Next, proclamation through the camp was made To purify the host; and in the sea, Obedient to the word, they purified; Then to Apollo solemn rites perform’d With faultless hecatombs of bulls and goats, Upon the margin of the wat’ry waste; And, wreath’d in smoke, the savour rose to Heav’n. The camp thus occupied, the King pursued His threaten’d plan of vengeance; to his side Calling Talthybius and Eurybates, Heralds, and faithful followers, thus he spoke: “Haste to Achilles’ tent, and in your hand Back with you thence the fair Briseis bring: If he refuse to send her, I myself With a sufficient force will bear her thence, Which he may find, perchance, the worse for him.” So spake the monarch, and with stern command Dismiss’d them; with reluctant steps they pass’d Along the margin of the wat’ry waste, Till to the tents and ships they came, where lay The warlike Myrmidons. Their chief they found Sitting beside his tent and dark-ribb’d ship. Achilles mark’d their coming, not well pleas’d: With troubled mien, and awe-struck by the King, They stood, nor dar’d accost him; but himself Divin’d their errand, and address’d them thus: “Welcome, ye messengers of Gods and men, Heralds! approach in safety; not with you, But with Atrides, is my just offence, Who for the fair Briseis sends you here. Go, then, Patroclus, bring the maiden forth, And give her to their hands; but witness ye, Before the blessed Gods and mortal men, And to the face of that injurious King, When he shall need my arm, from shameful rout To save his followers; blinded by his rage, He neither heeds experience of the past Nor scans the future, provident how best To guard his fleet and army from the foe.” He spoke: obedient to his friend and chief, Patroclus led the fair Briseis forth, And gave her to their hands; they to the ships Retrac’d their steps, and with them the fair girl Reluctant went: meanwhile Achilles, plung’d In bitter grief, from all the band apart, Upon the margin of the hoary sea Sat idly gazing on the dark-blue waves; And to his Goddess-mother long he pray’d, With outstretch’d hands, “Oh, mother! since thy son To early death by destiny is doom’d, I might have hop’d the Thunderer on high, Olympian Jove, with honour would have crown’d My little space; but now disgrace is mine; Since Agamemnon, the wide-ruling King, Hath wrested from me, and still holds, my prize.” Weeping, he spoke; his Goddess-mother heard, Beside her aged father where she sat In the deep ocean-caves: ascending quick Through the dark waves, like to a misty cloud, Beside her son she stood; and as he wept, She gently touch’d him with her hand, and said, “Why weeps my son? and whence his cause of grief? Speak out, that I may hear, and share thy pain.”