And on their mourning soon black night had come, But spake unto Atreides Neleus' son, Nestor, whose own heart bare its load of grief Remembering his own son Antilochus: "O mighty Agamemnon, sceptre-lord Of Argives, from wide-shrilling lamentation Refrain we for this day. None shall withhold Hereafter these from all their heart's desire Of weeping and lamenting many days. But now go to, from aweless Aeacus' son Wash we the foul blood-gouts, and lay we him Upon a couch: unseemly it is to shame The dead by leaving them untended long." So counselled Neleus' son, the passing-wise. Then hasted he his men, and bade them set Caldrons of cold spring-water o'er the flames, And wash the corse, and clothe in vesture fair, Sea-purple, which his mother gave her son At his first sailing against Troy. With speed They did their lord's command: with loving care, All service meetly rendered, on a couch Laid they the mighty fallen, Peleus' son. The Trito-born, the passing-wise, beheld And pitied him, and showered upon his head Ambrosia, which hath virtue aye to keep Taintless, men say, the flesh of warriors slain. Like softly-breathing sleeper dewy-fresh She made him: over that dead face she drew A stern frown, even as when he lay, with wrath Darkening his grim face, clasping his slain friend Patroclus; and she made his frame to be More massive, like a war-god to behold. And wonder seized the Argives, as they thronged And saw the image of a living man, Where all the stately length of Peleus' son Lay on the couch, and seemed as though he slept.