So spake he, meditating outrages To noble Hector’s corse, which he had flung Beside the bier of Menoetiades, Amid the dust. The Myrmidons unbraced Their shining brazen armor, and unyoked Their neighing steeds, and sat in thick array Beside the ship of swift Aeacides, While he set forth a sumptuous funeral feast. Many a white ox, that day, beneath the axe Fell to the earth, and many bleating goats And sheep were slain, and many fattened swine, White-toothed, were stretched to roast before the flame Of Vulcan, and around the corse the earth Floated with blood. Meantime the Grecian chiefs To noble Agamemnon’s royal tent Led the swift son of Peleus, though he went Unwillingly, such anger for the death Of his companion burned within his heart. As soon as they had reached his tent, the king Bade the clear-throated heralds o’er the fire Place a huge tripod, that Pelides there Might wash away the bloody stains he bore. Yet would he not, and with an oath replied:—
“No! By the greatest and the best of gods, By Jupiter, I may not plunge my head Into the bath before I lay my friend Patroclus on the fire, and heap his mound, And till my hair is shorn; for never more In life will be so great a sorrow mine. But now attend we to this mournful feast. And with the morn, O king of men, command That wood be brought, and all things duly done Which may beseem a warrior who goes down Into the lower darkness. Let the flames Seize fiercely and consume him from our sight, And leave the people to the tasks of war.”
He spake; they hearkened and obeyed, and all Prepared with diligent hands the meal, and each Sat down and took his portion of the feast. And when their thirst and hunger were allayed, Most to their tents betook them and to rest. But Peleus’ son, lamenting bitterly, Lay down among his Myrmidons, beside The murmuring ocean, in the open space, Where plashed the billows on the beach. And there, When slumber, bringing respite from his cares, Came softly and enfolded him—for much His shapely limbs were wearied with the chase Of Hector round the windy Ilium’s walls— The soul of his poor friend Patroclus came,