“‘But, say, resides my son in royal port, In rich Orchomenos, or Sparta’s court? Or say in Pyle? for yet he views the light, Nor glides a phantom through the realms of night.’ “Then I: ‘Thy suit is vain, nor can I say If yet he breathes in realms of cheerful day; Or pale or wan beholds these nether skies; Truth I revere; for wisdom never lies.’ “Thus in a tide of tears our sorrows flow, And add new horror to the realms of woe; Till side by side along the dreary coast Advanced Achilles’ and Patroclus’ ghost, A friendly pair! near these the Pylian stray’d, And towering Ajax, an illustrious shade! War was his joy, and pleased with loud alarms, None but Pelides brighter shone in arms. “Through the thick gloom his friend Achilles knew, And as he speaks the tears descend in dew. “‘Comest thou alive to view the Stygian bounds, Where the wan spectres walk eternal rounds; Nor fear’st the dark and dismal waste to tread, Throng’d with pale ghosts, familiar with the dead?’ “To whom with sighs: ‘I pass these dreadful gates To seek the Theban, and consult the Fates; For still, distress’d, I rove from coast to coast, Lost to my friends, and to my country lost. But sure the eye of Time beholds no name So bless’d as thine in all the rolls of fame; Alive we hail’d thee with our guardian gods, And dead thou rulest a king in these abodes.’ “‘Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom, Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom. Rather I’d choose laboriously to bear A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, Than reign the sceptred monarch of the dead. But say, if in my steps my son proceeds, And emulates his godlike father’s deeds? If at the clash of arms, and shout of foes, Swells his bold heart, his bosom nobly glows? Say if my sire, the reverend Peleus, reigns, Great in his Phthia, and his throne maintains; Or, weak and old, my youthful arm demands, To fix the sceptre steadfast in his hands? O might the lamp of life rekindled burn, And death release me from the silent urn! This arm, that thunder’d o’er the Phrygian plain, And swell’d the ground with mountains of the slain, Should vindicate my injured father’s fame, Crush the proud rebel, and assert his claim.’