To the dark shades the soul unwilling glides,
While the proud victor thus his fall derides:
Good heavens! what active feats yon artist shows!
What skilful divers are our Phrygian foes!
Mark with what ease they sink into the sand!
Pity, that all their practice is by land!

Then rushing sudden on his prostrate prize,
To spoil the carcass fierce Patroclus flies :
Swift as a lion, terrible and bold,

The corselet his astonish'd breast forsakes:
Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes.
Stupid he stares, and all-assistless stands:
Such is the force of more than mortal hands!

970

A Dardan youth there was, well known to fame,
From Panthus sprung, Euphorbus was his name;
Famed for the manage of the foaming horse,
Skill'd in the dart, and matchless in the course;
Full twenty knights he tumbled from the car,
910 While yet he learn'd his rudiments of war.

That sweeps the fields, depopulates the fold;
Pierced though the dauntless heart, then tumbles

slain;

And from his fatal courage finds his bane.
At once bold Hector leaping from his car,
Defends the body and provokes the war.
Thus for some slaughter'd hind, with equal rage,
Two lordly rulers of the wood engage;
Stung with fierce hunger, each the prey invades,
And echoing roars rebellow through the shades
Stern Hector fastens on the warrior's head,
And by the foot Patroclus drags the dead.
While all around, confusion, rage and fright
Mix the contending host in mortal fight.
So pent by hills, the wild winds roar aloud
In the deep bosom of some gloomy wood;
Leaves, arms, and trees, aloft in air are blown,
The broad oaks crackle, and the sylvans groan.
This way and that the rattling thicket bends,
And the whole forest in one crash descends.
Not with less noise, with less tumultuous rage,
In dreadful shock the mingled hosts engage.
Darts shower'd on darts, now round the carcass
Now flights of arrows bounding from the string:
Stones follow stones; some clatter on the fields,
Some hard, and heavy, shake the sounding shields.
But where the rising whirlwind clouds the plains,
Sunk in soft dust the mighty chief remains,
And stretch'd in death, forgets the guiding reins!
Now flaming from the zenith, Sol had driven
His fervid orb through half the vault of heaven;
While on each host with equal tempest fell
The showering darts, and numbers sunk to hell.
But when his evening wheels o'erhung the main,
Glad conquest rested on the Grecian train.
Then from amidst the tumult and alarms,
They draw the conquer'd corse and radiant armas.
Then rash Patroclus with new fury glows,
And, breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes.
Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew,
And thrice three heroes at each onset slew.
There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine
The last black remnant of so bright a line;
Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way;
Death calls, and Heaven allows no longer day!
For lo! the god in dusky clouds enshrined,
Approaching, dealt a staggering blow behind.
The weighty shock his neck and shoulders feel;
His eyes flash sparkles, his stunn'd senses reel
In giddy darkness: far to distance flung,
His bounding helmet on the champaign rung.
Achilles' plume is stain'd with dust and gore,
That plume, which never stoop'd to earth before;
Long used, untouch'd, in fighting fields to shine,
And shade the temples of the man divine.
Jove dooms it now on Hector's helm to nod;
Not long-for fate pursues him, and the god.
His spear in shivers falls; his ample shield
Drops from his arm: his baldric strews the field:

His venturous spear first drew the hero's gore;
He struck, he wounded, but he durst no more;
Nor, though disarm'd, Patroclus' fury stood:
But swift withdrew the long-protended wood,
And turn'd him short, and herded in the crowd.
Thus by an arm divine, and mortal spear,
Wounded at once, Patroclus yields to fear,
Retires for succour to his social train,

And flies the fate, which Heaven decreed, in vain.
Stern Hector, as the bleeding chief he views,

980

990

1000

920 Breaks through the ranks, and his retreat pursues ;
The lance arrests him with a mortal wound;
He falls, earth. thunders, and his arms resound.
With him all Greece was sunk; that moment all
Her yet surviving heroes seem'd to fall.
So, scorch'd with heat, along the desert shore,
The roaming lion meets a bristly boar,
Fast by the spring; they both dispute the flood,
With flaming eyes, and jaws besmear'd with blood;
At length the sovereign savage wins the strife,
930 And the torn boar resigns his thirst and life.
ring; Patroclus thus, so many chiefs o'erthrown,
So many lives effused, expires his own.
As dying now at Hector's feet he lies,
He sternly views him, and triumphing cries:
Lie there, Patroclus! and with thee the joy,
Thy pride once promised, of subverting Troy;
The fancied scenes of lion wrapp'd in flames,
And thy soft pleasures served with captive dames!
Unthinking man! I fought those towers to free,
940 And guard that beauteous race from lords like thee;
But thou a prey to vultures shalt be made;
Thy own Achilles cannot lend thee aid;
Though much at parting that great chief might say,
And much enjoin thee, this important day:
Return not, my brave friend,' (perhaps he said)
Without the bloody arms of Hector dead.'
He spoke, Patroclus march'd, and thus he sped.
Supine, and wildly gazing on the skies,
With faint, expiring breath, the chief replies:
Vain boaster! cease, and know the Powers divine:
Jove's and Apollo's is this deed, not thine :
To Heaven is owed whate'er your own you call,
1021
And Heaven itself disarm'd me ere my fall.
Had twenty mortals, each thy match in might,
Opposed me fairly, they had sunk in fight:
By Fate and Phoebus was I first o'erthrown,
Euphorbus next; the third mean part thy own.
But thou, imperious! hear my latest breath;
The gods inspire it, and it sounds thy death.
960 Insulting man, thou shalt be soon as I;
Black fate hangs o'er thee, and thy hour draws nigh;
E'en now on life's last verge I see thee stand,

950

I see thee fall, and by Achilles' hand.
He faints; the soul unwilling wings her way,
(The beauteous body left a load of clay,)
Flits to the lone, uncomfortable coast;
A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

1010

1030

Then Hector pausing, as his eyes he fed
On the pale carcase, thus address'd the dead:
From whence this boding speech, the stern decree
Of death denounced, or why denounced to me?
Why not as well Achilles' fate be given

1040
To Hector's lance? who knows the will of Heaven?
Pensive he said: then pressing as he lay
His breathless bosom, tore the lance away,
And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear
He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer.
But swift Automedon with loosen'd reins
Rapt in the chariot o'er the distant plains,
Far from his rage the immortal coursers drove;
The immortal coursers were the gift of Jove.

BOOK XVII.

ARGUMENT.

Menelaus.

The seventh Battle, for the Body of Patroclus: the Acts of Menelaus, upon the death of Patroclus, defends his body from the enemy: Euphorbus, who attempts it, is slain. Hector advancing, Menelaus retires; but soon returns with Ajax, and drives him off. This Glaucus objects to Hector as a flight, who thereupon puts on the armour he had won from Patroclus, and renews the battle. The Greeks give way, till Ajax rallies them: Eneas sustains the Trojans. Eneas and Hector attempt the chariot of Achilles, which is borne off by Automedon. The horses of Achilles deplore the loss of Patroclus: Jupiter covers his body with a thick darkness: the noble prayer of Ajax on that occasion. Menelaus sends Antilochus to Achilles, with the news of Patroclus' death: then returns to the fight, where, though attacked with the utmost fury, he and Meriones, assisted by the Ajaxes, bear off the body to the ships.

The time is the evening of the eight-and-twentieth day.

The scene lies in the fields before Troy.

BOOK XVII.

On the cold earth divine Patroclus spread,
Lies pierced with wounds among the vulgar dead.
Great Menelaus, touch'd with generous woe,
Springs to the front, and guards him from the foe:
Thus round her new-fallen young, the heifer moves,
Fruit of her throes, and first-born of her loves;
And anxious (helpless as he lies, and bare)
Turns and re-turns her with a mother's care.
Opposed to each that near the careass came,
His broad shield glimmers, and his lances flame.

The son of Panthus, skill'd the dart to send,
Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend.
This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low;
Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow:
To me the spoils my prowess won, resign;
Depart with life, and leave the glory mine.

30

40

Against our arm, which rashly he defied,
Vain was his vigour, and as vain his pride.
These eyes beheld him on the dust expire,
No more to cheer his spouse or glad his sire.
Presumptuous youth! like his shall be thy doom,
Go, wait thy brother to the Stygian gloom;
Or, while thou may'st, avoid the threaten'd fate:
Fools stay to feel it, and are wise too late.
Unmoved Euphorbus thus: That action known,
Come, for my brother's blood repay thy own.
His weeping father claims thy destined head,
And spouse, a widow in her bridal bed.
On these thy conquer'd spoils I shall bestow,
To soothe a consort's and a parent's woe.
No longer then defer the glorious strife,
Let Heaven decide our fortune, fame, and life.
Swift as the word the missile lance he flings;
The well-aim'd weapon on the buckler rings,
But blunted by the brass innoxious falls:
Nor flies the javelin from his arm in vain,
On Jove the father, great Atrides calls;
It pierced his throat, and bent him to the plain; 50
Wide through the neck appears the grisly wound,
Prone sinks the warrior, and his arms resound.
The shining circlets of his golden hair,
Which e'en the Graces might be proud to wear
Instarr'd with gems and gold, bestrew the shore,
With dust dishonour'd, and deform'd with gore.
As the young olive, in some sylvan scene,
Crown'd by fresh fountains with eternal green,
Lifts the gay head, in snowy flow'rets fair,
And plays and dances to the gentle air;
When lo! a whirlwind from high heaven invades
The tender plant, and withers all its shades;
It lies uprooted from its genial bed,
Thus young, thus beautiful, Euphorbus lay,
A lovely ruin now defaced and dead:
While the fierce Spartan tore his arms away
Proud of his deed, and glorious in the prize,
Affrighted Troy the towering victor flies:
Flies, as before some mountain-lion's ire
The village curs and trembling swains retire;
When o'er the slaughter'd bull they hear him roar,
And see his jaws distil with smoking gore:
All pale with fear, at distance scatter'd round,
They shout incessant, and the vales resound.

60

70

80

Meanwhile Apollo view'd with envious eyes,
And urged great Hector to dispute the prize
(In Mentes' shape, beneath whose martial care
10 The rough Ciconians learn'd the trade of war.)
Forbear, he cried, with fruitless speed to chase
Achilles' coursers, of ethereal race;
They stoop not, these, to mortal man's command,
Or stoop to none but great Achilles' hand.
Too long amused with a pursuit so vain,
Turn, and behold the brave Euphorbus slain!
By Sparta slain! for ever now suppress'd
The fire which burn'd in that undaunted breast!
Thus having spoke, Apollo wing'd his flight,
And mix'd with mortals in the toils of fight:
His words infix'd unutterable care
Deep in great Hector's soul: through all the war 90
He darts his anxious eye: and instant view'd
The breathless hero in his blood imbrued,
(Forth welling from the wound, as prone he lay,)
And in the victor's hands the shining prey.
Sheath'd in bright arms, through cleaving ranks he flies,
And sends his voice in thunder to the skies:

The Trojan thus. The Spartan monarch burn'd,
With generous anguish, and in scorn return'd:
Laugh'st thou not, Jove! from thy superior throne,
When mortals boast of prowess not their own? 20
Not thus the lion glories in his might,
Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight.
Not thus the boar (those terrors of the plain :)
Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.
But far the vainest of the boastful kind
These sons of Panthus vent their haughty mind.
Yet 'twas but late, beneath my conquering steel,
This boaster's brother, Hyperenor, fell;

Fierce as a flood of flame by Vulcan sent,
It flew, and fired the nations as it went.
Atrides from the voice the storm divined,
And thus explored his own unconquer'd mind:
Then shall I quit Patroclus on the plain,
Slain in my cause, and for my honour slain?
Desert the arms, the relics of my friend?
Or, singly, Hector and his troops attend?
Sure where such partial favour Heaven bestow'd,
To brave the hero were to brave the god.
Forgive me, Greece, if once I quit the field:
Tis not to Hector, but to Heaven I yield.
Yet, nor the god, nor heaven, should give me fear
Did but the voice of Ajax reach my ear:
Still would we turn, still battle on the plains,
And give Achilles all that yet remains
Of his and our Patroclus.-This, no more,
The time allow'd: Troy thicken'd on the shore,
A sable scene! The terrors Hector led,
Slow he recedes, and sighing quits the dead.
So from the fold the unwilling lion parts,
Forced by loud clamours, and a storm of darts.
He flies indeed, but threatens as he flies,
With heart indignant and retorted eyes.
Now entered in the Spartan ranks, he turn'd
His manly breast, and with new fury burn'd;
O'er all the black battalions sent his view,
And through the cloud the godlike Ajax knew;
Where labouring on the left the warrior stood,
All grim in arms, and cover'd o'er with blood;
There breathing courage, where the god of day
Had sunk each heart with terror and dismay.

To him the king: Oh Ajax, oh my friend!
Haste, and Patroclus' loved remains defend :
The body to Achilles to restore,

Demands our care; alas, we can no more!
For naked now, despoil'd of arms he lies;
And Hector glories in the dazzling prize.
He said, and touch'd his heart. The raging pair
Pierce the thick battle, and provoke the war.
Already had stern Hector seized his head,
And doom'd to Trojan dogs the unhappy dead;
But soon (as Ajax rear'd his tower-like shield)
Sprung to his car, and measured back the field.
His train to Troy the radiant armour bear,
To stand a trophy of his fame in war.

What from thy thankless arms can we expect?
Thy friend Sarpedon proves thy base neglect:
Say, shall our slaughter'd bodies guard your walls,
100 While unrevenged the great Sarpedon falls?

E'en where he died for Troy, you left him there,
A feast for dogs, and all the fowls of air.
On my command if any Lycian wait,
Hence let him march, and give up Troy to fate.
Did such a spirit as the gods impart
Impel one Trojan hand or Trojan heart
(Such as should burn in every soul that draws
The sword for glory and his country's cause;
E'en yet our mutual arms we might employ,
110 And drag yon carcass to the walls of Troy.
Oh! were Patroclus ours, we might obtain
Sarpedon's arms, and honour'd corse again!
Greece with Achilles' friend should be repaid,
And thus due honours purchased to his shade.
But words are vain-Let Ajax once appear,
And Hector trembles and recedes with fear;
Thou darest not meet the terrors of his eye;
And lo! already thou preparest to fly.

The Trojan chief with fix'd resentment eyed 120 The Lycian leader, and sedate replied:

170

180

Say, is it just (my friend) that Hector's ear
From such a warrior such a speech should hear? 190
I deem'd thee once the wisest of thy kind,
But ill this insult suits a prudent mind.
I shun great Ajax? I desert my train?
'Tis mine to prove the rash assertion vain;
I joy to mingle where the battle bleeds,
And hear the thunder of the sounding steeds.
But Jove's high will is ever uncontroll'd,

130 The strong he withers, and confounds the bold:
Now crowns with fame the mighty man, and now
Strikes the fresh garland from the victor's brow! 200
Come, through yon squadrons let us hew the way,
And thou be witness if I fear to-day;

If yet a Greek the sight of Hector dread,
Or yet their hero dare defend the dead.

Then turning to the martial hosts, he cries:
Ye Trojans, Dardans, Lycians, and allies!
Be men (my friends) in action as in name,
140 And yet be mindful of your ancient fame.

Meanwhile great Ajax (his broad shield display'd)
Guards the dead hero with the dreadful shade;
And now before, and now behind he stood.
Thus in the centre of some gloomy wood,
With many a step the lioness surrounds
Her tawny young, beset my men and hounds;
Elate her heart, and rousing all her powers,
Dark o'er the fiery balls each hanging eye-brow lowers.
Fast by his side the generous Spartan glows 151
With great revenge, and feeds his inward woes.
But Glaucus, leader of the Lycian aids,
On Hector frowning, thus his flight upbraids:
Where now in Hector shall we Hector find?
A manly form, without a manly mind.
Is this, O chief! a hero's boasted fame?
How vain, without the merit, is the name?
Since battle is renounced, thy thoughts employ
What other methods may preserve thy Troy;
"Tis time to try if Ilion's state can stand
By thee alone, nor ask a foreign hand;
Mean, empty boast! but shall the Lycians stake
Their lives for you? those Lycians you forsake?

Hector in proud Achilles' arms shall shine,
Torn from his friend, by right of conquest mine. 210
He strode along the field as thus he said
(The sable plumage nodded o'er his head :)
Swift through the spacious plain he sent a look,

One instant saw, one instant overtook

220

The distant band, that on the sandy shore
The radiant spoils to sacred Ilion bore.
There his own mail unbraced the field bestrow'd;
His train to Troy convey'd the massy load.
Now blazing in the immortal arms he stands,
The work and present of celestial hands;
By aged Peleus to Achilles given,
As first to Peleus by the court of heaven:
His father's arms not long Achilles wears,
Forbid by fate to reach his father's years.
Him, proud in triumph, glittering from afar,
The god whose thunder rends the troubled air,
Beheld with pity, as apart he sate,

230

160 And, conscious, look'd through all the scene of fate:
He shook the sacred honours of his head;
Olympus trembled, and the godhead said:
Ah wretched man! unmindful of thy end!
A moment's glory, and what fates attend!

Come all! let generous rage your arms employ, 310
And save Patroclus from the dogs of Troy.
Oïlean Ajax first the voice obey'd,
Swift was his pace, and ready was his aid:
Next him Idomeneus, more slow with age,
And Merion burning with a hero's rage.
The long-succeeding numbers who can name?
240 But all were Greeks, and eager all for fame.
Fierce to the charge great Hector led the throng;
All Troy embodied rush'd with shouts along.
Thus, when a mountain-billow foams and raves, 310
Where some swollen river disembogues his waves,
Full in the mouth is stopp'd the rushing tide,
The boiling ocean works from side to side,
The river trembles to his utmost shore,
And distant rocks rebellow to the roar.

Nor less resolved the firm Achaian band
250 With brazen shields in horrid circle stand:
Jove pouring darkness o'er the mingled fight,
Conceals the warrior's shining helms in night:
To him, the chief for whom the hosts contend, 320
Had lived not hateful, for he lived a friend:
Dead he protects him with superior care,
Nor dooms his carcass to the birds of air.
The first attack the Grecians scarce sustain,
Repulsed, they yield, the Trojans seize the slain
Then fierce they rally, to revenge led on
260 By the swift rage of Ajax Telamon;

In heavenly panoply divinely bright
Thou stand'st, and armies tremble at thy sight
As at Achilles' self: beneath thy dart
Lies slain the great Achilles' dearer part:
Thou from the mighty dead those arms hast torn
Which once the greatest of mankind had worn.
Yet live! I give thee one illustrious day,
A blaze of glory ere thou fadest away.
For ah! no more Andromache shall come,
With joyful tears to welcome Hector home;
No more officious, with endearing charms,
From thy tired limbs unbrace Pelides' arms!
Then with his sable brow he gave the nod,
That seals his word; the sanction of the god.
The stubborn arms (by Jove's command disposed)
Conform'd spontaneous, and around him closed.
Fill'd with the god, enlarged his members grew,
Through all his veins a sudden vigour flew,
The blood in brisker tides began to roll,
And Mars himself came rushing on his soul.
Exhorting loud through all the field he strode,
And look'd, and moved, Achilles, or a god.
Now Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon he inspires,
Now Phorcys, Chromius, and Hippothous fires;
The great Thersilochus like fury found,
Asteropæus kindled at the sound,
And Ennomus, in augury renown'd.
Hear, all ye hosts, and hear, unnumber'd bands
Of neighbouring nations, or of distant lands!
"Twas not for state we summon'd you so far,
To boast our numbers, and the pomp of war;
Ye came to fight; a valiant foe to chase,
To save our present and our future race.
For this, our wealth, our products you enjoy,
And glean the relics of exhausted Troy.
Now then to conquer or to die prepare,
To die or conquer are the terms of war.
Whatever hand shall win Patroclus slain,
Whoe'er shall drag him to the Trojan train,
With Hector's self shall equal honours claim;
With Hector part the spoil, and share the fame.
Fired by his words, the troops dismiss their fears,
They join, they thicken, they protend their spears;
Full on the Greeks they drive in firm array,
And each from Ajax hopes the glorious prey:
Vain hope! what number shall the field o'er-
spread!

What victims perish round the mighty dead

(Ajax, to Peleus' son the second name,
In graceful stature next, and next in fame.)
With headlong force the foremost ranks he tore: 330
So through the thicket bursts the mountain-boar,
And rudely scatters, far to distance round,
The frighted hunter and the baying hound.
The son of Lethus, brave Pelasgus' heir,
Hippothoüs, dragg'd the carcass through the war;
The sinewy ancles bored, the feet he bound
270 With thongs, inserted through the double wound
Inevitable fate o'ertakes the deed;
Doom'd by great Ajax' vengeful lance to bleed:
It cleft the helmet's brazen cheeks in twain;
The shatter'd crest and horse-hair strew the plain;
With nerves relax'd he tumbles to the ground;
The brain comes gushing through the ghastly wound
He drops Patroclus' foot, and o'er him spread
Now lies a sad companion of the dead:
Far from Larissa lies, his native air,
And ill requites his parents' tender care.

Great Ajax mark'd the growing storm from far, 280 Lamented youth! in life's firm bloom he fell,

And thus bespoke his brother of the war:

Our fatal day, alas! is come (my friend,)
And all our wars and glories at an end!
"Tis not this corse alone we guard in vain,
Condemn'd to vultures on the Trojan plain;
We too must yield: the same sad fate must fall
On thee, on me, perhaps (my friend) on all.
See what a tempest direful Hector spreads,
And lo! it bursts, it thunders on our heads!
Call on our Greeks, if any hear the call,
The bravest Greeks: this hour demands them all.
The warrior raised his voice, and wide around
The field re-echo'd the distressful sound.
Oh chiefs! oh princes! to whose hand is given
The rule of men; whose glory is from heaven!
Whom with due honours both Atrides grace:
Ye guides and guardians of our Argive race!

Sent by great Ajax to the shades of hell.
Once more at Ajax, Hector's javelin flies:
The Grecian marking as it cut the skies,
Shunn'd the descending death; which hissing on,
Stretch'd in the dust the great Iphytus' son,
Schedius the brave, of all the Phocian kind,
The boldest warrior, and the noblest mind:
In little Panopè, for strength renown'd,

340

350

360

He held his seat, and ruled the realms around,
290 Plunged in his throat, the weapon drank his blood,
And deep transpiercing through the shoulder stood,
In clanging arms the hero fell, and all
The fields resounded with his weighty fall.
Phorcys, as slain Hippothous he defends,
The Telamonian lance his belly rends;
The hollow armour burst before the stroke,
And through the wound the rushing entrails broke.

All, whom this well-known voice shall reach from far In strong convulsions panting on the sands

All, whom I see not through this cloud of war,

He lies, and grasps the dust with dying hands.

Thus he-What methods yet, oh chief! remain,
To save your Troy, though heaven its fall ordain!
There have been heroes, who, by virtuous care, 380
By valour, numbers, and by arts of war,
Have forced the powers to spare a sinking state,
And gain'd at length the glorious odds of fate :
But you, when fortune smiles, when Jove declares
His partial favour, and assists your wars,
Your shameful efforts 'gainst yourselves employ,
And force the unwilling god to ruin Troy.

Eneas through the form assumed descries
The power conceal'd, and thus to Hector cries:
Oh lasting shame! to our own fears a prey,
We seek our ramparts and desert the day.
A god (nor is he less) my bosom warms,
And tells me, Jove asserts the Trojan arms.

He spoke, and foremost to the combat flew :
The bold example all his host pursue.
Then first, Leocritus beneath him bled,
In vain beloved by valiant Lycomede;

Who view'd his fall, and grieving at the chance,
Swift to revenge it, sent his angry lance:
The whirling lance, with vigorous force address'd,
Descends, and pants in Apisaon's breast:
From rich Pæonia's vales the warrior came,
Next thee, Asteropeus! in place and fame.
Asteropeus with grief beheld the slain,

And rush'd to combat, but he rush'd in vain :
Indissolubly firm, around the dead,

490

401

But round the course the heroes pant for breath And thick and heavy grows the work of death : O'erlabour'd now, with dust, and sweat, and gore, Their knees, their legs, their feet are cover'd o'er; Drops follow drops, the clouds on clouds arise, And carnage clogs their hands, and darkness fills their eyes.

456

As when a slaughter'd bull's yet-reeking hide,
Strain'd with full force, and tugg'd from side to side
The brawny curriers stretch; and labour o'er
The extended surface, drunk with fat and gore:
So tugging round the corse both armies stood;
The mangled body bathed in sweat and blood;
While Greeks and Ilians equal strength employ,
Now to the ships to force it, now to Troy.
Not Pallas' self, her breast when fury warms,
Nor he whose anger sets the world in arms,
Could blame this scene; such rage, such horror
reign'd;

Such Jove to honour the great dead ordain'd.

Achilles in his ships at distance lay,

Nor knew the fatal fortune of the day;"
He, yet unconscious of Patroclus' fall,

In dust extended under Ilion's wall,

Expects him glorious from the conquer'd plain,
And for his wish'd return prepares in vain ;
Though well he knew, to make proud Ilion bend,
Was more than heaven had destined to his friend:
Perhaps to him: this Thetis had reveal'd,
The rest, in pity to her son, conceal'd.

461

470

Still raged the conflict round the hero dead,
And heaps on heaps by mutual wounds they bled.
Cursed be the man (e'en private Greeks would say)
Who dares desert this well-disputed day!

410 First may the cleaving earth before our eyes
Gape wide, and drink our blood for sacrifice!
First perish all, ere haughty Troy shall boast
We lost Patroclus, and our glory lost!

Rank within rank, on buckler buckler spread,
And hemm'd with bristled spears, the Grecians stood;
A brazen bulwark, and an iron wood.
Great Ajax eyes them with incessant care,
And in an orb contracts the crowded war,
Close in their ranks commands to fight or fall,
And stands the centre and the soul of all:
Fix'd on the spot they war, and, wounded, wound;
A sanguine torrent steeps the reeking ground;
On heaps the Greeks, on heaps the Trojans bled,
And, thickening round them, rise the hills of dead.
Greece, in close order, and collected might,
Yet suffers least, and sways the wavering fight;
Fierce as conflicting fires, the combat burns,
And now it rises, now it sinks by turns.
In one thick darkness all the fight was lost;
The sun, the moon, and all the ethereal host,
Seem'd as extinct: day ravish'd from their eyes,
And all heaven's splendours blotted from the skies;
Such o'er Patroclus' body hung the night,
The rest in sunshine fought, and open light;
Unclouded there, the aerial azure spread,
No vapour rested on the mountain's head;
The golden sun pour'd forth a stronger ray,
And all the broad expansion flamed with day.
Dispersed around the plain, by fits they fight,
And here, and there, their scatter'd arrows light:
But death and darkness o'er the carcass spread,
There burn'd the war, and there the mighty bled.

479

490

Thus they. While with one voice the Trojans said,
Grant this day, Jove! or heap us on the dead!
Then clash their sounding arms; the clangours rise,
And shake the brazen concave of the skies.
Meantime, at distance from the scene of blood,
The pensive steeds of great Achilles stood;
420 Their godlike master slain before their eyes
They wept, and shared in human miseries.
In vain Automedon now shakes the rein,
Now plies the lash, and soothes and threats in vain;
Nor to the fight nor Hellespont they go,
Restive they stood, and obstinate in woe;
Still as a tombstone, never to be moved,
On some good man or woman unreproved
Lays its eternal weight; or fix'd as stands
A marble courser by the sculptor's hands,
430 Placed on the hero's grave. Along their face,
The big round drops coursed down with silent pace,
Conglobing on the dust. Their manes, that late
Circled their arched necks, and waved in state,
Trail'd on the dust, beneath the yoke were spread,
And prone to earth was hung their languid head: 501