Wild converse with some phantom of the brain;

Now the Atridae, and Odysseus now,

He mocked with peals of laughter, vaunting loud

The vengeance he had wreaked on them. Anon

He rushed indoors again; and then in time

With painful struggles was himself again.

And as he scanned the havoc all around,

He smote his head and wailed and sank to earth,

A wreck among the wreck of slaughtered sheep,

Digging into his hair his clenchèd nails.

At first⁠—a long, long while⁠—he spake no word,

Then against me he uttered those dire threats,

If I declared not all that had befallen,

Bidding me tell him in what plight he stood.

And I a-tremble told him what had chanced,

So far as I had knowledge. Whereat he

Broke into lamentations, piercing, shrill,

Such as I ne’er had heard from him before.

For ’twas his creed that wailings and lament

Are for the craven and faint-hearts; no shrill

Complaint escaped him ever; his low moan

Was like the muffled bellowing of a bull.

But now, confounded in his abject woe,

Refusing food or drink, he sits there still,

Just where he fell amid the carcases

Of the slain sheep and cattle. And ’tis plain

He meditates some mischief, so I read

His muttered exclamations and laments.

Come, friends, and help me, if so be ye can⁠—

This was my errand⁠—men in case like his

Are won to reason by the words of friends.