And round his son confounds the warring hosts,

His fate ennobling with a crowd of ghosts.

Now Greece gives way, and great Epigeus falls;

Agacleus’ son, from Budium’s lofty walls;

Who chased for murder thence a suppliant came

To Peleus, and the silver-footed dame;

Now sent to Troy, Achilles’ arms to aid,

He pays due vengeance to his kinsman’s shade.

Soon as his luckless hand had touch’d the dead,

A rock’s large fragment thunder’d on his head;

Hurl’d by Hectorean force it cleft in twain

His shatter’d helm, and stretch’d him o’er the slain.

Fierce to the van of fight Patroclus came,

And, like an eagle darting at his game,

Sprung on the Trojan and the Lycian band.

What grief thy heart, what fury urged thy hand,

O generous Greek! when with full vigour thrown,

At Sthenelaus flew the weighty stone,

Which sunk him to the dead: when Troy, too near

That arm, drew back; and Hector learn’d to fear.

Far as an able hand a lance can throw,

Or at the lists, or at the fighting foe;

So far the Trojans from their lines retired;

Till Glaucus, turning, all the rest inspired.

Then Bathyclaeus fell beneath his rage,

The only hope of Chalcon’s trembling age;

Wide o’er the land was stretch’d his large domain,

With stately seats, and riches blest in vain:

Him, bold with youth, and eager to pursue

The flying Lycians, Glaucus met and slew;

Pierced through the bosom with a sudden wound,

He fell, and falling made the fields resound.

The Achaians sorrow for their heroes slain;

With conquering shouts the Trojans shake the plain,

And crowd to spoil the dead: the Greeks oppose;

An iron circle round the carcase grows.

Then brave Laogonus resign’d his breath,

Despatch’d by Merion to the shades of death:

On Ida’s holy hill he made abode,

The priest of Jove, and honour’d like his god.

Between the jaw and ear the javelin went;

The soul, exhaling, issued at the vent.

His spear Aeneas at the victor threw,

Who stooping forward from the death withdrew;

The lance hiss’d harmless o’er his covering shield,

And trembling struck, and rooted in the field;

There yet scarce spent, it quivers on the plain,

Sent by the great Aeneas’ arm in vain.

“Swift as thou art (the raging hero cries)

And skill’d in dancing to dispute the prize,

My spear, the destined passage had it found,

Had fix’d thy active vigour to the ground.”

“O valiant leader of the Dardan host!

(Insulted Merion thus retorts the boast)

Strong as you are, ’tis mortal force you trust,

An arm as strong may stretch thee in the dust.

And if to this my lance thy fate be given,

Vain are thy vaunts; success is still from heaven:

This, instant, sends thee down to Pluto’s coast;

Mine is the glory, his thy parting ghost.”

“O friend (Menoetius’ son this answer gave)

With words to combat, ill befits the brave;

Not empty boasts the sons of Troy repel,

Your swords must plunge them to the shades of hell.

To speak, beseems the council; but to dare

In glorious action, is the task of war.”

This said, Patroclus to the battle flies;

Great Merion follows, and new shouts arise:

Shields, helmets rattle, as the warriors close;

And thick and heavy sounds the storm of blows.

As through the shrilling vale, or mountain ground,

The labours of the woodman’s axe resound;

Blows following blows are heard re-echoing wide,

While crackling forests fall on every side:

Thus echoed all the fields with loud alarms,

So fell the warriors, and so rung their arms.

Now great Sarpedon on the sandy shore,

His heavenly form defaced with dust and gore,

And stuck with darts by warring heroes shed,

Lies undistinguish’d from the vulgar dead.

His long-disputed corse the chiefs enclose,

On every side the busy combat grows;

Thick as beneath some shepherd’s thatch’d abode

(The pails high foaming with a milky flood)

The buzzing flies, a persevering train,

Incessant swarm, and chased return again.

Jove view’d the combat with a stern survey,

And eyes that flash’d intolerable day.

Fix’d on the field his sight, his breast debates

The vengeance due, and meditates the fates:

Whether to urge their prompt effect, and call

The force of Hector to Patroclus’ fall,

This instant see his short-lived trophies won,

And stretch him breathless on his slaughter’d son;

Or yet, with many a soul’s untimely flight,

Augment the fame and horror of the fight.

To crown Achilles’ valiant friend with praise

At length he dooms; and, that his last of days

Shall set in glory, bids him drive the foe;

Nor unattended see the shades below.

Then Hector’s mind he fills with dire dismay;

He mounts his car, and calls his hosts away;

Sunk with Troy’s heavy fates, he sees decline

The scales of Jove, and pants with awe divine.

Then, nor before, the hardy Lycians fled,

And left their monarch with the common dead:

Around, in heaps on heaps, a dreadful wall

Of carnage rises, as the heroes fall.

(So Jove decreed!) At length the Greeks obtain

The prize contested, and despoil the slain.

The radiant arms are by Patroclus borne;

Patroclus’ ships the glorious spoils adorn.

Then thus to Phoebus, in the realms above,

Spoke from his throne the cloud-compelling Jove:

“Descend, my Phoebus! on the Phrygian plain,

And from the fight convey Sarpedon slain;

Then bathe his body in the crystal flood,

With dust dishonour’d, and deform’d with blood;

O’er all his limbs ambrosial odours shed,

And with celestial robes adorn the dead.

Those rites discharged, his sacred corse bequeath

To the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death.

They to his friends the immortal charge shall bear;

His friends a tomb and pyramid shall rear:

What honour mortals after death receive,

Those unavailing honours we may give!”

Apollo bows, and from mount Ida’s height,

Swift to the field precipitates his flight;

Thence from the war the breathless hero bore,

Veil’d in a cloud, to silver Simois’ shore;

There bathed his honourable wounds, and dress’d

His manly members in the immortal vest;

And with perfumes of sweet ambrosial dews

Restores his freshness, and his form renews.

Then Sleep and Death, two twins of winged race,

Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace,

Received Sarpedon, at the god’s command,

And in a moment reach’d the Lycian land;

The corse amidst his weeping friends they laid,

Where endless honours wait the sacred shade.

Meanwhile Patroclus pours along the plains,

With foaming coursers, and with loosen’d reins.

Fierce on the Trojan and the Lycian crew,

Ah blind to fate! thy headlong fury flew

Against what fate and powerful Jove ordain,

Vain was thy friend’s command, thy courage vain.

For he, the god, whose counsels uncontroll’d

Dismay the mighty, and confound the bold;

The god who gives, resumes, and orders all,

He urged thee on, and urged thee on to fall.

Who first, brave hero! by that arm was slain,

Who last beneath thy vengeance press’d the plain;

When heaven itself thy fatal fury led,

And call’d to fill the number of the dead?

Adrestus first; Autonous then succeeds;

Echeclus follows; next young Megas bleeds,

Epistor, Melanippus, bite the ground;

The slaughter, Elasus and Mulius crown’d:

Then sunk Pylartes to eternal night;

The rest, dispersing, trust their fates to flight.

Now Troy had stoop’d beneath his matchless power,

But flaming Phoebus kept the sacred tower

Thrice at the battlements Patroclus strook;²⁴⁶

His blazing aegis thrice Apollo shook;

He tried the fourth; when, bursting from the cloud,

A more than mortal voice was heard aloud.

“Patroclus! cease; this heaven-defended wall

Defies thy lance; not fated yet to fall;

Thy friend, thy greater far, it shall withstand,

Troy shall not stoop even to Achilles’ hand.”

So spoke the god who darts celestial fires;

The Greek obeys him, and with awe retires.

While Hector, checking at the Scaean gates

His panting coursers, in his breast debates,

Or in the field his forces to employ,

Or draw the troops within the walls of Troy.

Thus while he thought, beside him Phoebus stood,

In Asius’ shape, who reigned by Sangar’s flood;

(Thy brother, Hecuba! from Dymas sprung,

A valiant warrior, haughty, bold, and young;)

Thus he accosts him. “What a shameful sight!

God! is it Hector that forbears the fight?

Were thine my vigour this successful spear

Should soon convince thee of so false a fear.

Turn thee, ah turn thee to the field of fame,

And in Patroclus’ blood efface thy shame.

Perhaps Apollo shall thy arms succeed,

And heaven ordains him by thy lance to bleed.”

So spoke the inspiring god; then took his flight,

And plunged amidst the tumult of the fight.

He bids Cebrion drive the rapid car;

The lash resounds, the coursers rush to war.

The god the Grecians’ sinking souls depress’d,

And pour’d swift spirits through each Trojan breast.

Patroclus lights, impatient for the fight;

A spear his left, a stone employs his right:

With all his nerves he drives it at the foe.

Pointed above, and rough and gross below:

The falling ruin crush’d Cebrion’s head,

The lawless offspring of king Priam’s bed;

His front, brows, eyes, one undistinguish’d wound:

The bursting balls drop sightless to the ground.

The charioteer, while yet he held the rein,

Struck from the car, falls headlong on the plain.

To the dark shades the soul unwilling glides,

While the proud victor thus his fall derides.

“Good heaven! what active feats yon artist shows!

What skilful divers are our Phrygian foes!

Mark with what ease they sink into the sand!

Pity that all their practice is by land!”

Then rushing sudden on his prostrate prize,

To spoil the carcase fierce Patroclus flies:

Swift as a lion, terrible and bold,

That sweeps the field, depopulates the fold;

Pierced through the dauntless heart, then tumbles slain,

And from his fatal courage finds his bane.

At once bold Hector leaping from his car,

Defends the body, and provokes the war.

Thus for some slaughter’d hind, with equal rage,

Two lordly rulers of the wood engage;

Stung with fierce hunger, each the prey invades,

And echoing roars rebellow through the shades.

Stern Hector fastens on the warrior’s head,

And by the foot Patroclus drags the dead:

While all around, confusion, rage, and fright,

Mix the contending hosts in mortal fight.

So pent by hills, the wild winds roar aloud

In the deep bosom of some gloomy wood;

Leaves, arms, and trees, aloft in air are blown,

The broad oaks crackle, and the Sylvans groan;

This way and that, the rattling thicket bends,

And the whole forest in one crash descends.

Not with less noise, with less tumultuous rage,

In dreadful shock the mingled hosts engage.

Darts shower’d on darts, now round the carcase ring;

Now flights of arrows bounding from the string:

Stones follow stones; some clatter on the fields,

Some hard, and heavy, shake the sounding shields.

But where the rising whirlwind clouds the plains,

Sunk in soft dust the mighty chief remains,

And, stretch’d in death, forgets the guiding reins!

Now flaming from the zenith, Sol had driven

His fervid orb through half the vault of heaven;

While on each host with equal tempests fell

The showering darts, and numbers sank to hell.

But when his evening wheels o’erhung the main,

Glad conquest rested on the Grecian train.

Then from amidst the tumult and alarms,

They draw the conquer’d corse and radiant arms.

Then rash Patroclus with new fury glows,

And breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes.

Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew,

And thrice three heroes at each onset slew.

There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine

The last, black remnant of so bright a line:

Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way;

Death calls, and heaven allows no longer day!

For lo! the god in dusky clouds enshrined,

Approaching dealt a staggering blow behind.

The weighty shock his neck and shoulders feel;

His eyes flash sparkles, his stunn’d senses reel

In giddy darkness; far to distance flung,

His bounding helmet on the champaign rung.

Achilles’ plume is stain’d with dust and gore;

That plume which never stoop’d to earth before;

Long used, untouch’d, in fighting fields to shine,

And shade the temples of the mad divine.

Jove dooms it now on Hector’s helm to nod;

Not long—for fate pursues him, and the god.

His spear in shivers falls; his ample shield

Drops from his arm: his baldric strows the field:

The corslet his astonish’d breast forsakes:

Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes;

Stupid he stares, and all-assistless stands:

Such is the force of more than mortal hands!

A Dardan youth there was, well known to fame,

From Panthus sprung, Euphorbus was his name;

Famed for the manage of the foaming horse,

Skill’d in the dart, and matchless in the course:

Full twenty knights he tumbled from the car,

While yet he learn’d his rudiments of war.

His venturous spear first drew the hero’s gore;

He struck, he wounded, but he durst no more.

Nor, though disarm’d, Patroclus’ fury stood:

But swift withdrew the long-protended wood.

And turn’d him short, and herded in the crowd.

Thus, by an arm divine, and mortal spear,

Wounded, at once, Patroclus yields to fear,

Retires for succour to his social train,

And flies the fate, which heaven decreed, in vain.

Stern Hector, as the bleeding chief he views,

Breaks through the ranks, and his retreat pursues:

The lance arrests him with a mortal wound;

He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound.

With him all Greece was sunk; that moment all

Her yet-surviving heroes seem’d to fall.

So, scorch’d with heat, along the desert score,

The roaming lion meets a bristly boar,

Fast by the spring; they both dispute the flood,

With flaming eyes, and jaws besmear’d with blood;

At length the sovereign savage wins the strife;

And the torn boar resigns his thirst and life.

Patroclus thus, so many chiefs o’erthrown,

So many lives effused, expires his own.

As dying now at Hector’s feet he lies,

He sternly views him, and triumphant cries:

“Lie there, Patroclus! and with thee, the joy

Thy pride once promised, of subverting Troy;

The fancied scenes of Ilion wrapt in flames,

And thy soft pleasures served with captive dames.

Unthinking man! I fought those towers to free,

And guard that beauteous race from lords like thee:

But thou a prey to vultures shalt be made;

Thy own Achilles cannot lend thee aid;

Though much at parting that great chief might say,

And much enjoin thee, this important day.

‘Return not, my brave friend (perhaps he said),

Without the bloody arms of Hector dead.’

He spoke, Patroclus march’d, and thus he sped.”

Supine, and wildly gazing on the skies,

With faint, expiring breath, the chief replies:

“Vain boaster! cease, and know the powers divine!

Jove’s and Apollo’s is this deed, not thine;

To heaven is owed whate’er your own you call,

And heaven itself disarm’d me ere my fall.

Had twenty mortals, each thy match in might,

Opposed me fairly, they had sunk in fight:

By fate and Phoebus was I first o’erthrown,

Euphorbus next; the third mean part thy own.

But thou, imperious! hear my latest breath;

The gods inspire it, and it sounds thy death:

Insulting man, thou shalt be soon as I;

Black fate o’erhangs thee, and thy hour draws nigh;

Even now on life’s last verge I see thee stand,

I see thee fall, and by Achilles’ hand.”

He faints: the soul unwilling wings her way,

(The beauteous body left a load of clay)

Flits to the lone, uncomfortable coast;

A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Then Hector pausing, as his eyes he fed

On the pale carcase, thus address’d the dead:

“From whence this boding speech, the stern decree

Of death denounced, or why denounced to me?

Why not as well Achilles’ fate be given

To Hector’s lance? Who knows the will of heaven?”

Pensive he said; then pressing as he lay

His breathless bosom, tore the lance away;

And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear

He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer.

But swift Automedon with loosen’d reins

Rapt in the chariot o’er the distant plains,

Far from his rage the immortal coursers drove;

The immortal coursers were the gift of Jove.