Thetis brings to her son the armour made by Vulcan. She preserves the body of his friend from corruption, and commands him to assemble the army, to declare his resentment at an end. Agamemnon and Achilles are solemnly reconciled: the speeches, presents, and ceremonies on that occasion. Achilles is with great difficulty persuaded to refrain from the battle till the troops have refreshed themselves, by the advice of Ulysses. The presents are conveyed to the tent of Achilles: where Briseis laments over the body of Patroclus. The hero obstinately refuses all repast, and gives himself up to lamentations for his friend. Minerva descends to strengthen him, by the order of Jupiter. He arms for the fight; his appearance described. He addresses himself to his horses, and reproaches them with the death of Patroclus. One of them is miraculously endued with voice, and inspired to prophesy his fate; but the hero, not astonished by that prodigy, rushes with fury to the combat. The thirtieth day. The scene is on the sea-shore. BOOK XIX. Now morn in saffron robe, from th’ ocean stream Ascending, light diffus’d o’er Gods and men; As Thetis, to the ships returning, bore The gift of Vulcan; there her son she found, Who o’er Patroclus hung in bitter grief; Around him mourn’d his comrades; in the midst She stood, and clasp’d his hand, as thus she spoke: “Leave we, my son, though deep our grief, the dead; Here let him lie, since Heav’n hath doom’d his fall; But thou these arms receive, by Vulcan sent, Fairer than e’er on mortal breast were borne.” The arms before Achilles, as she spoke, The Goddess laid; loud rang the wondrous work. With awe the Myrmidons beheld; nor dar’d Affront the sight: but as Achilles gaz’d, More fiery burn’d his wrath; beneath his brows His eyes like lightning flash’d; with fierce delight He seiz’d the glorious gift: and when his soul Had feasted on the miracle of art, To Thetis thus his winged words address’d: “Mother, the God hath giv’n me arms indeed, Worthy a God, and such as mortal man Could never forge; I go to arm me straight; Yet fear I for Menoetius’ noble son, Lest in his spear-inflicted wounds the flies May gender worms, and desecrate the dead, And, life extinct, corruption reach his flesh.” Whom answer’d thus the silver-footed Queen: “Let not such fears, my son, disturb thy mind: I will myself the swarms of flies disperse, That on the flesh of slaughter’d warriors prey: And should he here remain a year complete, Still should his flesh be firm and fresh as now: But thou to council call the chiefs of Greece; Against the monarch Agamemnon there, The leader of the host, abjure thy wrath; Then arm thee quickly, and put on thy might.” Her words with dauntless courage fill’d his breast. She in Patroclus’ nostrils, to preserve His flesh, red nectar and ambrosia pour’d.