warriors turn'd his face: Yet still the brother-kings of Atreus' race, Nestor, Idomeneus, Ulysses sage, And Phoenix, strive to calm his grief and rage: His rage they calm not, nor his grief control; He groans, he raves, he sorrows from his soul. "Thou too, Patroclus! (thus his heart he vents) Once spread the inviting banquet in our tents: Thy sweet society, thy winning care, Once stay'd Achilles, rushing to the war. But now, alas! to death's cold arms resign'd, What banquet but revenge can glad my mind? What greater sorrow could afflict my breast, What more if hoary Peleus were deceased? Who now, perhaps, in Phthia dreads to hear His son's sad fate, and drops a tender tear. What more, should Neoptolemus the brave, My only offspring, sink into the grave? If yet that offspring lives; (I distant far, Of all neglectful, wage a hateful war.) I could not this, this cruel stroke attend; Fate claim'd Achilles, but might spare his friend. I hoped Patroclus might survive, to rear My tender orphan with a parent's care, From Scyros' isle conduct him o'er the main, And glad his eyes with his paternal reign, The lofty palace, and the large domain. For Peleus breathes no more the vital air; Or drags a wretched life of age and care, But till the news of my sad fate invades His hastening soul, and sinks him to the shades." Sighing he said: his grief the heroes join'd, Each stole a tear for what he left behind. Their mingled grief the sire of heaven survey'd, And thus with pity to his blue-eyed maid: "Is then Achilles now no more thy care, And dost thou thus desert the great in war? Lo, where yon sails their canvas wings extend, All comfortless he sits, and wails his friend: Ere thirst and want his forces have oppress'd, Haste and infuse ambrosia in his breast." He spoke; and sudden, at the word of Jove, Shot the descending goddess from above. So swift through ether the shrill harpy springs,