New as they were to that infernal shore, The suitors stopp’d, and gazed the hero o’er. When, moving slow, the regal form they view’d Of great Atrides: him in pomp pursued And solemn sadness through the gloom of hell, The train of those who by AEgysthus fell: “O mighty chief! (Pelides thus began) Honour’d by Jove above the lot of man! King of a hundred kings! to whom resign’d The strongest, bravest, greatest of mankind Comest thou the first, to view this dreary state? And was the noblest, the first mark of Fate, Condemn’d to pay the great arrear so soon, The lot, which all lament, and none can shun! Oh! better hadst thou sunk in Trojan ground, With all thy full-blown honours cover’d round; Then grateful Greece with streaming eyes might raise Historic marbles to record thy praise: Thy praise eternal on the faithful stone Had with transmissive glories graced thy son. But heavier fates were destined to attend: What man is happy, till he knows his end?” “O son of Peleus! greater than mankind! (Thus Agamemnon’s kingly shade rejoin’d) Thrice happy thou, to press the martial plain ’Midst heaps of heroes in thy quarrel slain: In clouds of smoke raised by the noble fray, Great and terrific e’en in death you lay, And deluges of blood flow’d round you every way. Nor ceased the strife till Jove himself opposed, And all in Tempests the dire evening closed. Then to the fleet we bore thy honour’d load, And decent on the funeral bed bestow’d; Then unguents sweet and tepid streams we shed; Tears flow’d from every eye, and o’er the dead Each clipp’d the curling honours of his head. Struck at the news, thy azure mother came, The sea-green sisters waited on the dame: A voice of loud lament through all the main Was heard; and terror seized the Grecian train: Back to their ships the frighted host had fled; But Nestor spoke, they listen’d and obey’d (From old experience Nestor’s counsel springs, And long vicissitudes of human things): ‘Forbear your flight: fair Thetis from the main To mourn Achilles leads her azure train.’ Around thee stand the daughters of the deep, Robe thee in heavenly vests, and round thee weep: Round thee, the Muses, with alternate strain, In ever-consecrating verse, complain. Each warlike Greek the moving music hears, And iron-hearted heroes melt in tears. Till seventeen nights and seventeen days return’d All that was mortal or immortal mourn’d, To flames we gave thee, the succeeding day, And fatted sheep and sable oxen slay; With oils and honey blazed the augmented fires, And, like a god adorn’d, thy earthly part expires. Unnumber’d warriors round the burning pile Urge the fleet coursers or the racer’s toil; Thick clouds of dust o’er all the circle rise, And the mix’d clamour thunders in the skies. Soon as absorb’d in all-embracing flame Sunk what was mortal of thy mighty name, We then collect thy snowy bones, and place With wines and unguents in a golden vase (The vase to Thetis Bacchus gave of old,