To whom Achilles, deeply groaning, thus: “Mother, all this indeed hath Jove fulfill’d; Yet what avails it, since my dearest friend Is slain, Patroclus? whom I honour’d most Of all my comrades, lov’d him as my soul. Him have I lost: and Hector from his corpse Hath stripp’d those arms, those weighty, beauteous arms, A marvel to behold, which from the Gods Peleus receiv’d, a glorious gift, that day When they consign’d thee to a mortal’s bed. How better were it, if thy lot had been Still ’mid the Ocean deities to dwell, And Peleus had espous’d a mortal bride! For now is bitter grief for thee in store, Mourning thy son; whom to his home return’d Thou never more shalt see; nor would I wish To live, and move amid my fellow-men, Unless that Hector, vanquish’d by my spear, May lose his forfeit life, and pay the price Of foul dishonour to Patroclus done.” To whom, her tears o’erflowing, Thetis thus: “E’en as thou sayst, my son, thy term is short; Nor long shall Hector’s fate precede thine own.” Achilles, answ’ring, spoke in passionate grief: “Would I might die this hour, who fail’d to save My comrade slain! far from his native land He died, sore needing my protecting arm; And I, who ne’er again must see my home, Nor to Patroclus, nor the many Greeks Whom Hector’s hand hath slain, have render’d aid; But idly here I sit, cumb’ring the ground: I, who amid the Greeks no equal own In fight; to others, in debate, I yield. Accurs’d of Gods and men be hateful strife And anger, which to violence provokes E’en temp’rate souls: though sweeter be its taste Than dropping honey, in the heart of man Swelling, like smoke; such anger in my soul Hath Agamemnon kindled, King of men. But pass we that; though still my heart be sore, Yet will I school my angry spirit down. In search of Hector now, of him who slew My friend, I go; prepar’d to meet my death, When Jove shall will it, and th’ Immortals all. From death not e’en the might of Hercules, Though best belov’d of Saturn’s son, could fly, By fate and Juno’s bitter wrath subdued. I too, since such my doom, must lie in death; Yet, ere I die, immortal fame will win; And from their delicate cheeks, deep-bosom’d dames, Dardan and Trojan, bitter tears shall wipe, And groan in anguish; then shall all men know How long I have been absent from the field; Then, though thou love me, seek not from the war To stay my steps; for bootless were thy speech.” Whom answer’d thus the silver-footed Queen: “True are thy words, my son; and good it is, And commendable, from the stroke of death To save a worsted comrade; but thine arms, Thy brazen, flashing arms, the Trojans hold: Them Hector of the glancing helm himself Bears on his breast, exulting; yet not long Shall be his triumph, for his doom is nigh. But thou, engage not in the toils of war, Until thine eyes again behold me here; For with to-morrow’s sun will I return With arms of heav’nly mould, by Vulcan wrought.”