Iliad Book IV: 119-211

Homer

Now Diomedes and Glaucus, son of Hippolochus, met in the space between the armies, eager for the fight. When they had come within range, the son of Tydeus, he of the loud war-cry, called: ‘What mighty man are you, among mortals? I have never seen you on the field of honour before today, yet facing my long-shadowed spear, you show greater daring than all the rest. Unhappy are those whose sons meet my fury. But if you be one of the gods from heaven, I will not fight with the immortals. Not even mighty Lycurgus, son of Dryas, survived his war with the gods for long. He chased the nymphs, who nursed frenzied Dionysus, through the sacred hills of Nysa, and struck by the murderous man’s ox-goad their holy wands fell from their hands. But Dionysus fleeing, plunged beneath the waves, trembling and terrified by the man’s loud cries, and Thetis took him to her breast. Then the gods who take their ease were angered by Lycurgus, and Zeus blinded him. So that, hated by the immortals, he soon died. No way then would I wish to oppose the blessed gods. But if you are mortal, and eat the food men grow, come on, and meet the toils of fate the sooner.’

‘Brave Diomedes’, Hippolochus’ son replied, ‘why ask my lineage? Like the generations of leaves are those of men. The wind blows and one year’s leaves are scattered on the ground, but the trees bud and fresh leaves open when spring comes again. So a generation of men is born as another passes away. Still if you wish to know my lineage, listen well to what others know already. There’s a town called Ephyre in a corner of Argos, the horse-pasture, and a man lived there called Sisyphus, the craftiest of men, a son of Aeolus. He had a son called Glaucus, and Glaucus was father of peerless Bellerophon, to whom the gods gave beauty and every manly grace. But Zeus made him subject to King Proetus, who was stronger and plotted against him, and drove him from Argive lands. Now Proetus’ wife, the fair Anteia, longed madly for Bellerephon, and begged him to lie with her in secret, but wise Bellerephon was a righteous man and could not be persuaded. So she wove a web of deceit, and said to King Proetus: ‘Kill this Bellerephon, who tried to take me by force, or die in the doing of it.’ The king was angered by her words. He would not kill Bellerephon, as his heart shrank from murder, but he packed him off to Lycia, and scratching many deadly signs on a folded tablet, gave him that fatal token, and told him to hand it to the Lycian king, his father-in-law, so to engineer his death. Bellerephon went to Lycia escorted by peerless gods, and when he reached the streams of Xanthus the king of great Lycia welcomed him with honour, entertaining him for nine days, and sacrificing nine oxen. But when rosy-fingered Dawn lit the tenth day his host questioned him, and asked what token he brought him from his son-in-law Proetus.

On first deciphering the fatal message, he ordered Bellerephon to kill the monstrous Chimaera, spawned by gods and not men, that had a lion’s head, goat’s body and serpent’s tail, and breathed out deadly blasts of scorching fire. But Bellerephon slew her, guided by the gods. Next he was sent against the notorious Solymi, and fought, he said, the mightiest battle he ever fought. Then thirdly he slaughtered the Amazons, women the equal of men. The king planned a deadly ruse for his return, staging an ambush by the pick of the Lycian warriors. But not one of them returned: the peerless Bellerephon killed them all. The king then realised he was a true son of the gods, and offered him his daughter and half of his kingdom, to stay. The Lycians moreover marked out for him an estate of the first rank, with tracts of orchards and plough-land for his delight.

The lady bore Bellerephon, that warlike man, three children, Isander, Hippolochus and Laodameia. Zeus the Counsellor slept with Laodameia and she bore godlike Sarpedon, now a bronze-clad warrior. But the time came when Bellerephon too was loathed by the gods, and wandered off alone over the Aleian plain, eating his heart away and shunning the ways of men. Ares, unwearied by war, killed his son Isander, battling with the glorious Solymi; and Laodameia was slain in anger by Artemis of the Golden Reins. Hippolochus remained and fathered me, and from him I claim descent. He sent me here to Troy and charged me earnestly to be the best and bravest, and not bring shame on my ancestors the best men in Ephyre and all broad Lycia. Such is my lineage, from that blood am I sprung.’

Bellerophon

George Meredith

Maimed, beggared, grey; seeking an alms; with nod Of palsy doing task of thanks for bread; Upon the stature of a God, He whom the Gods have struck bends low his head. Weak words he has, that slip the nerveless tongue Deformed, like his great frame: a broken arc: Once radiant as the javelin flung Right at the centre breastplate of his mark. Oft pausing on his white-eyed inward look, Some undermountain narrative he tells, As gapped by Lykian heat the brook Cut from the source that in the upland swells. The cottagers who dole him fruit and crust With patient inattention hear him prate: And comes the snow, and comes the dust, Comes the old wanderer, more bent of late. A crazy beggar grateful for a meal Has ever of himself a world to say. For them he is an ancient wheel Spinning a knotted thread the livelong day. He cannot, nor do they, the tale connect; For never singer in the land had been Who him for theme did not reject: Spurned of the hoof that sprang the Hippocrene. Albeit a theme of flame to bring them straight The snorting white-winged brother of the wave, They hear him as a thing by fate Cursed in unholy babble to his grave. As men that spied the wings, that heard the snort, Their sires have told; and of a martial prince Bestriding him; and old report Speaks of a monster slain by one long since. There is that story of the golden bit By Goddess given to tame the lightning steed: A mortal who could mount, and sit Flying, and up Olympus midway speed.

He rose like the loosed fountain's utmost leap; He played the star at span of heaven right o'er Men's heads: they saw the snowy steep, Saw the winged shoulders: him they saw not more. He fell: and says the shattered man, I fell: And sweeps an arm the height an eagle wins; And in his breast a mouthless well Heaves the worn patches of his coat of skins. Lo, this is he in whom the surgent springs Of recollections richer than our skies To feed the flow of tuneful strings, Show but a pool of scum for shooting flies.

Today’s Flickr photo with the most hits: this bas relief sculpture of Bellerophon, from the Sebasteion, Aphrodisias, Turkey. He stands beside Pegasus, the famed winged horse.