To make it reach to Ilion, the Grecians to their fleet, A cruel tumult they stirr’d up, and such as should Mars see’t (That horrid hurrier of men) or She that betters him, Minerva, never so incens’d, they could not disesteem. So baneful a contention did Jove that day extend Of men and horse about the slain. Of whom his god-like friend Had no instruction, so far off, and underneath the wall Of Troy, that conflict was maintain’d; which was not thought at all By great Achilles, since he charg’d, that having set his foot Upon the ports, he would retire, well knowing Troy no boot For his assaults without himself, since not by him as well He knew it was to be subdu’d. His mother oft would tell The mind of mighty Jove therein, oft hearing it in heav’n; But of that great ill to his friend was no instruction giv’n By careful Thetis. By degrees must ill events be known. The foes cleft one to other still, about the overthrown. His death with death infected both. Ev’n private Greeks would say Either to other: “’Twere a shame, for us to go our way, And let the Trojans bear to Troy the praise of such a prise! Which, let the black earth gasp, and drink our blood for sacrifice, Before we suffer. ’Tis an act much less infortunate, And then would those of Troy resolve, though certainly our fate Will fell us altogether here. Of all not turn a face.” Thus either side his fellows’ strength excited past his place, And thus through all th’ unfruitful air, an iron sound ascended Up to the golden firmament; when strange affects contended In these immortal heav’n-bred horse of great Æacides, Whom (once remov’d from forth the fight) a sudden sense did seize Of good Patroclus’ death, whose hands they oft had undergone, And bitterly they wept for him. Nor could Automedon With any manage make them stir, oft use the scourge to them, Oft use his fairest speech, as oft threats never so extreme, They neither to the Hellespont would bear him, nor the fight; But still as any tombstone lays his never stirréd weight On some good man or woman’s grave for rites of funeral; So unremovéd stood these steeds, their heads to earth let fall, And warm tears gushing from their eyes, with passionate desire Of their kind manager; their manes, that flourish’d with the fire Of endless youth allotted them, fell through the yoky sphere, Ruthfully ruffled and defil’d, Jove saw their heavy cheer, And, pitying them, spake to his mind: “Poor wretched beasts,” said he, “Why gave we you t’ a mortal king, when immortality And incapacity of age so dignifies your states? Was it to haste the miseries pour’d out on human fates? Of all the miserablest things that breathe and creep on earth, No one more wretched is than man. And for your deathless birth, Hector must fail to make you prise. Is’t not enough he wears, And glories vainly in those arms? Your chariots and rich gears, Besides you, are too much for him. Your knees and spirits again My care of you shall fill with strength, that so ye may sustain