Thus Hector spoke; the Trojans cheer’d aloud: Fools, and by Pallas of their sense bereft, Who all applauded Hector’s ill advice, None the sage counsel of Polydamas! Then through the camp they shar’d the ev’ning meal. Meantime the Greeks all night with tears and groans Bewail’d Patroclus: on his comrade’s breast Achilles laid his murder-dealing hands, And led with bitter groans the loud lament. As when the hunters, in the forest’s depth, Have robb’d a bearded lion of his cubs; Too late arriving, he with anger chafes; Then follows, if perchance he may o’ertake, Through many a mountain glen, the hunters’ steps, With grief and fury fill’d; so Peleus’ son, With bitter groans, the Myrmidons address’d: “Vain was, alas! the promise which I gave, Seeking the brave Menoetius to console, To bring to Opus back his gallant son, Rich with his share of spoil from Troy o’erthrown; But Jove fulfils not all that man designs: For us hath fate decreed, that here in Troy We two one soil should redden with our blood; Nor me, returning to my native land, Shall aged Peleus in his halls receive, Nor Thetis; here must earth retain my bones. But since, Patroclus, I am doom’d on earth Behind thee to remain, thy fun’ral rites I will not celebrate, till Hector’s arms, And head, thy haughty slayer’s, here I bring; And on thy pyre twelve noble sons of Troy Will sacrifice, in vengeance of thy death. Thou by our beaked ships till then must lie; And weeping o’er thee shall deep-bosom’d dames, Trojan and Dardan, mourn both night and day; The prizes of our toil, when wealthy towns Before our valour and our spears have fall’n.” He said, and bade his comrades on the fire An ample tripod place, without delay To cleanse Patroclus from the bloody gore: They on the burning fire the tripod plac’d, With water fill’d, and kindled wood beneath. Around the bellying tripod rose the flames, Heating the bath; within the glitt’ring brass Soon as the water boil’d, they wash’d the corpse, With lissom oils anointing, and the wounds With fragrant ointments fill’d, of nine years old; Then in fine linen they the body wrapp’d From head to feet, and laid it on a couch. And cover’d over with a fair white sheet. All night around Achilles swift of foot The Myrmidons with tears Patroclus mourn’d. To Juno then, his sister and his wife, Thus Saturn’s son: “At length thou hast thy will, Imperial Juno, who hast stirr’d to war Achilles swift of foot; well might one deem These long-hair’d Greeks from thee deriv’d their birth.” To whom in answer thus the stag-ey’d Queen: “What words, dread son of Saturn, dost thou speak? E’en man, though mortal, and inferior far To us in wisdom, might so much effect Against his fellow-man; then how should I, By double title chief of Goddesses, First by my birth, and next because thy wife I boast me, thine, o’er all the Gods supreme, Not work my vengeance on the Trojan race?”