Sing, goddess, the deadly wrath of Achilles son of Peleus, That brought countless woes for the Achaeans, and sent forth many strong souls of heroes to Hades, making they themselves spoils for dogs and feasts for birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished,
from that time when first they were set apart in strife, both the son of Atreus, lord of men, and god-like Achilles. And who of the gods brought together these two in quarrel to fight? The son of Leto and Zeus; for he, having been angered
with the king, let loose an evil plague upon the army, and people began to be killed, because the son of Atreus dishonored the priest Chryses. For he came to the swift ships of the Achaeans bearing countless ransoms to release his daughter, holding wreaths of far-shooting Apollo in his hands
on a golden staff, and he beseeched all the Achaeans, but above all the two sons of Atreus, commanders of the people, "Sons of Atreus and all other well-greaved Achaeans, to you may the gods who have their homes on Olympus grant the sacking of the city of Priam, and to come home safely;
but release my dear daughter to me, and let the ransoms be accepted standing in awe of the son of Zeus, far-shooting Apollo." Then, all the rest of the Achaeans assented with a shout of applause both to reverence the priest and to accept the ransoms; yet this was not pleasing to the soul for Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
but he discharged him harshly and enjoined upon him a mighty threat, "Let me not, old man, come upon you beside the hollow ships, either loitering now or being back again later, surely your staff and wreath of the god shall not protect you; but her I will not release, before old age overtakes her
in our home in Argos, far from her native land, and she goes to the loom and shares my bed. But go; do not anger me, in order that you may return more safely." So he spoke, and the old man feared him and obeyed the command. And he walked in silence along the shore of the loud-roaring sea.
Thereupon, having gone far away, he began to pray to lord Apollo, whom fair-haired Leto bore: "Hear me, one with the silver bow, who guards Chrysa and holy Cilla, and rules Tenedos mightily, Smintheus, if ever I roofed over a beautiful temple for you,
or if ever I burned to you fat thigh-bones of bulls and goats, fulfill this wish for me: Let the Danaans pay my price with your arrows" So he spoke in prayer, and Phoebus Apollo heard him, And he walked down from the peaks of Olympus, his heart angered,
holding a bow at his shoulders and a covered quiver. And the arrows clanged upon his shoulders enraged, he went; and who was going like the night. Then, he sat far from the ships, and sent an arrow into their midst; and terrible was the shriek of the silver bow.
At first, he sent against mules and swift dogs, but then, hurling a sharp arrow on the men themselves, he began to shoot; and the pyres burned ever thick from corpses. For nine days, the arrows of the god came upon the army, but on the tenth day, Achilles summoned the people to assembly;
for the white-armed goddess Hera placed it on his heart; for she was grieving for the Danaans, because she saw them dying. And when the men were then gathered and assembled, among them swift-footed Achilles being raised up began to speak; "Son of Atreus, as it is now, we will, having again been beaten back, I believe,
return home, should we flee death at least, and even then, together both war and pestilence will overcome the Achaeans. But come then, we will find some seer, whether priest or even dreamer of dreams, for the dream is also from Zeus, who might even say why Phoebus Apollo has been angered so much,
whether he indeed finds fault with a prayer or a hecatomb, in the hope that somehow from the savor of unblemished lambs and goats he is willing to come ward off ruin from us." Indeed, having said that, he sat down straightaway, and raised up from them was Calchas, son of Thestor, far best of the bird-interpreters,
who knew the things that are, and the things that will be, and were before, and who guided the ships of the Achaeans to Ilios by means of his own gift of prophecy that Phoebus Apollo granted him. He, being well disposed, addressed the assembly and spoke: "Achilles, dear to Zeus, you urge me to declare
the wrath of Apollo, far-shooting lord; therefore, I will speak, but understand and swear to zealously succor me with word and deed. For I think I will surely anger a man who rules mightily over all of the Argives and whom the Achaeans obey.
For mightier is the king, when he is angered at an inferior man. Because even if he digests down his rage on that same day, yet afterwards he still holds a grudge, until he brings it to fulfillment in his own breast. But consider if you shall protect me."
The Iliad centers around a certain scene in the last year of the war, namely the wrath of Achilles, and the resulting consequences (with many sidetracks and secondary plots).
The poem was finally put to writing in 6th century BC Athens.
The Iliad became one of the milestones and bases of Greek literature and culture in particular, and western literature and culture in general.
Rendered into English Prose for the use of those who cannot read the original
by Samuel Butler
Contents:
Rage: Sing, Goddess, Achilles' rage, Black and murderous, that cost the Greeks Incalculable pain, pitched countless souls Of heroes into Hades' dark, And left their bodies to rot as feasts For dogs and birds, as Zeus' will was done. Begin with the clash between Agamemnon- The Greek warlord-and godlike Achilles Which of the immortals set these two at each other's throats? Apollo Zeus' son and Leto's, offended By the warlord. Agamemnon had dishonored Chryses, Apollo's priest, so the god Struck the Greek camp with plague, And the soldiers were dying of it. Chryses Had come to the Greek beachhead camp Hauling a fortune for his daughter's ransom. Displaying Apollo's sacral ribbons On a golden staff, he made a formal plea To the entire Greek army, but especially The commanders, Atreus' two sons: "Sons of Atreus and Greek heroes all: May the gods on Olympus grant you plunder Of Priam's city and a safe return home. But give me my daughter back and accept This ransom out of respect for Zeus' son, Lord Apollo, who deals death from afar." A murmur rippled through the ranks: "Respect the priest and take the ransom." But Agamemnon was not pleased And dismissed Chryses with a rough speech: "Don't let me ever catch you, old man, by these ships again, Skulking around now or sneaking back later. The god's staff and ribbons won't save you next time. The girl is mine, and she'll be an old woman in Argos Before I let her go, working the loom in my house And coming to my bed, far from her homeland. Now clear out of here before you make me angry" The old man was afraid and he did as he was told. He walked in silence along the whispering surf line, And when he had gone some distance the priest Prayed to Lord Apollo, son of the silken-haired Leto: "Hear me, Silverbow, Protector of Chryse, Lord of Holy Cilla, Master of Tenedos, And Sminthian God of Plague! If ever I've built a temple that pleased you Or burnt far thighbones of bulls and goats- Grant me this prayer: Let the Danaans pay for my tears with your arrows." Apollo heard his prayer and descended Olympus' crags Pulsing with fury, bow slung over one shoulder, The arrows rattling in their case on his back As the angry god moved like night down the mountain. He settled near the ships and let loose an arrow. Reverberation from his silver bow hung in the air. He picked off the pack animals first, and the lean hounds, But then aimed his needle-tipped arrows at the men And shot until the death-fires crowded the beach. Nine days the god's arrows rained death on the camp. On the tenth day Achilles called an assembly. Hera, the white-armed goddess, planted the thought in him Because she cared for the Greeks and it pained her To see them dying. When the troops had all mustered, Up stood the great runner Achilles, and said: "Well, Agamemnon, it looks as if we'd better give up And sail home-assuming any of us are left alive- If we have to fight both the war and this plague. But why not consult some prophet or priest Or a dream interpreter, since dreams too come from Zeus, Who could tell us why Apollo is so angry, If it's for a vow or a sacrifice he holds us at fault. Maybe he'd be willing to lift this plague from us If he savored the smoke from lambs and prime goats." Achilles had his say and sat down. Then up rose Calchas, son of Thestor, bird-reader supreme, Who knew what is, what will be, and what has been. He had guided the Greek ships to Troy Through the prophetic power Apollo Had given him, and he spoke out now: "Achilles, beloved of Zeus, you want me to tell you About the rage of Lord Apollo, the Arch-Destroyer. And I will tell you. But you have to promise me and swear You will support me and protect me in word and deed I have a feeling I might offend a person of some authority Among the Greeks, and you know how it is when a king Is angry with an underling. He might swallow his temper For a day, but he holds it in his heart until later And it all comes out. Will you guarantee my security?" Achilles the great runner, responded: "Don't worry. Prophesy to the best of your knowledge. I swear by Apollo, to whom you pray when you reveal The gods' secrets to the Greeks, Calchas, that while I live And look upon this earth, no one will lay a hand On you here beside these hollow ships, no, not even Agamemnon, who boasts he is the best of the Achaeans." And Calchas, the perfect prophet, taking courage: "The god finds no fault with vow or sacrifice. It is for his priest, whom Agamemnon dishonored And would not allow to ransom his daughter, That Apollo deals and will deal death from afar. He will not lift this foul plague from the Greeks Until we return the dancing-eyed girl to her father Unransomed, unbought, and make formal sacrifice On Chryse. Only then might we appease the god." He finished speaking and sat down. Then up rose Atreus' son, the warlord Agamemnon, Furious, anger like twin black thunderheads seething In his lungs, and his eyes flickered with fire As he looked Calchas up and down, and said: "You damn soothsayer! You've never given me a good omen yet. You take some kind of perverse pleasure in prophesying Doom, don't you? Not a single favorable omen ever! Nothing good ever happens! And now you stand here Uttering oracles before the Greeks, telling us That your great ballistic god is giving us all this trouble Because I was unwilling to accept the ransom For Chryses' daughter but preferred instead to keep her In my tent! And why shouldn't I? I like her better than My wife Clytemnestra. She's no worse than her When it comes to looks, body, mind, or ability. Still, I'll give her back, if that's what's best. I don't want to see the army destroyed like this. But I want another prize ready for me right away. I'm not going to be the only Greek without a prize, It wouldn't be right. And you all see where mine is going." And Achilles, strong, swift, and godlike: "And where do you think, son of Atreus, You greedy glory-hound, the magnanimous Greeks Are going to get another prize for you? Do you think we have some kind of stockpile in reserve? Every town in the area has been sacked and the stuff all divided. You want the men to count it all back and redistribute it? All right, you give the girl back to the god. The army Will repay you three and four times over-when and if Zeus allows us to rip Troy down to its foundations." The warlord Agamemnon responded: "You may be a good man in a fight, Achilles, And look like a god, but don't try to put one over on me- It won't work. So while you have your prize, You want me to sit tight and do without? Give the girl back, just like that? Now maybe If the army, in a generous spirit, voted me Some suitable prize of their own choice, something fair- But if it doesn't, I'll just go take something myself, Your prize, perhaps, or Ajax's, or Odysseus', And whoever she belongs to, it'll stick in his throat. But we can think about this later..." The Iliad by Homer translated by Stanley Lombardo
Rage: Sing, Marge, of Bart's rage, Black and really not-light, that cause of the Springfieldians Incalculable annoyance, pitched by countless pranks Against the neighbors unto Hades' dark, And left their egged houses to rot stinkily For dogs and cats to pee on, as Bart's will was done. Begin with the clash between Ned Flanders- The okily-dokily warlord-and coollike Bart. Which of the immortals set these two at each other's throats? Moe Bar owner and stinky freak, offended By the prank phone calls. Moe had dishonored Lisa, Bart's sister, so the bartender Struck the Simpson home with a plague, Such that no pork chop were ever too succulent, nor donut ever ventured. Mmmm, donuts... Santa's Little Helper Had come to the Simpsons homey camp Hauling a fortune of old bones and crap. Displaying Homer's sacrificial shredded sneakers On a grass-free lawn, he made a formal plea To the entire Flanders household, but especially The wife and their two sons: "Bark bark bark bark. Bark bark bark bark. Bark bark bark Woo-oooo bark. Bark bark bark bark." A murmur rippled through the Flanders': "Respect our sleep and take the dog to obedience school." But Bart was not pleased And dismissed the Flanderseses with a rough speech: "Don't have a cow, man." The old man was afraid and he did as he was told. He walked in silence along the whispering property line, And when he had gone some distance from the brat Prayed to the Lord, thusly: "Hear me, Oh Lord, Protector of mankind, Lord of Holy Moly, Master of Masters, And God of all Flanders! If ever I've prayed that pleased you Or avoided fat thighbones of Milla Jovovich- Grant me this prayer: Let the the Simpsons pay for my tears with your donut pestilence!" Reverend Lovejoy sayeth on the other end of the cellphone, "Fuck off, Flanders, my wife is ovulating!" But Bleeding Gums Murphy heard his prayer and descended Olympus' crags Playing the sax, pulsing with fury, The windowss rattling in their casements As the angry musician moved like night down the heavens. He settled near the Quick E Mart and let loose a note. Reverberation from his silver sax hung in the air. He picked off the customers first, and the lean delivery men, But then aimed his sonic-tipped arrows at Apu And blew until Apu finally gave him a squishy and a tofu dog. Meanwhile, back at the ranch... For nine days Ned Flanders fury built o'er On the tenth day he called an assembly. Mrs. Flanders, the white-armed maiden, planted the thought in him Because she cared for the neighborhood and it pained her To see them suffering. When the Ned's troops had all mustered, Up stood the head Flanders, and he said: "Well, gosh golly gee whiz, it looks as if we'd better give up And sell the home-assuming any of us are left alive- If we have to fight both the dog and the brat Bart. But why not consult some prophet or priest Or a dream interpreter, someone like Miss Cleo, Who could tell us why the Lord is so angry, If it's for a vow or a sacrifice he holds us at fault. Maybe he'd be willing to lift this Simpson curse from us If he savored the smoke from those marijuana plants we're growing in the basement." Ned had his say and sat down. Then up rose Todd, son of Ned, bird-brain supreme, Who knew what is, what will be, and what has been nerdy. He had once guided the plunger to the toilet And saved the hallway carpet. He spoke out now: "Father, beloved of Grandfather, you want me to tell you About the rage of our Lord, the Almighty. And I will tell you. But you have to promise me and swear You will support me and protect me in word and deed I have a feeling I might offend a person of some authority Among the Simpsons, and you know how it is when a neighbor Is angry with the next-door neighbor kid. He might swallow his temper For a day, but he holds it in his heart until later And it all comes out. Will you guarantee my security?" Ned, the great runner on summer days, responded: "Okily dokily! Don't worry. I swear by the Lord, to whom you pray when you reveal The gods' secrets to us after you called Reverend Lovejoy. And look upon this earth, no one will lay a hand On you here beside me and your mother, no, not even Bart, who boasts he is the best of the Simpsons." And Mrs. Flanders, the perfect wife, taking courage: "The god finds no fault with vow or sacrifice. It is for this home, whom Bart dishonored And would not shut his damn dog up, That the Lord deals and will deal ungoodness from afar. He will not lift this foul dog barking from the Flanders' Until we return the egging of the house Unruly, unbought, and stolen eggs from the Asses of chickens. Only then might we appease the god." She finished speaking and sat down. Then up rose Ned's other son, the whiny kid everyone wants to kick, Furious, anger like twin black thunderheads seething In his lungs, and his eyes flickered with fire As he looked his mother up and down, and said: "You damn hot, Bitch! You've never given me a good pet. I want a dog! You take some kind of perverse pleasure in prophesying I'll be like Dad, don't you? Not a single favorable omen ever! Nothing good ever happens! And now you stand here Uttering this shit before the family, telling us That your great ballistic bitchiness is giving us all this trouble Because I was unwilling to accept the call of coolness I could've laid the Simpsons' daughter but preferred instead to keep her as a friend In my room! And why shouldn't I? I like her better than My mother. She's no worse than her When it comes to looks, body, mind, or ability. Still, I'll give her up, if that's what's best. I don't want to see the family destroyed like this. But I want another prize ready for me right away. I'm not going to be the only fucker without a prize, It wouldn't be right. And you all see where mine is going." And Ned, strong, swift, and godfearing: "And where do you think, son of a Bitch, You greedy little fuckery-duckery, the magnanimous Simpsons Are going to get another prize for you? Do you think they have some kind of stockpile of daughters in reserve? Every Quick E Mart in town has been saxed by Murphy. You want the Simpsons to count their blessings, and let you get Lisa preggers? All right, you give the girl back to them unscrewed. The family Will repay you three and four times over-when and if we can ever find a bunch of hookers in this cartoon world." Then Todd responded: "You may be a good man in bed, Pops, And look like a god to Mom, but don't try to put one over on me- It won't work. So while you have your screw-toy, You want me to sit tight and do without? Give the Lisa back, just like that? Now maybe If the family, in a generous spirit, voted me Some suitable prize of their own choice, something fair- But if it doesn't, I'll just go take something myself, Your prize, perhaps, which makes me Oedipus, And whenever she wants to, it'll stick my thingie in her throat. But we can think about this later..."
Il"i*ad (?), n. [L. Ilias, -adis, Gr. , (sc. ), fr. , , Ilium, the city of Ilus, a son of Tros, founder of Ilium, which is a poetical name of Troy.]
A celebrated Greek epic poem, in twenty-four books, on the destruction of Ilium, the ancient Troy. The Iliad is ascribed to Homer.
© Webster 1913.
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