Weeping, Achilles spoke; and with him wept The Elders; each to fond remembrance mov’d Of all that in his home himself had left. The son of Saturn, pitying, saw their grief, And Pallas thus with winged words address’d: “My child, dost thou a hero’s cause forsake, Or does Achilles claim no more thy care, Who sits in sorrow by the high-prow’d ships, Mourning his comrade slain? the others all Partake the meal, while he from food abstains: Then haste thee, and, with hunger lest he faint, Drop nectar and ambrosia on his breast.” His words fresh impulse gave to Pallas’ zeal: Down, like the long-wing’d falcon, shrill of voice, Thro’ the clear sky she swoop’d: and while the Greeks Arm’d for the fight, Achilles she approach’d, And nectar and ambrosia on his breast Distill’d, lest hunger should his strength subdue; Back to her mighty Father’s ample house Returning, as from out the ships they pour’d. Thick as the snow-flakes that from Heav’n descend, Before the sky-born Boreas’ chilling blast; So thick, outpouring from the ships, the stream Of helmets polish’d bright, and bossy shields, And breastplates firmly brac’d, and ashen spears: Their brightness flash’d to Heav’n; and laugh’d the Earth Beneath the brazen glare; loud rang the tramp Of armed men: Achilles in the midst, The godlike chief, in dazzling arms array’d. His teeth were gnashing audibly; his eye Blaz’d with, the light of fire; but in his heart Was grief unbearable; with furious wrath He burn’d against the Trojans, as he donn’d The heav’nly gifts, the work of Vulcan’s hand. First on his legs the well-wrought greaves he fix’d, Fasten’d with silver clasps; his breastplate next Around his chest; and o’er his shoulders flung His silver-studded sword, with blade of brass; Then took his vast and weighty shield, whence gleam’d A light refulgent as the full-orb’d moon; Or as to seamen o’er the wave is borne The watchfire’s light, which, high among the hills, Some shepherd kindles in his lonely fold: As they, reluctant, by the stormy winds, Far from their friends are o’er the waters driv’n; So from Achilles’ shield, bright, richly wrought, The light was thrown. The weighty helm he rais’d, And plac’d it on his head; the plumed helm Shone like a star; and wav’d the hairs of gold. Thick-set by Vulcan in the gleaming crest. Then all the arms Achilles prov’d, to know If well they fitted to his graceful limbs: Like wings, they seem’d to lift him from the ground. Last, from its case he drew his father’s spear, Long, pond’rous, tough; not one of all the Greeks, None, save Achilles’ self, could poise that spear; The far-fam’d Pelian ash, which to his sire, On Pelion’s summit fell’d, to be the bane Of mighty chiefs, the Centaur Chiron gave. With care Automedon and Alcimus The horses yok’d, with collars fair attach’d: Plac’d in their mouths the bits, and pass’d the reins Back to the well-built car: Automedon Sprang on the car, with shining lash in hand: Behind, Achilles came, array’d for war,