"O Thetis' son," said he, " the vital flame
Extinct at Ilion, far from th' Argive fields,
The style of Blessed to thy virtue yields.
About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy
Were sacrificed to slaughter. Thy just joy
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Conceived in battle with some worth forgot
In such a death as great Apollo shot
At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay
Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way
With human breaths spent in thy ruin's state.
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Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate.
All day we fought about thee; nor at all
Had ceased our conflict, had not Jove let fall
A storm that forced off our unwilling feet.
But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet,
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Thy glorious person, bathed and balm'd, we laid
Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid
The Greeks warm tears to thy deplored decease,
Quite daunted, cutting all their curls' increase.
Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas
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That started up thy mother from the waves;
And all the marine Godheads left their caves,
Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair.
The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air
And earth combine so in thy loss's sense,
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Had taken ship and fled for ever thence,
If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay'd
Their rushing off; his counsels having sway'd
In all times former with such cause their courses;
Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces,
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For all they saw was Thetis come from sea,
With others of the wat'ry progeny,
To see and mourn for her deceased son.
Which stay'd the fears that all to flight had won;
And round about thee stood th' old sea-God's Seeds
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Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds
Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine
Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine,
By varied turns their heavenly voices venting,
All in deep passion for thy death consenting.
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And then of all our army not an eye
You could have seen undrown'd in misery,
The moving Muse so ruled in every mind.
Full seventeen days and nights our tears confined
To celebration of thy mourned end;
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Both men and Gods did in thy moan contend.
The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap
Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep
We slew past number. Then the precious spoil,
Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil
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And pleasant honey we embalm'd; and then
Wrapp'd thee in those robes that the Gods did rain.
In which we gave thee to the hallow'd flame;
To which a number of heroical name,
All arm'd, came rushing in in desperate plight,
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As prest to sacrifice their vital right
To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn'd.
Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn'd
In infinite tumult. But when all the night
The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite
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Thy body was with the enamour'd fire,
We came in early morn, and an entire
Collection made of every ivory bone,
Which wash'd in wine, and given fit unction,
A two-ear'd bowl of gold thy mother gave,
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By Bacchus given her and did form receive
From Vulcan's famous hand, which, O renown'd
Great Thetis' son, with thy fair bones we crown'd
Mix'd with the bones of Menœtiades
And brave Antilochus; who, in decease
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Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour's dear.
About thee then a matchless sepulchre
The sacred host of the Achaians raised
Upon the Hellespont, where most it seized,
For height and conspicuity, the eyes
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Of living men and their posterities.