When the pile has burned all night, they gather the bones, place them in an urn of gold, and raise the tomb.

Achilles institutes the funeral games: the chariot-race, the fight of the caestus, the wrestling, the foot-race, the single combat, the discus, the shooting with arrows, the darting the javelin: the various descriptions of which, and the various success of the several antagonists, make the greatest part of the book.
In this book ends the thirtieth day.

The night following, the ghost of Patroclus appears to Achilles: the one-and-thirtieth day is employed in felling the timber for the pile: the two-and-thirtieth in burning it; and the three-and-thirtieth in the games.

The scene is generally on the sea-shore.
Thus humbled in the dust, the pensive train Through the sad city mourn'd her hero slain.
The body soil'd with dust, and black with gore, Lies on broad Hellespont's resounding shore.
The Grecians seek their ships, and clear the strand, All, but the martial Myrmidonian band: These yet assembled great Achilles holds, And the stern purpose of his mind unfolds: "Not yet, my brave companions of the war, Release your smoking coursers from the car; But, with his chariot each in order led, Perform due honours to Patroclus dead.
Ere yet from rest or food we seek relief, Some rites remain, to glut our rage of grief." The troops obey'd; and thrice in order led( 281) (Achilles first) their coursers round the dead; And thrice their sorrows and laments renew; Tears bathe their arms, and tears the sands bedew.
For such a warrior Thetis aids their woe, Melts their strong hearts, and bids their eyes to flow.
But chief, Pelides: thick-succeeding sighs Burst from his heart, and torrents from his eyes: His slaughtering hands, yet red with blood, he laid On his dead friend's cold breast, and thus he said: "All hail, Patroclus! let thy honour'd ghost Hear, and rejoice on Pluto's dreary coast; Behold! Achilles' promise is complete; The bloody Hector stretch'd before thy feet.
Lo! to the dogs his carcase I resign; And twelve sad victims, of the Trojan line, Sacred to vengeance, instant shall expire; Their lives effused around thy funeral pyre." Gloomy he said, and (horrible to view) Before the bier the bleeding Hector threw, Prone on the dust.

The Myrmidons around Unbraced their armour, and the steeds unbound.
All to Achilles' sable ship repair, Frequent and full, the genial feast to share.
Now from the well-fed swine black smokes aspire, The bristly victims hissing o'er the fire: The huge ox bellowing falls; with feebler cries Expires the goat; the sheep in silence dies.
Around the hero's prostrate body flow'd, In one promiscuous stream, the reeking blood.
And now a band of Argive monarchs brings The glorious victor to the king of kings.
From his dead friend the pensive warrior went, With steps unwilling, to the regal tent.
The attending heralds, as by office bound, With kindled flames the tripod-vase surround: To cleanse his conquering hands from hostile gore, They urged in vain; the chief refused, and swore:( 282) "No drop shall touch me, by almighty Jove! The first and greatest of the gods above! Till on the pyre I place thee; till I rear The grassy mound, and clip thy sacred hair.
Some ease at least those pious rites may give, And soothe my sorrows, while I bear to live.
Howe'er, reluctant as I am, I stay And share your feast; but with the dawn of day, (O king of men!) it claims thy royal care, That Greece the warrior's funeral pile prepare, And bid the forests fall: (such rites are paid To heroes slumbering in eternal shade:) Then, when his earthly part shall mount in fire, Let the leagued squadrons to their posts retire." He spoke: they hear him, and the word obey; The rage of hunger and of thirst allay, Then ease in sleep the labours of the day.
But great Pelides, stretch'd along the shore, Where, dash'd on rocks, the broken billows roar, Lies inly groaning; while on either hand The martial Myrmidons confusedly stand.
Along the grass his languid members fall, Tired with his chase around the Trojan wall; Hush'd by the murmurs of the rolling deep, At length he sinks in the soft arms of sleep.
When lo! the shade, before his closing eyes, Of sad Patroclus rose, or seem'd to rise: In the same robe he living wore, he came: In stature, voice, and pleasing look, the same.
The form familiar hover'd o'er his head, "And sleeps Achilles?
(thus the phantom said:) Sleeps my Achilles, his Patroclus dead?
Living, I seem'd his dearest, tenderest care, But now forgot, I wander in the air.
Let my pale corse the rites of burial know, And give me entrance in the realms below: Till then the spirit finds no resting-place, But here and there the unbodied spectres chase The vagrant dead around the dark abode, Forbid to cross the irremeable flood.
Now give thy hand; for to the farther shore When once we pass, the soul returns no more: When once the last funereal flames ascend, No more shall meet Achilles and his friend; No more our thoughts to those we loved make known; Or quit the dearest, to converse alone.
Me fate has sever'd from the sons of earth, The fate fore-doom'd that waited from my birth: Thee too it waits; before the Trojan wall Even great and godlike thou art doom'd to fall.
Hear then; and as in fate and love we join, Ah suffer that my bones may rest with thine! Together have we lived; together bred, One house received us, and one table fed; That golden urn, thy goddess-mother gave, May mix our ashes in one common grave." "And is it thou?
(he answers) To my sight( 283) Once more return'st thou from the realms of night?
O more than brother! Think each office paid, Whate'er can rest a discontented shade; But grant one last embrace, unhappy boy! Afford at least that melancholy joy." He said, and with his longing arms essay'd In vain to grasp the visionary shade! Like a thin smoke he sees the spirit fly,( 284) And hears a feeble, lamentable cry.
Confused he wakes; amazement breaks the bands Of golden sleep, and starting from the sands, Pensive he muses with uplifted hands: "'Tis true, 'tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains: The form subsists without the body's aid, Aerial semblance, and an empty shade! This night my friend, so late in battle lost, Stood at my side, a pensive, plaintive ghost: Even now familiar, as in life, he came; Alas! how different! yet how like the same!" Thus while he spoke, each eye grew big with tears: And now the rosy-finger'd morn appears, Shows every mournful face with tears o'erspread, And glares on the pale visage of the dead.
But Agamemnon, as the rites demand, With mules and waggons sends a chosen band To load the timber, and the pile to rear; A charge consign'd to Merion's faithful care.
With proper instruments they take the road, Axes to cut, and ropes to sling the load.
First march the heavy mules, securely slow, O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go:( 285) Jumping, high o'er the shrubs of the rough ground, Rattle the clattering cars, and the shock'd axles bound But when arrived at Ida's spreading woods,( 286) (Fair Ida, water'd with descending floods,) Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong.