He spake, and a black cloud of sorrow came Over the chieftain. Grasping in both hands The ashes of the hearth, he showered them o’er His head, and soiled with them his noble face. They clung in dark lumps to his comely vest. Prone in the dust of earth, at his full length, And tearing his disordered hair, he lay. Then wailed aloud the maidens whom in war He and Patroclus captured. Forth they came, And, thronging round him, smote their breasts and swooned. Antilochus mourned also, and shed tears, Holding Achilles by the hand, for much His generous nature dreaded that the chief Might aim at his own throat the sword he wore.