lingering longer, Yea or returning again, by the hollow ships of Achaians! Scarce much then will avail thee the great god’s sceptre and emblem. Her will I never release. Old age must first come upon her, In my own home, yea in Argos, afar from the land of her fathers, Following the loom and attending upon my bed. But avaunt thee! Go, and provoke not me, that thy way may be haply securer.” These were the words of the king, and the old man feared and obeyed him: Voiceless he went by the shore of the great dull-echoing ocean, Thither he got him apart, that ancient man; and a long prayer Prayed to Apollo his Lord, son of golden-ringleted Leto. “Lord of the silver bow, whose arm girds Chryse and Cilla,— Cilla, loved of the Gods,—and in might sways Tenedos, hearken! Oh! if, in days gone by, I have built from floor unto cornice, Smintheus, a fair shrine for thee; or burned in the flames of the altar Fat flesh of bulls and of goats; then do this thing that I ask thee: Hurl on the Greeks thy shafts, that thy servant’s tears be avengèd!” So did he pray, and his prayer reached the ears of Phoebus Apollo. Dark was the soul of the god as he moved from the heights of Olympus, Shouldering a bow, and a quiver on this side fast and on that side. Onward in anger he moved. And the arrows, stirred by the motion, Rattled and rang on his shoulder: he came, as cometh the midnight. Hard by the ships he stayed him, and loosed one shaft from the bow-string; Harshly the stretched string twanged of the bow all silvery-shining; First fell his wrath on the mules, and the swift-footed hound of the herdsman; Afterward smote he the host. With a rankling arrow he smote them Aye; and the morn and the even were red with the glare of the corpse-fires. Nine days over the host sped the shafts of the god: and the tenth day Dawned; and Achilles said, “Be a council called of the people.” (Such thought came to his mind from the goddess, Hera the white-armed, Hera who loved those Greeks, and who saw them dying around her.) So when all were collected and ranged in a solemn assembly, Straightway rose up amidst them and spake swift-footed Achilles:— “Atreus’ son! it were better, I think this day, that we wandered Back, re-seeking our homes, (if a warfare _may_ be avoided); Now when the sword and the plague, these two things, fight with Achaians. Come, let us seek out now some priest, some seer amongst us, Yea or a dreamer of dreams—for a dream too cometh of God’s hand— Whence we may learn what hath angered in this wise Phoebus Apollo. Whether mayhap he reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered; Whether, accepting the incense of lambs and of blemishless he-goats, Yet it be his high will to remove this misery from us.” Down sat the prince: he had spoken. And uprose to them in answer Kalchas Thestor’s son, high chief of the host of the augurs. Well he knew what is present, what will be, and what was aforetime; He into Ilion’s harbour had led those ships of Achaia, All by the Power of the Art, which he gained from Phoebus Apollo.