This said, he sat; and Thestor’s son arose, Calchas, the chief of seers, to whom were known The present, and the future, and the past; Who, by his mystic art, Apollo’s gift, Guided to Ilium’s shore the Grecian fleet. Who thus with cautious speech replied, and said; “Achilles, lov’d of Heav’n, thou bidd’st me say Why thus incens’d the far-destroying King; Therefore I speak; but promise thou, and swear, By word and hand, to bear me harmless through. For well I know my speech must one offend, The Argive chief, o’er all the Greeks supreme; And terrible to men of low estate The anger of a King; for though awhile He veil his wrath, yet in his bosom pent It still is nurs’d, until the time arrive; Say, then, wilt thou protect me, if I speak?” Him answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Speak boldly out whate’er thine art can tell; For by Apollo’s self I swear, whom thou, O Calchas, serv’st, and who thy words inspires, That, while I live, and see the light of Heav’n, Not one of all the Greeks shall dare on thee, Beside our ships, injurious hands to lay: No, not if Agamemnon’s self were he, Who ’mid our warriors boasts the foremost place.” Embolden’d thus, th’ unerring prophet spoke: “Not for neglected hecatombs or pray’rs, But for his priest, whom Agamemnon scorn’d, Nor took his ransom, nor his child restor’d; On his account the Far-destroyer sends This scourge of pestilence, and yet will send; Nor shall we cease his heavy hand to feel, Till to her sire we give the bright-ey’d girl, Unbought, unransom’d, and to Chrysa’s shore A solemn hecatomb despatch; this done, The God, appeas’d, his anger may remit.” This said, he sat; and Atreus’ godlike son, The mighty monarch, Agamemnon, rose, His dark soul fill’d with fury, and his eyes Flashing like flames of fire; on Calchas first A with’ring glance he cast, and thus he spoke; “Prophet of ill! thou never speak’st to me But words of evil omen; for thy soul Delights to augur ill, but aught of good Thou never yet hast promis’d, nor perform’d. And now among the Greeks thou spread’st abroad Thy lying prophecies, that all these ills Come from the Far-destroyer, for that I Refus’d the ransom of my lovely prize, And that I rather chose herself to keep, To me not less than Clytemnestra dear, My virgin-wedded wife; nor less adorn’d In gifts of form, of feature, or of mind. Yet, if it must he so, I give her back; I wish my people’s safety, not their death. But seek me out forthwith some other spoil, Lest empty-handed I alone appear Of all the Greeks; for this would ill beseem; And how I lose my present share, ye see.”