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Argument Of The Eleventh Book.

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Argument Of The Twelfth Book.


The Trojans assail the ramparts, and Hector forces the gates.



So was Menoetius' gallant son employ'd
Healing Eurypylus. The Greeks, meantime,...

Argument Of The Thirteenth Book.

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Argument Of The Fourteenth Book.

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Argument Of The Nineteenth Book.


Achilles is reconciled to Agamemnon, and clothed in new armor forged by Vulcan, leads out the Myrmidons to battle.


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Argument Of The Fifteenth Book.

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Argument Of The Sixteenth Book.

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Argument Of The Seventeenth Book.

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Argument Of The Eighteenth Book.


Achilles, by command of Juno, shows himself to the Trojans, who fly at his appearance; Vulcan, at the insistence of Thetis, forges for him a suit of armor.


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Argument Of The Twentieth Book.

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Argument Of The Twenty-First Book.

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Argument Of The Twenty-Second Book.


Achilles slays Hector.



Thus they, throughout all Troy, like hunted fawns
Dispersed, their trickling limbs at leisure cool'd,...

Argument Of The Twenty-Third Book.


The body of Patroclus is burned, and the funeral games ensue.



Such mourning was in Troy; meantime the Greeks...

O you who lose the art of hope,
Whose temples seem to shrine a lie,
Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear,
Who weep that Liberty must die,
Turn to the little prairie towns,...

If worth, were not a thing more rare
Than beauty in this planet fair,
There would be then less need of care
About the contracts Hymen closes.
But beauty often is the bait
To love that only ends in hate;...

War
I abhor,
And yet how sweet
The sound along the marching street
Of drum and fife, and I forget
Wet eyes of widows, and forget
Broken old mothers, and the whole
Dark butchery without a soul....

I am a river flowing round your hill,
Holding your image in my lingering water,
With imaged white clouds rising round your head;
And I am happy to bear your image still....

I.

The slow reflection of a woman's face
Grew, as by witchcraft, in the oval space
Of that strange glass on which the moon looked in:
As cruel as death beneath the auburn hair...

Good from the good, to the reason this is not hard of conception;
But the genius has power good from the bad to evoke.
'Tis the conceived alone, that thou, imitator, canst practise;...

Fell the snow on the festival's vigil
And surpliced the city in white;
I wonder who wove the pure flakelets?
Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night.

It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol,...