He said; and darkest clouds of grief o’erspread Achilles’ brow; with both his hands he seiz’d And pour’d upon his head the grimy dust, Marring his graceful visage; and defil’d With black’ning ashes all his costly robes. Stretch’d in the dust his lofty stature lay, As with his hands his flowing locks he tore; Loud was the wailing of the female band, Achilles’ and Patroclus’ prize of war, As round Achilles, rushing out of doors, Beating their breasts, with tott’ring limbs they press’d. In tears beside him stood Antilochus, And in his own Achilles’ hand he held, Groaning in spirit, fearful lest for grief In his own bosom he should sheathe his sword. Loud were his moans; his Goddess-mother heard, Beside her aged father where she sat In the deep ocean caves; she heard, and wept: The Nereids all, in ocean’s depths who dwell, Encircled her around; Cymodoce,[5] Nesaee, Spio, and Cymothoe, The stag-ey’d Halia, and Amphithoe, Actaea, Limnorea, Melite, Doris, and Galatea, Panope; There too were Oreithyia, Clymene, And Amathea with the golden hair, And all the denizens of ocean’s depths. Fill’d was the glassy cave; in unison They beat their breasts, as Thetis led the wail: “Give ear, my sister Nereids all, and learn How deep the grief that in my breast I bear. Me miserable! me, of noblest son Unhappiest mother! me, a son who bore, My brave, my beautiful, of heroes chief! Like a young tree he throve: I tended him, In a rich vineyard as the choicest plant; Till in the beaked ships I sent him forth To war with Troy; him ne’er shall I behold, Returning home, in aged Peleus’ house. E’en while he lives, and sees the light of day, He lives in sorrow; nor, to soothe his grief, My presence can avail; yet will I go, That I may see my dearest child, and learn What grief hath reach’d him, from the war withdrawn.” She said, and left the cave; with her they went, Weeping; before them parted th’ ocean wave. But when they reach’d the fertile shore of Troy, In order due they landed on the beach, Where frequent, round Achilles swift of foot, Were moor’d the vessels of the Myrmidons. There, as he groan’d aloud, beside him stood His Goddess-mother; weeping, in her hands She held his head, while pitying thus she spoke: “Why weeps my son? and what his cause of grief? Speak out, and nought conceal; for all thy pray’r Which with uplifted hands thou mad’st to Jove, He hath fulfill’d, that, flying to their ships, The routed sons of Greece should feel how much They need thine aid, and mourn their insult past.”