And some among the large-souled sons of Troy Would say: “O friends, though all of us should fall Beside this corpse, let no one turn and flee.” Thus they, encouraging each other, spake, And thus the fight went on. The iron din Rose through the waste air to the brazen heaven.
Meantime aloof from battle stood the steeds Of Peleus’ son, and sorrowed when they knew That he who guided them lay stretched in dust By Hector’s slaughtering hand. Automedon, The brave son of Diores, often tried The lash, and gentle words as oft, and oft Shouted forth threats; yet neither would they move Toward the broad Hellespont, where lay the fleet, Nor toward the Greeks in combat, but remained Motionless as a funeral column, reared To mark a man’s or woman’s tomb. So stood The coursers yoked to that magnificent car, With drooping heads, and tears that from their lids Flowed hot, for sorrow at the loss of him Who was their charioteer, and their fair manes, Sweeping the yoke below, were foul with dust. The son of Saturn saw their grief, and shook His head in pity, saying to himself:—
“Why did the gods bestow you, luckless pair, On Peleus—on a king of mortal birth— You who shall never feel old age or death? Was it that ye might share with human-kind Their sorrows? for the race