As when a lion hath in fight o’erborne A tusked boar, when on the mountain top They two have met, in all their pride of strength, Both parch’d with thirst, around a scanty spring; And vanquish’d by the lion’s force, the boar Hath yielded, gasping; so Menoetius’ son, Great deeds achiev’d, at length beneath the spear Of noble Hector yielded up his life; Who o’er the vanquish’d, thus exulting, spoke: “Patroclus, but of late thou mad’st thy boast To raze our city walls, and in your ships To bear away to your far-distant land, Their days of freedom lost, our Trojan dames: Fool that thou wast! nor knew’st, in their defence, That Hector’s flying coursers scour’d the plain; From them, the bravest of the Trojans, I Avert the day of doom; while on our shores Thy flesh shall glut the carrion birds of Troy. Poor wretch! though brave he be, yet Peleus’ son Avail’d thee nought, when, hanging back himself, With sage advice he sent thee forth to fight: ‘Come not to me, Patroclus, car-borne chief, Nor to the ships return, until thou bear The warrior-slayer Hector’s bloody spoils, Torn from his body;’ such were, I suppose, His counsels; thou, poor fool, becam’st his dupe.” To whom Patroclus thus in accents faint: “Hector, thou boastest loudly now, that Jove, With Phoebus join’d, hath thee with vict’ry crown’d: They wrought my death, who stripp’d me of my arms. Had I to deal with twenty such as thee, They all should perish, vanquish’d by my spear: Me fate hath slain, and Phoebus; and, of men, Euphorbus; thou wast but the third to strike. This too I say, and bear it in thy mind; Not long shalt thou survive me; death e’en now And final doom hangs o’er thee, by the hand Of great Achilles, Peleus’ matchless son.” Thus as he spoke, the gloom of death his eyes O’erspread, and to the shades his spirit fled, Mourning his fate, his youth and strength cut off. To whom, though dead, the noble Hector thus: “Patroclus, why predict my coming fate? Or who can say but fair-hair’d Thetis’ son, Achilles, by my spear may first be slain?” He said, and planting firm his foot, withdrew The brazen spear, and backward drove the dead From off the weapon’s point; then, spear in hand, Intent to slay, Automedon pursued, The godlike follower of Æacides: But him in safety bore th’ immortal steeds, The noble prize the Gods to Peleus gave. ARGUMENT. THE SEVENTH BATTLE, FOR THE BODY OF PATROCLUS.—THE ACTS OF MENELAUS.