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