The grief of Achilles over the body of Patroclus.
Thetis goes to the palace of Vulcan to obtain new arms for her son.

The description of the wonderful works of Vulcan: and, lastly, that noble one of the shield of Achilles.
The latter part of the nine-and-twentieth day, and the night ensuing, take up this book: the scene is at Achilles' tent on the sea-shore, from whence it changes to the palace of Vulcan.
Thus like the rage of fire the combat burns,( 250) And now it rises, now it sinks by turns.
Meanwhile, where Hellespont's broad waters flow, Stood Nestor's son, the messenger of woe: There sat Achilles, shaded by his sails, On hoisted yards extended to the gales; Pensive he sat; for all that fate design'd Rose in sad prospect to his boding mind.
Thus to his soul he said: "Ah! what constrains The Greeks, late victors, now to quit the plains?
Is this the day, which heaven so long ago Ordain'd, to sink me with the weight of woe?
(So Thetis warn'd;) when by a Trojan hand The bravest of the Myrmidonian band Should lose the light! Fulfilled is that decree; Fallen is the warrior, and Patroclus he! In vain I charged him soon to quit the plain, And warn'd to shun Hectorean force in vain!" Thus while he thinks, Antilochus appears, And tells the melancholy tale with tears.
"Sad tidings, son of Peleus! thou must hear; And wretched I, the unwilling messenger! Dead is Patroclus! For his corse they fight; His naked corse: his arms are Hector's right." A sudden horror shot through all the chief, And wrapp'd his senses in the cloud of grief; Cast on the ground, with furious hands he spread The scorching ashes o'er his graceful head; His purple garments, and his golden hairs, Those he deforms with dust, and these he tears; On the hard soil his groaning breast he threw, And roll'd and grovell'd, as to earth he grew.
The virgin captives, with disorder'd charms, (Won by his own, or by Patroclus' arms,) Rush'd from their tents with cries; and gathering round, Beat their white breasts, and fainted on the ground: While Nestor's son sustains a manlier part, And mourns the warrior with a warrior's heart; Hangs on his arms, amidst his frantic woe, And oft prevents the meditated blow.
Far in the deep abysses of the main,( 251) With hoary Nereus, and the watery train, The mother-goddess from her crystal throne Heard his loud cries, and answer'd groan for groan.
The circling Nereids with their mistress weep, And all the sea-green sisters of the deep.
Thalia, Glauce (every watery name), Nesaea mild, and silver Spio came: Cymothoe and Cymodoce were nigh, And the blue languish of soft Alia's eye.
Their locks Actaea and Limnoria rear, Then Proto, Doris, Panope appear, Thoa, Pherusa, Doto, Melita; Agave gentle, and Amphithoe gay: Next Callianira, Callianassa show Their sister looks; Dexamene the slow, And swift Dynamene, now cut the tides: Iaera now the verdant wave divides: Nemertes with Apseudes lifts the head, Bright Galatea quits her pearly bed; These Orythia, Clymene, attend, Maera, Amphinome, the train extend; And black Janira, and Janassa fair, And Amatheia with her amber hair.
All these, and all that deep in ocean held Their sacred seats, the glimmering grotto fill'd; Each beat her ivory breast with silent woe, Till Thetis' sorrows thus began to flow: "Hear me, and judge, ye sisters of the main! How just a cause has Thetis to complain! How wretched, were I mortal, were my fate! How more than wretched in the immortal state! Sprung from my bed a godlike hero came, The bravest far that ever bore the name; Like some fair olive, by my careful hand He grew, he flourish'd and adorn'd the land To Troy I sent him: but the fates ordain He never, never must return again.
So short a space the light of heaven to view, So short, alas! and fill'd with anguish too! Hear how his sorrows echo through the shore! I cannot ease them, but I must deplore; I go at least to bear a tender part, And mourn my loved-one with a mother's heart." She said, and left the caverns of the main, All bathed in tears; the melancholy train Attend her way.

Wide-opening part the tides, While the long pomp the silver wave divides.
Approaching now, they touch'd the Trojan land; Then, two by two, ascended up the strand.
The immortal mother, standing close beside Her mournful offspring, to his sighs replied; Along the coast their mingled clamours ran, And thus the silver-footed dame began: "Why mourns my son?
thy late preferr'd request The god has granted, and the Greeks distress'd: Why mourns my son?
thy anguish let me share, Reveal the cause, and trust a parent's care." He, deeply groaning--"To this cureless grief, Not even the Thunderer's favour brings relief.
Patroclus--Ah!--say, goddess, can I boast A pleasure now?
revenge itself is lost; Patroclus, loved of all my martial train, Beyond mankind, beyond myself is slain! Lost are those arms the gods themselves bestow'd On Peleus; Hector bears the glorious load.
Cursed be that day, when all the powers above Thy charms submitted to a mortal love: O hadst thou still, a sister of the main, Pursued the pleasures of the watery reign: And happier Peleus, less ambitious, led A mortal beauty to his equal bed! Ere the sad fruit of thy unhappy womb Had caused such sorrows past, and woes to come.
For soon, alas! that wretched offspring slain, New woes, new sorrows, shall create again.
'Tis not in fate the alternate now to give; Patroclus dead, Achilles hates to live.
Let me revenge it on proud Hector's heart, Let his last spirit smoke upon my dart; On these conditions will I breathe: till then, I blush to walk among the race of men." A flood of tears, at this, the goddess shed: "Ah then, I see thee dying, see thee dead! When Hector falls, thou diest."-- "Let Hector die, And let me fall! (Achilles made reply) Far lies Patroclus from his native plain! He fell, and falling, wish'd my aid in vain.
Ah then, since from this miserable day I cast all hope of my return away; Since, unrevenged, a hundred ghosts demand The fate of Hector from Achilles' hand; Since here, for brutal courage far renown'd, I live an idle burden to the ground, (Others in council famed for nobler skill, More useful to preserve, than I to kill,) Let me--But oh! ye gracious powers above! Wrath and revenge from men and gods remove: Far, far too dear to every mortal breast, Sweet to the soul, as honey to the taste: Gathering like vapours of a noxious kind From fiery blood, and darkening all the mind.
Me Agamemnon urged to deadly hate; 'Tis past--I quell it; I resign to fate.
Yes--I will meet the murderer of my friend; Or (if the gods ordain it) meet my end.
The stroke of fate the strongest cannot shun: The great Alcides, Jove's unequall'd son, To Juno's hate, at length resign'd his breath, And sunk the victim of all-conquering death.
So shall Achilles fall! stretch'd pale and dead, No more the Grecian hope, or Trojan dread! Let me, this instant, rush into the fields, And reap what glory life's short harvest yields.
Shall I not force some widow'd dame to tear With frantic hands her long dishevell'd hair?
Shall I not force her breast to heave with sighs, And the soft tears to trickle from her eyes?
Yes, I shall give the fair those mournful charms-- In vain you hold me--Hence! my arms! my arms!-- Soon shall the sanguine torrent spread so wide, That all shall know Achilles swells the tide." "My son (coerulean Thetis made reply, To fate submitting with a secret sigh,) The host to succour, and thy friends to save, Is worthy thee; the duty of the brave.
But canst thou, naked, issue to the plains?
Thy radiant arms the Trojan foe detains.
Insulting Hector bears the spoils on high, But vainly glories, for his fate is nigh.
Yet, yet awhile thy generous ardour stay; Assured, I meet thee at the dawn of day, Charged with refulgent arms (a glorious load), Vulcanian arms, the labour of a god." Then turning to the daughters of the main, The goddess thus dismiss'd her azure train: "Ye sister Nereids! to your deeps descend; Haste, and our father's sacred seat attend; I go to find the architect divine, Where vast Olympus' starry summits shine: So tell our hoary sire"-- This charge she gave: The sea-green sisters plunge beneath the wave: Thetis once more ascends the bless'd abodes, And treads the brazen threshold of the gods.
[Illustration: THETIS ORDERING THE NEREIDS TO DESCEND INTO THE SEA.] THETIS ORDERING THE NEREIDS TO DESCEND INTO THE SEA.
And now the Greeks from furious Hector's force, Urge to broad Hellespont their headlong course; Nor yet their chiefs Patroclus' body bore Safe through the tempest to the tented shore.
The horse, the foot, with equal fury join'd, Pour'd on the rear, and thunder'd close behind: And like a flame through fields of ripen'd corn, The rage of Hector o'er the ranks was borne.
Thrice the slain hero by the foot he drew; Thrice to the skies the Trojan clamours flew: As oft the Ajaces his assault sustain; But check'd, he turns; repuls'd, attacks again.
With fiercer shouts his lingering troops he fires, Nor yields a step, nor from his post retires: So watchful shepherds strive to force, in vain, The hungry lion from a carcase slain.
Even yet Patroclus had he borne away, And all the glories of the extended day, Had not high Juno from the realms of air, Secret, despatch'd her trusty messenger.
The various goddess of the showery bow, Shot in a whirlwind to the shore below; To great Achilles at his ships she came, And thus began the many-colour'd dame: "Rise, son of Peleus! rise, divinely brave! Assist the combat, and Patroclus save: For him the slaughter to the fleet they spread, And fall by mutual wounds around the dead.
To drag him back to Troy the foe contends: Nor with his death the rage of Hector ends: A prey to dogs he dooms the corse to lie, And marks the place to fix his head on high.
Rise, and prevent (if yet you think of fame) Thy friend's disgrace, thy own eternal shame!" "Who sends thee, goddess, from the ethereal skies ?" Achilles thus.

And Iris thus replies: "I come, Pelides! from the queen of Jove, The immortal empress of the realms above; Unknown to him who sits remote on high, Unknown to all the synod of the sky." "Thou comest in vain (he cries, with fury warm'd); Arms I have none, and can I fight unarm'd?
Unwilling as I am, of force I stay, Till Thetis bring me at the dawn of day Vulcanian arms: what other can I wield, Except the mighty Telamonian shield?
That, in my friend's defence, has Ajax spread, While his strong lance around him heaps the dead: The gallant chief defends Menoetius' son, And does what his Achilles should have done." "Thy want of arms (said Iris) well we know; But though unarm'd, yet clad in terrors, go! Let but Achilles o'er yon trench appear, Proud Troy shall tremble, and consent to fear; Greece from one glance of that tremendous eye Shall take new courage, and disdain to fly." She spoke, and pass'd in air.

The hero rose: Her aegis Pallas o'er his shoulder throws; Around his brows a golden cloud she spread; A stream of glory flamed above his head.
As when from some beleaguer'd town arise The smokes, high curling to the shaded skies; (Seen from some island, o'er the main afar, When men distress'd hang out the sign of war;) Soon as the sun in ocean hides his rays, Thick on the hills the flaming beacons blaze; With long-projected beams the seas are bright, And heaven's high arch reflects the ruddy light: So from Achilles' head the splendours rise, Reflecting blaze on blaze against the skies.
Forth march'd the chief, and distant from the crowd, High on the rampart raised his voice aloud; With her own shout Minerva swells the sound; Troy starts astonish'd, and the shores rebound.
As the loud trumpet's brazen mouth from far With shrilling clangour sounds the alarm of war, Struck from the walls, the echoes float on high, And the round bulwarks and thick towers reply; So high his brazen voice the hero rear'd: Hosts dropp'd their arms, and trembled as they heard: And back the chariots roll, and coursers bound, And steeds and men lie mingled on the ground.
Aghast they see the living lightnings play, And turn their eyeballs from the flashing ray.
Thrice from the trench his dreadful voice he raised, And thrice they fled, confounded and amazed.
Twelve in the tumult wedged, untimely rush'd On their own spears, by their own chariots crush'd: While, shielded from the darts, the Greeks obtain The long-contended carcase of the slain.
A lofty bier the breathless warrior bears: Around, his sad companions melt in tears.
But chief Achilles, bending down his head, Pours unavailing sorrows o'er the dead, Whom late triumphant, with his steeds and car, He sent refulgent to the field of war; (Unhappy change!) now senseless, pale, he found, Stretch'd forth, and gash'd with many a gaping wound.
Meantime, unwearied with his heavenly way, In ocean's waves the unwilling light of day Quench'd his red orb, at Juno's high command, And from their labours eased the Achaian band.
The frighted Trojans (panting from the war, Their steeds unharness'd from the weary car) A sudden council call'd: each chief appear'd In haste, and standing; for to sit they fear'd.
'Twas now no season for prolong'd debate; They saw Achilles, and in him their fate.
Silent they stood: Polydamas at last, Skill'd to discern the future by the past, The son of Panthus, thus express'd his fears (The friend of Hector, and of equal years; The self-same night to both a being gave, One wise in council, one in action brave): [Illustration: JUNO COMMANDING THE SUN TO SET.] JUNO COMMANDING THE SUN TO SET.
"In free debate, my friends, your sentence speak; For me, I move, before the morning break, To raise our camp: too dangerous here our post, Far from Troy walls, and on a naked coast.
I deem'd not Greece so dreadful, while engaged In mutual feuds her king and hero raged; Then, while we hoped our armies might prevail We boldly camp'd beside a thousand sail.
I dread Pelides now: his rage of mind Not long continues to the shores confined, Nor to the fields, where long in equal fray Contending nations won and lost the day; For Troy, for Troy, shall henceforth be the strife, And the hard contest not for fame, but life.
Haste then to Ilion, while the favouring night Detains these terrors, keeps that arm from fight.
If but the morrow's sun behold us here, That arm, those terrors, we shall feel, not fear; And hearts that now disdain, shall leap with joy, If heaven permit them then to enter Troy.
Let not my fatal prophecy be true, Nor what I tremble but to think, ensue.
Whatever be our fate, yet let us try What force of thought and reason can supply; Let us on counsel for our guard depend; The town her gates and bulwarks shall defend.
When morning dawns, our well-appointed powers, Array'd in arms, shall line the lofty towers.
Let the fierce hero, then, when fury calls, Vent his mad vengeance on our rocky walls, Or fetch a thousand circles round the plain, Till his spent coursers seek the fleet again: So may his rage be tired, and labour'd down! And dogs shall tear him ere he sack the town." "Return! (said Hector, fired with stern disdain) What! coop whole armies in our walls again?
Was't not enough, ye valiant warriors, say, Nine years imprison'd in those towers ye lay?
Wide o'er the world was Ilion famed of old For brass exhaustless, and for mines of gold: But while inglorious in her walls we stay'd, Sunk were her treasures, and her stores decay'd; The Phrygians now her scatter'd spoils enjoy, And proud Maeonia wastes the fruits of Troy.
Great Jove at length my arms to conquest calls, And shuts the Grecians in their wooden walls, Darest thou dispirit whom the gods incite?
Flies any Trojan?
I shall stop his flight.
To better counsel then attention lend; Take due refreshment, and the watch attend.
If there be one whose riches cost him care, Forth let him bring them for the troops to share; 'Tis better generously bestow'd on those, Than left the plunder of our country's foes.
Soon as the morn the purple orient warms, Fierce on yon navy will we pour our arms.
If great Achilles rise in all his might, His be the danger: I shall stand the fight.
Honour, ye gods! or let me gain or give; And live he glorious, whosoe'er shall live! Mars is our common lord, alike to all; And oft the victor triumphs, but to fall." The shouting host in loud applauses join'd; So Pallas robb'd the many of their mind; To their own sense condemn'd, and left to choose The worst advice, the better to refuse.
While the long night extends her sable reign, Around Patroclus mourn'd the Grecian train.
Stern in superior grief Pelides stood; Those slaughtering arms, so used to bathe in blood, Now clasp his clay-cold limbs: then gushing start The tears, and sighs burst from his swelling heart.
The lion thus, with dreadful anguish stung, Roars through the desert, and demands his young; When the grim savage, to his rifled den Too late returning, snuffs the track of men, And o'er the vales and o'er the forest bounds; His clamorous grief the bellowing wood resounds.
So grieves Achilles; and, impetuous, vents To all his Myrmidons his loud laments.
"In what vain promise, gods! did I engage, When to console Menoetius' feeble age, I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore, Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia's shore ?( 252) But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain, The long, long views of poor designing man! One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike, And Troy's black sands must drink our blood alike: Me too a wretched mother shall deplore, An aged father never see me more! Yet, my Patroclus! yet a space I stay, Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way.
Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid, Shall Hector's head be offer'd to thy shade; That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine; And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line, Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire; Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre.
Thus let me lie till then! thus, closely press'd, Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast! While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay, Weep all the night and murmur all the day: Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide, Our swords kept time, and conquer'd side by side." He spoke, and bade the sad attendants round Cleanse the pale corse, and wash each honour'd wound.
A massy caldron of stupendous frame They brought, and placed it o'er the rising flame: Then heap'd the lighted wood; the flame divides Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides: In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream; The boiling water bubbles to the brim.
The body then they bathe with pious toil, Embalm the wounds, anoint the limbs with oil, High on a bed of state extended laid, And decent cover'd with a linen shade; Last o'er the dead the milk-white veil they threw; That done, their sorrows and their sighs renew.
Meanwhile to Juno, in the realms above, (His wife and sister,) spoke almighty Jove.
"At last thy will prevails: great Peleus' son Rises in arms: such grace thy Greeks have won.
Say (for I know not), is their race divine, And thou the mother of that martial line ?" "What words are these?
(the imperial dame replies, While anger flash'd from her majestic eyes) Succour like this a mortal arm might lend, And such success mere human wit attend: And shall not I, the second power above, Heaven's queen, and consort of the thundering Jove, Say, shall not I one nation's fate command, Not wreak my vengeance on one guilty land ?" [Illustration: TRIPOD.] TRIPOD.
So they.