He said; they listen’d, and his words obey’d; Then busily the ev’ning meal prepar’d, And shar’d the social feast; nor lack’d there aught. The rage of thirst and hunger satisfied, Each to their sev’ral tents the rest repair’d; But on the many-dashing ocean’s shore Pelides lay, amid his Myrmidons, With bitter groans; in a clear space he lay, Where broke the waves, continuous, on the beach. There, circumfus’d around him, gentle sleep, Lulling the sorrows of his heart to rest, O’ercame his senses; for the hot pursuit Of Hector round the breezy heights of Troy His active limbs had wearied: as he slept, Sudden appear’d Patroclus’ mournful shade, His very self; his height, and beauteous eyes, And voice; the very garb he wont to wear: Above his head it stood, and thus it spoke: “Sleep’st thou, Achilles, mindless of thy friend, Neglecting, not the living, but the dead? Hasten my fun’ral rites, that I may pass Through Hades’ gloomy gates; ere those be done, The spirits and spectres of departed men Drive me far from them, nor allow to cross Th’ abhorred river; but forlorn and sad I wander through the wide-spread realms of night. And give me now thy hand, whereon to weep; For never more, when laid upon the pyre, Shall I return from Hades; never more, Apart from all our comrades, shall we two, As friends, sweet counsel take; for me, stern Death, The common lot of man, has op’d his mouth; Thou too, Achilles, rival of the Gods, Art destin’d here beneath the walls of Troy To meet thy doom; yet one thing must I add, And make, if thou wilt grant it, one request. Let not my bones be laid apart from thine, Achilles, but together, as our youth Was spent together in thy father’s house, Since first my sire Menoetius me a boy From Opus brought, a luckless homicide, Who of Amphidamas, by evil chance, Had slain the son, disputing o’er the dice: Me noble Peleus in his house receiv’d, And kindly nurs’d, and thine attendant nam’d; So in one urn be now our bones enclos’d, The golden vase, thy Goddess-mother’s gift.” Whom answer’d thus Achilles, swift of foot: “Why art thou here, lov’d being? why on me These sev’ral charges lay? whate’er thou bidd’st Will I perform, and all thy mind fulfil; But draw thou near; and in one short embrace, Let us, while yet we may, our grief indulge.” Thus as he spoke, he spread his longing arms, But nought he clasp’d; and with a wailing cry, Vanish’d, like smoke, the spirit beneath the earth. Up sprang Achilles, all amaz’d, and smote His hands together, and lamenting cried: “O Heav’n, there are then, in the realms below, Spirits and spectres, unsubstantial all; For through the night Patroclus’ shade hath stood, Weeping and wailing, at my side, and told His bidding; th’ image of himself it seem’d.”