by Homer
His person quickly from our eyes, and our diverted men
May ply their business.’ This all ears did freely entertain,
And found observance: then they supp’d, with all things fit, and all
Repair’d to tents and rest. The friend the shores maritimal
Sought for his bed, and found a place, fair, and upon which play’d
The murmuring billows. There his limbs to rest, not sleep, he laid,
Heavily sighing. Round about (silent, and not too near)
Stood all his Myrmidons, when straight so over-labour’d were
His goodly lineaments with chase of Hector, that beyond
His resolution not to sleep Sleep cast his sudden bond
Over his sense, and loos’d his care. Then of his wretched friend
The soul appear’d; at every part the form did comprehend
His likeness: his fair eyes, his voice, his stature, every weed
His person wore, it fantasied, and stood above his head,
This sad speech utt’ring. ‘Dost thou sleep? Aeacides, am I
Forgotten of thee? Being alive, I found thy memory
Ever respectful; but now dead, thy dying love abates.
Inter me quickly, enter me in Pluto’s iron gates,
For now the souls (the shades) of men, fled from this being, beat
My spirit from rest, and stay my much-desir’d receipt
Amongst souls plac’d beyond the flood. Now every way I err
About this broad-door’d house of Dis. O help then to prefer
My soul yet further. Here I mourn, but had the funeral fire
Consum’d my body, never more my spirit should retire
From hell’s low region: from thence souls never are retriev’d
To talk with friends here, nor shall I; a hateful fate depriv’d
My being here, that at my birth was fix’d, and to such fate
Ev’n thou, O god-like man, art mark’d; the deadly Ilian gate
Must entertain thy death. O then, I charge thee now, take care
That our bones part not, but as life combin’d in equal fare
Our loving beings, so let death. When from Opunta’s tow’rs
My father brought me to your roofs (since ’gainst my will, my pow’rs
Incens’d, and indiscreet at dice, slew fair Amphidamas)
Then Peleus entertain’d me well; then in thy charge I was
By his injunction and thy love; and therein let me still
Receive protection. Both our bones provide in thy last will
That one urn may contain, and make the vessel all of gold
That Thetis gave thee, that rich urn.’ This said, Sleep ceas’d to hold
Achilles’ temples, and the shade thus he receiv’d: ‘O friend,
What needed these commands? My care before meant to commend
My bones to thine, and in that urn. Be sure thy will is done.
A little stay yet; let’s delight, with some full passion
Of woe enough, either’s affects; embrace we.’ Opening thus
His greedy arms, he felt no friend: like matter vaporous
The spirit vanish’d under earth, and murmur’d in his stoop.
Achilles started; both his hands he clapp’d and lifted up,
In this sort wond’ring: ‘O ye gods, I see we have a soul
In th’ under-dwellings, and a kind of man-resembling idol:
The soul’s seat yet, all matter left, stays with the carcase here.
O friends, hapless Patroclus’ soul did all this night appear
Weeping and making moan to me, commanding everything
That I intended towards him, so truly figuring
Himself at all parts, as was strange.’ This accident did turn
To much more sorrow, and begat a greediness to mourn
In all that heard. When mourning thus, the rosy morn arose:
And Agamemnon through the tents wak’d all, and did dispose
Both men and mules for carriage of matter for the fire.
Of all which work Meriones (the Cretan sov’reign’s squire)
Was captain, and abroad they went. Wood-cutting tools they bore
Of all kinds, and well-twisted cords. The mules march all before.
Up hill and down hill, over thwarts and break-neck cliffs they pass’d,
But when the fountful Ida’s tops they scal’d with utmost haste,
All fell upon the high-hair’d oaks, and down their curled brows
Fell bustling to the earth; and up went all the boles and boughs,
Bound to the mules, and back again they parted the harsh way
Amongst them through the tangling shrubs, and long they thought the day
Till in the plain field all arriv’d, for all the woodmen bore
Logs on their necks; Meriones would have it so: the shore
At last they reach’d yet, and then down their carriages they cast,
And sat upon them, where the son of Peleus had plac’d
The ground for his great sepulchre, and for his friend’s, in one.
They rais’d a huge pile, and to arms went every Myrmidon,
Charg’d by Achilles; chariots and horse were harnessed,
Fighters and charioteers got up, and they the sad march led,
A cloud of infinite foot behind. In midst of all was borne
Patroclus’ person by his peers: on him were all heads shorn,
Ev’n till they cover’d him with curls. Next to him march’d his friend,
Embracing his cold neck all sad, since now he was to send
His dearest to his endless home. Arriv’d all where the wood
Was heap’d for funeral, they sat down. Apart Achilles stood,
And when enough wood was heap’d on, he cut his golden hair,
Long kept for Sperchius the flood, in hope of safe repair
To Phthia by that river’s pow’r; but now left hopeless thus
(Enrag’d, and looking on the sea) he cried out: ‘Sperchius,
In vain my father’s piety vow’d (at my implor’d return
To my lov’d country) that these curls should on thy shores be shorn,
Besides a sacred hecatomb, and sacrifice beside
Of fifty wethers, at whose founts, where men have edified
A lofty temple, and perfum’d an altar to thy name.
There vow’d he all these offerings, but fate prevents thy fame,
His hopes not suffering satisfied; and since I never more
Shall see my lov’d soil, my friend’s hands shall to the Stygian shore
Convey these tresses.’ Thus he put in his friend’s hands the hair.
And this bred fresh desire of moan, and in that sad affair
The sun had set amongst them all, had Thetis’ son not spoke
Thus to Atrides: ‘King of men, thy aid I still invoke,
Since thy command all men still hear; dismiss thy soldiers now,
And let them victual; they have mourn’d sufficient, ’tis we owe
The dead this honour; and with us let all the captains stay.’
This heard, Atrides instantly the soldiers sent away.
The funeral officers remain’d, and heap’d on matter still,
Till of an hundred foot about they made the funeral pile,
In whose hot height they cast the corse, and then they pour’d on tears.
Numbers of fat sheep, and like store of crooked-going steers,
They slew before the solemn fire, stripp’d off their hides and dress’d.
Of which Achilles took the fat, and cover�
��d the deceas’d
From head to foot: and round about he made the officers pile
The beasts nak’d bodies, vessels full of honey and of oil
Pour’d in them, laid upon a bier, and cast into the fire.
Four goodly horse, and of nine hounds, two most in the desire
Of that great prince, and trencher-fed, all fed that hungry flame.
Twelve Trojan princes last stood forth, young, and of toward fame,
All which (set on with wicked spirits) there struck he, there he slew,
And to the iron strength of fire their noble limbs he threw.
Then breath’d his last sighs, and these words: ‘Again rejoice, my friend,
Ev’n in the joyless depth of hell; now give I complete end
To all my vows. Alone thy life sustain’d not violence;
Twelve Trojan princes wait on thee, and labour to incense
Thy glorious heap of funeral. Great Hector I’ll excuse;
The dogs shall eat him.’ These high threats perform’d not their abuse.
Jove’s daughter, Venus, took the guard of noble Hector’s corse,
And kept the dogs off, night and day applying sov’reign force
Of rosy balms, that to the dogs were horrible in taste,
And with which she the body fill’d. Renown’d Apollo cast
A cloud from heav’n, lest with the sun the nerves and lineaments
Might dry and putrefy. And now some pow’rs denied consents
To this solemnity: the fire (for all the oily fuel
It had injected) would not burn; and then the loving cruel
Studied for help, and standing off, invok’d the two fair winds
(Zephyr and Boreas) to afford the rage of both their kinds
To aid his outrage. Precious gifts his earnest zeal did vow,
Pour’d from a golden bowl much wine, and pray’d them both to blow,
That quickly his friend’s corse might burn, and that heap’s sturdy breast
Embrace consumption. Iris heard; the winds were at a feast,
All in the court of Zephyrus (that boist’rous-blowing air)
Gather’d together. She that wears the thousand-colour’d hair
Flew thither, standing in the porch: they (seeing her) all arose,
Call’d to her; every one desir’d she would awhile repose,
And eat with them. She answer’d: ‘No, no place of seat is here;
Retreat calls to the Ocean and Ethiopia, where
A hecatomb is offering now to heav’n, and there must I
Partake the feast of sacrifice; I come to signify
That Thetis’ son implores your aids (princes of north and west)
With vows of much fair sacrifice, if each will set his breast
Against his heap of funeral, and make it quickly burn.
Patroclus lies there, whose decease all the Achaians mourn.’
She said, and parted; and out rush’d, with an unmeasur’d roar,
Those two winds, tumbling clouds in heaps, ushers to either’s blore,
And instantly they reach’d the sea. Up flew the waves; the gale
Was strong, reach’d fruitful Troy; and full upon the fire they fall.
The huge heap thunder’d. All night long from his chok’d breast they blew
A liberal flame up; and all night swift-foot Achilles threw
Wine from a golden bowl on earth, and steep’d the soil in wine,
Still calling on Patroclus’ soul. No father could incline
More to a son most dear, nor more mourn at his burned bones,
Than did the great prince to his friend at his combustions,
Still creeping near and near the heap, still sighing, weeping still:
But when the day-star look’d abroad, and promis’d from his hill
Light, which the saffron morn made good, and sprinkled on the seas,
Then languish’d the great pile, then sunk the flames, and then calm peace
Turn’d back the rough winds to their homes, the Thracian billow rings
Their high retreat, ruffled with cuffs of their triumphant wings.
Pelides then forsook the pile, and to his tired limb
Chose place of rest; where laid, sweet sleep fell to his wish on him –
When all the king’s guard (waiting then, perceiving will to rise
In that great session) hurried in, and op’d again his eyes
With tumult of their troop, and haste. A little then he rear’d
His troubled person, sitting up, and this affair referr’d
To wish’d commandment of the kings: ‘Atrides, and the rest
Of our commanders general, vouchsafe me this request
Before your parting: give in charge the quenching with black wine
Of this heap’s reliques, every brand the yellow fire made shine.
And then let search Patroclus’ bones, distinguishing them well –
As well ye may; they keep the midst, the rest at random fell
About th’ extreme part of the pile. Men’s bones and horses mix’d
Being found, I’ll find an urn of gold t’ inclose them; and betwixt
The air and them two kels of fat lay on them, and to rest
Commit them, till mine own bones seal our love, my soul deceas’d.
The sepulchre I have not charg’d to make of too much state,
But of a model something mean, that you of younger fate
(When I am gone) may amplify with such a breadth and height
As fits your judgments and our worths.’ This charge receiv’d his weight
In all observance: first they quench’d, with sable wine, the heap
As far as it had fed the flame. The ash fell wondrous deep,
In which his consorts, that his life religiously lov’d,
Search’d, weeping, for his bones: which found, they conscionably prov’d
His will made to Aeacides, and what his love did add.
A golden vessel, double fat, contain’d them: all which (clad
In veils of linen, pure and rich) were solemnly convey’d
T’Achilles’ tent. The platform then about the pile they laid
Of his fit sepulchre, and rais’d a heap of earth, and then
Offer’d departure. But the prince retain’d there still his men,
Employing them to fetch from fleet rich tripods for his games,
Cauldrons, horse, mules, broad-headed beeves, bright steel, and brighter dames.
The best at horse-race, he ordain’d a lady for his prize,
Generally praiseful: fair and young, and skill’d in housewif’ries
Of all kind fitting; and withal a trivet, that inclos’d
Twenty-two measures room, with ears. The next prize he propos’d
Was (that which then had high respect) a mare of six years old,
Unhandled, horsed with a mule, and ready to have foal’d.
The third game was a cauldron, new, fair, bright, and could for size
Contain two measures. For the fourth, two talents’ quantities
Of finest gold. The fifth game was a great new standing cup,
To set down both ways. These brought in, Achilles then stood up,
And said: ‘Atrides and my lords, chief horsemen of our host,
These games expect ye. If myself should interpose my most
For our horse-race, I make no doubt but I should take again
These gifts propos’d. Ye all know well of how divine a strain
My horses are, and how eminent. Neptune’s gift they are
To Peleus; of his
to me. Myself then will not share
In gifts giv’n others, nor my steeds breathe any spirit to shake
Their airy pasterns; so they mourn for their kind guider’s sake,
Late lost, that us’d with humorous oil to slick their lofty manes,
Clear water having cleans’d them first, and (his bane being their banes)
Those lofty manes now strew the earth, their heads held shaken down.
You then that trust in chariots, and hope with horse to crown
Your conquering temples, gird yourselves; now fame and prize stretch for,
All that have spirits.’ This fir’d all: the first competitor
Was king Eumelus, whom the art of horsemanship did grace,
Son to Admetus; next to him rose Diomed to the race,
That under reins rul’d Trojan horse, of late forc’d from the son
Of lord Anchises, himself freed of near confusion
By Phoebus. Next to him set forth the yellow-headed king
Of Lacedaemon, Jove’s high seed; and in his managing
Podargus and swift Aethe trod, steeds to the king of men –
Aethe giv’n by Echepolus, the Anchisiaden,
A bribe to free him from the war resolv’d for Ilion.
So Delicacy feasted him, whom Jove bestow’d upon
A mighty wealth; his dwelling was in brode Sicyone.
Old Nestor’s son, Antilochus, was fourth for chivalry
In this contention: his fair horse were of the Pylian breed,
And his old father (coming near) inform’d him (for good speed)
With good race notes, in which himself could good instruction give:
‘Antilochus, though young thou art, yet thy grave virtues live
Belov’d of Neptune and of Jove: their spirits have taught thee all
The art of horsemanship, for which the less thy merits fall
In need of doctrine. Well thy skill can yield a chariot
In all fit turning, yet thy horse their slow feet handle not
As fits thy manage, which makes me cast doubts of thy success.
I well know all these are not seen in art of this address
More than thyself: their horses yet superior are to thine,
For their parts: thine want speed to make discharge of a design
To please an artist. But go on, show but thy art and heart
At all points, and set them against their horse’s heart and art;
Good judges will not see thee lose. A carpenter’s desert
