“Sperchius, in vain my father made a vow That I, returning to my native shore, Should bring my hair, an offering to thee, And slay a consecrated hecatomb, And burn a sacrifice of fifty rams, Beside the springs where in a sacred field Thy fragrant altar stands. Such was the vow Made by the aged man, yet hast thou not Fulfilled his wish. And now, since I no more Shall see my native land, the land I love, Let the slain hero bear these locks away.”
He spake, and in his dear companion’s hands He placed the hair, and all around were moved To deeper grief; the setting sun had left The host lamenting, had not Peleus’ son Addressed Atrides, standing at his side:—
“Atrides, thou whose word the Greeks obey Most readily, all mourning has an end. Dismiss the people from the pyre to take Their evening meal, while we with whom it rests To pay these mournful duties to the dead Will close the rites; but let the chiefs remain.”
This when the monarch Agamemnon heard, Instantly he dismissed to their good ships The people. They who had the dead in charge Remained, and heaped the wood, and built a pyre A hundred feet each way from side to side. With sorrowful hearts they raised and laid the corse Upon the summit. Then they flayed and dressed Before it many fatlings of the flock, And oxen with curved feet and crooked horns. From these magnanimous Achilles took The fat, and covered with it carefully The dead from head to foot. Beside the bier, And leaning toward it, jars of honey and oil He placed, and flung, with many a deep-drawn sigh, Twelve high-necked steeds upon the pile. Nine hounds There were, which from the table of the prince Were daily fed; of these Achilles struck The heads from two, and laid them on the wood, And after these, and last, twelve gallant sons Of the brave Trojans, butchered by the sword; For he was bent on evil. To the pile He put the iron violence of fire, And, wailing, called by name the friend he loved:—