Greece, in close order, and collected might, Yet suffers least, and sways the wavering fight; Fierce as conflicting fires the combat burns, And now it rises, now it sinks by turns. In one thick darkness all the fight was lost; The sun, the moon, and all the ethereal host Seem’d as extinct: day ravish’d from their eyes, And all heaven’s splendours blotted from the skies. Such o’er Patroclus’ body hung the night, The rest in sunshine fought, and open light; Unclouded there, the aerial azure spread, No vapour rested on the mountain’s head, The golden sun pour’d forth a stronger ray, And all the broad expansion flamed with day. Dispersed around the plain, by fits they fight, And here and there their scatter’d arrows light: But death and darkness o’er the carcase spread, There burn’d the war, and there the mighty bled. Meanwhile the sons of Nestor, in the rear, (Their fellows routed,) toss the distant spear, And skirmish wide: so Nestor gave command, When from the ships he sent the Pylian band. The youthful brothers thus for fame contend, Nor knew the fortune of Achilles’ friend; In thought they view’d him still, with martial joy, Glorious in arms, and dealing death to Troy. But round the corse the heroes pant for breath, And thick and heavy grows the work of death: O’erlabour’d now, with dust, and sweat, and gore, Their knees, their legs, their feet, are covered o’er; Drops follow drops, the clouds on clouds arise, And carnage clogs their hands, and darkness fills their eyes. As when a slaughter’d bull’s yet reeking hide, Strain’d with full force, and tugg’d from side to side, The brawny curriers stretch; and labour o’er The extended surface, drunk with fat and gore: So tugging round the corse both armies stood; The mangled body bathed in sweat and blood; While Greeks and Ilians equal strength employ, Now to the ships to force it, now to Troy. Not Pallas’ self, her breast when fury warms, Nor he whose anger sets the world in arms, Could blame this scene; such rage, such horror reign’d; Such, Jove to honour the great dead ordain’d. Achilles in his ships at distance lay, Nor knew the fatal fortune of the day; He, yet unconscious of Patroclus’ fall, In dust extended under Ilion’s wall, Expects him glorious from the conquered plain, And for his wish’d return prepares in vain; Though well he knew, to make proud Ilion bend Was more than heaven had destined to his friend. Perhaps to him: this Thetis had reveal’d; The rest, in pity to her son, conceal’d. Still raged the conflict round the hero dead, And heaps on heaps by mutual wounds they bled. “Cursed be the man (even private Greeks would say) Who dares desert this well-disputed day! First may the cleaving earth before our eyes Gape wide, and drink our blood for sacrifice; First perish all, ere haughty Troy shall boast We lost Patroclus, and our glory lost!” Thus they: while with one voice the Trojans said, “Grant this day, Jove! or heap us on the dead!”