And passing heavy grew the hearts of all, Thinking: "Now shall we perish by the hands Of Trojans!" Then by those dark ships they thought Of white-haired fathers left in halls afar, Of wives new-wedded, who by couches cold Mourned, waiting, waiting, with their tender babes For husbands unreturning; and they groaned In bitterness of soul. A passion of grief Came o'er their hearts; they fell upon their faces On the deep sand flung down, and wept as men All comfortless round Peleus' mighty son, And clutched and plucked out by the roots their hair, And east upon their heads defiling sand. Their cry was like the cry that goeth up From folk that after battle by their walls Are slaughtered, when their maddened foes set fire To a great city, and slay in heaps on heaps Her people, and make spoil of all her wealth; So wild and high they wailed beside the sea, Because the Danaans' champion, Aeacus' son, Lay, grand in death, by a God's arrow slain, As Ares lay, when She of the Mighty Father With that huge stone down dashed him on Troy's plain. Ceaselessly wailed the Myrmidons Achilles, A ring of mourners round the kingly dead, That kind heart, friend alike to each and all, To no man arrogant nor hard of mood, But ever tempering strength with courtesy. Then Aias first, deep-groaning, uttered forth His yearning o'er his father's brother's son God-stricken--ay, no man had smitten him Of all upon the wide-wayed earth that dwell! Him glorious Aias heavy-hearted mourned, Now wandering to the tent of Peleus' son, Now cast down all his length, a giant form, On the sea-sands; and thus lamented he: "Achilles, shield and sword of Argive men, Thou hast died in Troy, from Phthia's plains afar, Smitten unwares by that accursed shaft, Such thing as weakling dastards aim in fight! For none who trusts in wielding the great shield, None who for war can skill to set the helm Upon his brows, and sway the spear in grip, And cleave the brass about the breasts of foes, Warreth with arrows, shrinking from the fray. Not man to man he met thee, whoso smote; Else woundless never had he 'scaped thy lance! But haply Zeus purposed to ruin all, And maketh all our toil and travail vain-- Ay, now will grant the Trojans victory Who from Achaea now hath reft her shield! Ah me! how shall old Peleus in his halls Take up the burden of a mighty grief Now in his joyless age! His heart shall break At the mere rumour of it. Better so, Thus in a moment to forget all pain. But if these evil tidings slay him not, Ah, laden with sore sorrow eld shall come Upon him, eating out his heart with grief By a lone hearth Peleus so passing dear Once to the Blessed! But the Gods vouchsafe No perfect happiness to hapless men."