cry. Confused he wakes; amazement breaks the bands Of golden sleep, and starting from the sands, Pensive he muses with uplifted hands: "'Tis true, 'tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains: The form subsists without the body's aid, Aerial semblance, and an empty shade! This night my friend, so late in battle lost, Stood at my side, a pensive, plaintive ghost: Even now familiar, as in life, he came; Alas! how different! yet how like the same!" Thus while he spoke, each eye grew big with tears: And now the rosy-finger'd morn appears, Shows every mournful face with tears o'erspread, And glares on the pale visage of the dead. But Agamemnon, as the rites demand, With mules and waggons sends a chosen band To load the timber, and the pile to rear; A charge consign'd to Merion's faithful care. With proper instruments they take the road, Axes to cut, and ropes to sling the load. First march the heavy mules, securely slow, O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go:(285) Jumping, high o'er the shrubs of the rough ground, Rattle the clattering cars, and the shock'd axles bound But when arrived at Ida's spreading woods,(286) (Fair Ida, water'd with descending floods,) Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown; Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. The wood the Grecians cleave, prepared to burn; And the slow mules the same rough road return The sturdy woodmen equal burdens bore (Such charge was given them) to the sandy shore; There on the spot which great Achilles show'd, They eased their shoulders, and disposed the load; Circling around the place, where times to come Shall view Patroclus' and Achilles' tomb. The hero bids his martial troops appear High on their cars in all the pomp of war; Each in refulgent arms his limbs attir