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ACHILLES and the Myrmidons do honour to the body of Patroclus. After the funeral feast, he retires to the sea shore, where, falling asleep, the ghost of his friend appears to him, and demands the rites of burial; the next morning the soldiers are sent with mules and waggons to fetch wood for the pyre. The funeral procession, and the offering their hair to the dead. Achilles sacrifices several animals, and lastly twelve Trojan captives, at the pile; then sets fire to it. He pays libations to the winds, which (at the instance of Iris) rise, and raise the flames. When the pile has burned all night, they gather the bones, place them in an urn of gold, and raise the tomb. Achilles institutes the funeral games: the chariot-race, the fight of the cestus, the wrestling, the foot-race, the single combat, the discus, the shooting with arrows, the darting the javelin: the various descriptions of which, and the various success of the several antagonists, make the greatest part of the book.

In this book ends the thirtieth day. The night following, the ghost of Patroclus appears to Achilles: the one and thirtieth day is employed in felling the timber for the pile; the two and thirtieth in burning it; and the three and thirtieth in the games. The scene is generally on the sea-shore.

THUS, humbled in the dust, the pensive train
Through the sad city mourn'd her hero slain.
The body soil'd with dust, and black with gore,
Lies on broad Hellespont's resounding shore:
The Grecians seek their ships, and clear the strand,
All, but the martial Myrmidonian band;
These yet assembled great Achilles holds,
And the stern purpose of his mind unfolds :
"Not yet, my brave companions of the war,
Release your smoking coursers from the car;
But, with his chariot each in order led,
Perform due honours to Patroclus dead.
Ere yet from rest or food we seek relief,
Some rites remain, to glut our rage of grief."
The troops obey'd; and thrice in order led
(Achilles first) their coursers round the dead;
And thrice their sorrows and laments renew;
Tears bathe their arms, and tears the sands bedew.
For such a warrior Thetis aids their woe, [flow.
Melts their strong hearts, and bids their eyes to
But chief, Pelides: thick succeeding sighs
Burst from his heart, and torrents from his eyes :
His slaughtering hands, yet red with blood, he laid
On his dead friend's cold breast, and thus he said:
"All hail, Patroclus! let thy honour'd ghost
Bear, and rejoice, on Pluto's dreary coast;

Behold! Achilles' promise is complete ;
The bloody Hector stretch'd before thy feet.
Lo! to the dogs his carcase I resign;
And twelve sad victims, of the Trojan line,
Sacred to vengeance, instant, shall expire;
Their lives effus'd around thy funeral pyre."
Gloomy he said, and (horrible to view)
Before the bier the bleeding Hector threw,
Prone on the dust. The Myrmidons around
Unbrac'd their armour, and the steeds unbound.
All to Achilles' sable ship repair,
Frequent and full, the genial feast to share.
Now from the well-fed swine black smokes aspire,
The huge ox bellowing falls; with feebler cries
The bristly victims hissing o'er the fire:
Expires the goat; the sheep in silence dies.
Around the hero's prostrate body flow'd,
And now a band of Argive monarchs brings
In one promiscuous stream, the reeking blood.
From his dead friend the pensive warrior went,
The glorious victor to the king of kings.
With steps unwilling, to the regal tent.
Th' attending heralds, as by office bound,
To cleanse his conquering hands from hostile gore,
With kindled flames the tripod vase surround;
They urg'd in vain; the chief refus'd, and swore:
"No drop shall touch me, by almighty Jove!
The first and greatest of the gods above!
Till on the pyre I place thee; till I rear
Some ease at least those pious rites may give,
The grassy mound, and clip thy sacred hair:
And soothe my sorrows while I bear to live.
Howe'er, reluctant as I am, I stay,
And share your feast; but, with the dawn of day,
(O king of men!) it claims thy royal care,
That Greece the warrior's funeral pile prepare.
And bid the forests fall (such rites are paid
To heroes slumbering in eternal shade).
Then, when his earthly part shall mount in fire,
Let the leagued squadrons to their post retire."
He spoke; they hear him, and the word obey;
The rage of hunger and of thirst allay,
Then ease in sleep the labours of the day.
But great Pelides stretch'd along the shore,
Where dash'd on rocks the broken billows roar,
Lies inly groaning; while on either hand
The martial Myrmidons confus'dly stand.
Tir'd with his chase around the Trojan wall;
Along the grass his languid members fall,
Hush'd by the murmurs of the rolling deep,
At length he sinks in the soft arms of sleep.
When, lo! the shade, before his closing eyes,
Of sad Patroclus rose, or seem'd to rise;
In the same robe he living wore, he came;
In stature, voice, and pleasing look, the same.
The form familiar hover'd o'er his head :
"And sleeps Achilles," (thus the phantom said)
Sleeps my Achilles, his Patroclus dead?
Living, I seem'd his dearest, tenderest care,
But now forgot, I wander in the air.
And give me entrance in the realms below:
Let my pale corpse the rites of burial know,
Till then the spirit finds no resting place,
But here and there th' unbody'd spectres chase
The vagrant dead around the dark abode,
Forbid to cross th' irremeable flood.


Now give thy hand: for to the farther shore
When once we pass, the soul returns no more:
When once the last funereal flames ascend,
No more shall meet Achilles and his friend;

No more our thoughts to those we lov'd make
Or quit the dearest, to converse alone. [known;
Me fate has sever'd from the sons of earth,
The fate foredoom'd that waited from my birth:
Thee too it waits; before the Trojan wall
Ev'n great and godlike thou art doom'd to fall.
Hear then; and as in fate and love we join,
Ah, suffer that my bones may rest with thine!
Together have we liv'd; together bred,
One house receiv'd us, and one table fed;
That golden urn, thy goddess mother gave,
May mix our ashes in one common grave."

"And is it thou?" (he answers) "to my sight Once more return'st thou from the realms of night?

Oh more than brother! Think each office paid,
Whate'er can rest a discontented shade;
But grant one last embrace, unhappy boy!
Afford at least that melancholy joy."

He said, and with his longing arms essay'd
In vain to grasp the visionary shade;
Like a thin smoke he sees the spirit fly,
And hears a feeble, lamentable cry.
Confus'd he wakes; amazement breaks the bands
Of golden sleep, and, starting from the sands,
Pensive he muses with uplifted hands:
"Tis true, 'tis certain; man, though dead, retains
Part of himself; th' immortal mind remains:
The form subsists without the body's aid,
Aerial semblance, and an empty shade!
This night my friend, so late in battle lost,
Stood at my side, a pensive, plaintive ghost;
Ev'n now familiar, as in life, he came,
Alas! how different! yet how like the same!"
Thus while he spoke, each eye grew big with
And now the rosy-finger'd Morn appears, [tears:
Shows every mournful face with tears o'erspread,
And glares on the pale visage of the dead.
But Agamemnon, as the rites demand,
With mules and waggons sends a chosen band,
To load the timber, and the pile to rear;
A charge consign'd to Merion's faithful care.
With proper instruments they take the road,
Axes to cut, and ropes to sling the load.
First march the heavy mules, securely slow,
O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks, they go:
Jumping, high o'er the shrubs of the rough ground,
Rattle the clattering cars, and the shockt axles
But when arriv'd at Ida's spreading woods [bound.
(Fair Ida water'd with descending floods)
Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes;
On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks
Headlong. Deep-echoing groan the thickets brown;
Then, rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down.
The wood the Grecians cleave, prepar'd to burn;
And the slow mules the same rough road return.
The sturdy woodmen equal burdens bore
(Such charge was given them) to the sandy shore;
There, on the spot which great Achilles show'd,
They eas'd their shoulders, and dispos'd the load;
Circling around the place, where times to come
Shall view Patroclus' and Achilles' tomb.
The hero bids his martial troops appear
High on their cars, in all the pomp of war;
Each in refulgent arms his limbs attires,

All mount their chariots, combatants and squires.
The chariots first proceed, a shining train;
Then clouds of foot that smoke along the plain;
Next these a melancholy band appear,
Amidst, lay dead Patroclus on the bier:

O'er all the corpse their scatter'd locks they throw ;
Achilles next, oppress'd with mighty woe,
Supporting with his hands the hero's head,
Bends o'er th' extended body of the dead.
Patroclus decent on th' appointed ground
They place, and heap the sylvan pile around.
But great Achilles stands apart in prayer,
And from his head divides the yellow hair;
Those curling locks which from his youth he vow'd,
And sacred grew, to Sperchius' honour'd flood;
Then, sighing, to the deep his looks he cast,
And roll'd his eyes around the watery waste:
"Sperchius! whose waves in mazy errours lost
Delightful roll along my native coast!
To whom we vainly vow'd, at our return,
These locks to fall, and hecatombs to burn:
Full fifty rams to bleed in sacrifice,
Where to the day thy silver fountains rise,
And where in shade of consecrated bowers
Thy altars stand, perfum'd with native flowers!
So vow'd my father, but he vow'd in vain;
No more Achilles sees his native plain :
In that vain hope these hairs no longer grow,
Patroclus bears them to the shades below."

Thus o'er Patroclus while the hero pray'd,
On his cold hand the sacred lock he laid.
Once more afresh the Grecian sorrows flow:
And now the Sun had set upon their woe,
But to the king of men thus spoke the chief:
"Enough, Atrides! give the troops relief:
Permit the mourning legions to retire,
And let the chiefs alone attend the pyre;
The pious care be ours, the dead to burn"-
He said: the people to their ships return;
While those deputed to inter the slain
Heap with a rising pyramid the plain.
A hundred foot in length, a hundred wide,
The growing structure spreads on every side;
High on the top the manly corpse they lay,
And well-fed sheep and sable oxen slay :
Achilles cover'd with their fat the dead,
And the pil'd victims round the body spread;
Then jars of honey, and of fragrant oil,
Suspends around, low-bending o'er the pile.
Four sprightly coursers, with a deadly groan,
Pour forth their lives, and on the pyre are thrown.
Of nine large dogs, domestic at his board,
Fall two, selected to attend their lord,
Then last of all, and horrible to tell,
Sad sacrifice! twelve Trojan captives fell.
On these the rage of fire victorious preys,
Involves and joins them in one common blaze.
Smear'd with the bloody rites, he stands on high,
And calls the spirit with a dreadful cry:

"All hail, Patroclus! let thy vengeful ghost Hear, and exult, on Pluto's dreary coast. Behold Achilles' promise fully paid, Twelve Trojan heroes offer'd to thy shade; But heavier fates on Hector's corpse attend, Sav'd from the flames for hungry dogs to rend."

So spake he threatening: but the gods made vain His threat, and guard inviolate the slain; Celestial Venus hover'd o'er his head, And roseate unguents, heavenly fragrance! shed: She watch'd him all the night, and all the day, And drove the blood-hounds from their destin'd prey. Nor sacred Phoebus less employ'd his care; He pour'd around a veil of gather'd air, And kept the nerves undry'd, the flesh entire, Against the solar beam and Syrian fire.

Nor yet the pile where dead Patroclus lies, Smokes, nor as yet the sullen flames arise; But fast beside, Achilles stood in prayer, Invok'd the gods, whose spirit moves the air, And victims promis'd, and libations cast, To gentle Zephyr and the Boreal blast: He call'd th' aerial powers, along the skies To breathe, and whisper to the fires to rise. The winged Iris heard the hero's call, And instant hasten'd to their airy hall, Where, in old Zephyr's open courts on high, Sat all the blustering brethren of the sky. She shone amidst them, on her painted bow; The rocky pavement glitter'd with the show. All from the banquet rise, and each invites The various goddess to partake the rites: "Not so" (the dame reply'd) "I haste to go To sacred Ocean, and the floods below: Ev'n now our solemn hecatombs attend, And Heaven is feasting on the world's green end, With righteous Ethiops (uncorrupted train!) Far on th' extremest limits of the main." But Peleus' son entreats, with sacrifice, The Western spirit, and the North to rise; "Let on Patroclus' pile your blast be driven, And bear the blazing honours high to Heaven." Swift as the word she vanish'd from their view: Swift as the word the winds tumultuous fiew; Forth burst the stormy band with thundering roar, And heaps on heaps the clouds are tost before. To the wide main then stooping from the skies, The heaving deeps in watery mountains rise: Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls, Till on the pile the gather'd tempest falls. The structure crackles in the roaring fires, And all the night the plenteous flame aspires. All night Achilles hails Patroclus' soul, With large libations from the golden bowl. As a poor father, helpless and undone, Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son, Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn, And pours in tears, ere yet they close the urn: So stay'd Achilles, circling round the shore, So watch'd the flames, 'till now they flame no more. 'Twas when, emerging through the shades of night, The morning planet told th' approach of light; And fast behind, Aurora's warmer ray O'er the broad ocean pour'd the golden day: Then sunk the blaze, the pile no longer burn'd, And to their caves the whistling winds return'd; Across the Thracian seas their course they bore; The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.


Then parting from the pile he ceas'd to weep, And sunk to quiet in th' embrace of sleep, Exhausted with his grief: meanwhile the crowd Of thronging Grecians round Achilles stood; The tumult wak'd him from his eyes he shook Unwilling slumber, and the chiefs bespoke : "Ye kings and princes of th' Achaian name! First let us quench the yet remaining flame With sable wine; then (as the rites direct) The hero's bones with careful view select: (Apart, and easy to be known, they lie Amidst the heap, and obvious to the eye: The rest around the margin will be seen Promiscuous, steeds and immolated men). These, wrapt in double calls of fat, prepare; And in the golden vase dispose with care; There let them rest, with decent honour laid, Till I shall follow to th' infernal shade, VOL XIX.

Meantime erect the tomb with pious hands,
A common structure on the humble sands;
Hereafter Grecce some nobler work may raise,
And late posterity record our praise."

The Greeks obey; where yet the embers glow, Wide o'er the pile the sable wine they throw, And deep subsides the ashy heap below. Next, the white bones his sad companions place, With tears collected, in the golden vase. The sacred relics to the tent they boxe; The urn a veil of linen cover'd o'er. That done, they bid the sepulchre aspire, And cast the deep foundations round the pyre; High in the midst they heap the swelling bed Of rising earth, memorial of the dead.

The swarming populace the chief detains,
And leads amidst a wide extent of plains;
There plac'd them round: then from the ships pro-

A train of oxen, mules, and stately steeds,
Vases and tripods (for the funeral games)
Resplendent brass, and more resplendent dames.
First stood the prizes to reward the force
Of rapid racers in the dusty course:

A woman for the first in beauty's bloom,
Skill'd in the needle, and the labouring loom;
And a large vase, where two bright handles rise,
Of twenty measures its capacious size.
The second victor claims a mare unbroke,
Big with a mule unknowing of the yoke:
The third a charger yet untouch'd by flame;
Four ample measures held the shining frame';
Two golden talents for the fourth were plac'd ;
An ample double bowl contents the last.
These in fair order rang'd upon the plain,
The hero, rising, thus addrest the train:
"Behold the prizes, valiant Greeks! decreed
To brave the rulers of the racing steed;
Prizes which none beside ourself could gain,
Should our immortal coursers take the plain
(A race unrival'd, which from ocean's god
Peleus receiv'd, and on his son bestow'd).
But this no time our vigour to display;
Nor suit with them the games of this sad day;
Lost is Patroclus now, that wont to deck
Their flowing manes, and sleek their glossy neck.
Sad, as they shar'd in human grief, they stand,
And trail those graceful honours on the sand;
Let others for the noble task prepare,
Who trust the courser, and the flying car."

Fir'd at his word, the rival racers rise;
But far the first, Eumelus, hopes the prize,
Fam'd through Pieria for the fleetest breed,
And skill'd to manage the high-bounding steed.
With equal ardour bold Tydides swell'd
The steeds of Tros beneath his yoke compell'a
(Which late obey'd the Dardan chief's command,
When scarce a god redeem'd him from his hand).
Then Menelaus his Podargus brings,
And the fam'd courser of the king of kings:
Whom rich Echepolus (more rich than brave)
To 'scape the wars, to Agamemnon gave,
(Ethe her name) at home to end his days;
Base wealth preferring to eternal praise.
Next him Antilochus demands the course,
With beating heart, and cheers his Pylian horse.
Experienc'd Nestor gives his son the reins,
Directs his judgment, and his beat restrains;
Nor idly warns the hoary sire, nor hears
The prudent son with unattending ears:


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Float in their specd, and dance upon the wind:
The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound,
Now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground.
While, hot for fame, and conquest all their care,
(Each o'er his flying courser hung in air)
Erect with ardour, pois'd upon the rein,
They pant, they stretch, they shout along the plain.
Now (the last compass fetch'd around the goal)
At the near prize each gathers all his soul,
Each burns with double hope, with double pain,
Tears up the shore, and thunders toward the main.
First flew Eumelus on Pheretian steeds;
With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds:
Close on Eumelus' back they puff the wind,
And seem just mounting on his car behind;
Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,
And, hovering o'er, their stretching shadow sees.
Then had he lost, or left a doubtful prize:
But angry Phoebus to Tydides flies,
Strikes from his hand the scourge, and renders vain
His matchless horses' labour on the plain.
Rage fills his eye, with anguish to survey,
Snatch'd from his hope, the glories of the day.
The fraud celestial Pallas sees with pain,
Springs to her knight, and gives the scourge again,
And fills his steeds with vigour. At a stroke,
She breaks his rival's chariot from the yoke;
Nor more their way the startled horses held;
The car revers'd came rattling on the field;
Shot headlong from his seat, beside the wheel,
Prone on the dust th' unhappy master fell;
His batter'd face and elbows strike the ground;
Nose, mouth, and front, one undistinguish'd wound:
Grief stops his voice, a torrent drowns his eyes;
Before him far the glad Tydides flies;
Minerva's spirit drives his matchless pace,
And crowns him victor of the labour'd race.

My son though youthful ardour fire thy breast, | Loose on their shoulders the long manes, reclin'd, The gods have lov'd thee, and with arts have blest. Neptune and Jove on thee conferr'd the skill, Swift round the goal to turn the flying wheel. To guide thy conduct, little precept needs; But slow, and past their vigour, are my steeds. Fear not thy rivals, though for swiftness known; Compare those rivals' judgment, and thy own: It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize, And to be swift is less than to be wise. 'Tis more by art, than force of numerous strokes, The dextrous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks; By art the pilot, through the boiling deep And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship; And 'tis the artist wins the glorious course, Not those who trusts in chariots and in horse. In vain; unskilful, to the goal they strive, And short, or wide, the ungovern'd courser drive: While with sure skill, though with inferior steeds, The knowing racer to his end proceeds; Fix'd on the goal his eye fore-runs the course, His hand unerring steers the steady horse, And now contracts or now extends the rein, Observing still the foremost on the plain. Mark then the goal, 'tis easy to be found; Yon aged trunk, a cubit from the ground, Of some once stately oak the last remains, Or hardy fir, unperish'd with the rains: Enclos'd with stones, conspicuous from afar; And round, a circle for the wheeling car (Some tomb, perhaps, of old, the dead to grace; Or then, as now, the limit of a race); Bear close to this, and warily proceed, A little bending to the left-hand steed: But urge the right, and give him all the reins; While thy strict hand his fellow's head restrains, And turns him short; till, doubling as they roll, The wheel's round naves appear to brush the goal. Yet (not to break the car, or lame the horse) Clear of the stony heap direct the course; Lest, through incaution failing, thou may'st be A joy to others, a reproach to me. So shalt thou pass the goal, secure of mind, And leave unskilful swiftness far behind; Though thy fierce rival drove the matchless steed Which bore Adrastus, of celestial breed ; Or the fain'd race, through all the regions known, That whirl'd the car of proud Laomedon."

Thus (nought unsaid) the much-advising sage
Concludes; then sate, stiff with unwieldy age.
Next bold Meriones was seen to rise,
The last, but not least ardent for the prize.
They mount their seats; the lots their place dis-

(Roll'd in his helmet, these Achilles throws).
Young Nestor leads the race: Eumelus then;
And next, the brother of the king of men:
Thy lot, Meriones, the fourth was cast;
And far the bravest, Diomed, was last.
They stand in order, an impatient train;
Pelides points the barrier on the plain,
And sends before old Phoenix to the place,
To mark the racers, and to judge the race.
At once the coursers from the barrier bound;
The lifted scourges all at once resound;

Their hearts, their eyes, their voice, they send be-

And up the champaign thunder from the shore:
Thick, where they drive, the dusty clouds arise,
And the lost courser in the whirlwind flies;

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The next, though distant, Menelans succeeds;
While thus young Nestor animates his steeds:
Now, now, my generous pair, exert your force;
Not that we hope to match Tydides' horse,
Since great Minerva wings their rapid way,
And gives their lord the honours of the day.
But reach Atrides! shall his mare out-go
Your swiftness, vanquish'd by a female foe?
Through your neglect, if lagging on the plain
The last ignoble gift be all we gain;

No more shall Nestor's hand your food supply,
The old man's fury rises, and ye die.
Haste then; yon narrow road before our sight
Presents the occasion, could we use it right."

Thus he. The coursers, at their master's threat,
With quicker steps the sounding champaign beat.
And now Antilochus, with nice survey,
Observes the compass of the hollow way.
'Twas where, by force of wintery torrents torn,
Fast by the road a precipice was worn:
Here, where but one could pass to shun the throng,
The Spartan hero's chariot smok'd along.
Close up the venturous youth resolves to keep,
Still edging near, and bears him tow'rd the steep.
Atrides, trembling, casts his eye below,
And wonders at the rashness of his foe.
Hold, stay your steeds!-What madness thus
This narrow way! Take larger field "" he cry'd,
"Or both must fall."-Atrides cry'd in vain;
He flies more fast, and throws up all the rein.
Far as an able arm the disk can send,
When youthful rivals their full force extend,

[to ride

So far, Antilochus! thy chariot flew
Before the king: he, cautious, backward drew
His horse compell'd; foreboding in his fears
The rattling ruin of the clashing cars,
The floundering coursers rolling on the plain,
And conquest lost through frantic haste to gain:
But thus upbraids his rival, as he flies;
"Go, furious youth! ungenerous and unwise!
Go, but expect not I'll the prize resign;—
Add perjury to fraud, and make it thine."
Then to his steeds with all his force he cries;
Be swift, be vigorous, and regain the prize!
Your rivals, destitute of youthful force,


With fainting knees shall labour in the course,
And yield the glory yours."-The steeds obey;
Already at their heels they wing their way,
And seem already to retrieve the day.

Meantime the Grecians in a ring beheld
The coursers bounding o'er the dusty field.
The first who mark'd them was the Cretan king;
High on a rising ground, above the ring,
The monarch sate: from whence, with sure survey,
He well observ'd the chief who led the way,
And heard from far his animating cries,
And saw the foremost steed with sharpen'd eyes;
On whose broad front, a blaze of shining white,
Like the full Moon, stood obvious to the sight.
He saw; and, rising, to the Greeks begun :
"Are yonder horse discern'd by me alone?
Or can ye, all, another chief survey,
And other steeds, than lately led the way?
Those, though the swiftest, by some god withheld,
Lie sure disabled in the middle field:
For, since the goal they doubled, round the plain
I search to find them, but I search in vain.
Perchance the reins forsook the driver's hand,
And, turn'd too short, he tumbled on the strand,
Shot from the chariot; while his coursers stray
With frantic fury from the destin'd way.
Rise then some other, and inform my sight
(For these dim eyes, perhaps, discern not right)
Yet sure he seems (to judge by shape and air)
The great Ætolian chief, renown'd in war."

"Old man!" (Oïleus rashly thus replies) "Thy tongue too hastily confers the prize; Of those who view the course, not sharpest-ey'd, Nor youngest, yet the readiest to decide. Eumelus' steeds, high-bounding in the chase, Still, as at first, unrivall'd lead the race; I well discern him as he shakes the rein, And hear his shouts victorious o'er the plain." Thus he. Idomeneus, incens'd, rejoin'd: "Barbarous of words! and arrogant of mind! Contentious prince, of all the Greeks beside The last in merit, as the first in pride: To vile reproach what answer can we make? A goblet or a tripod let us stake, And be the king the judge. The most unwise Will learn their rashness, when they pay the prize." He said and Ajax, by mad passion borne, Stern had reply'd; fierce scorn enhancing scorn To fell extremes: but Thetis' godlike son Awful amidst them rose, and thus begun :

"Forbear, ye chiefs! reproachful to contend; Much would you blame, should others thus offend: And lo! th' approaching steeds your contest end." No sooner had he spoke, but, thundering near, Drives through a stream of dust the charioteer. High o'er his head the circling lash he wields; His bounding horses scarcely touch the fields:

His car amidst the dusty whirlwind roll'd, Bright with the mingled blaze of tin and gold, Refulgent through the cloud; no eye could find The track his flying wheels had left behind: And the fierce coursers urg'd their rapid pace So swift, it seem'd a flight, and not a race. Now victor at the goal Tydides stands,

Quits his bright car, and springs upon the sands; From the hot steeds the sweaty torrents stream; The well-ply'd whip is hung athwart the beam: With joy brave Sti-nelus receives the prize, The tripod-vase, and dame with radiant eyes: These to the ships his train triumphant leads, The chief himself unyokes the panting steeds.

Young Nestor follows (who by art, not force, O'er-past Atrides) second in the course. Behind, Atrides urg'd the race, more near Than to the courser in his swift carcer The following car, just touching with his heel, And brushing with his tail, the whirling wheel: Such and so narrow now the space between The rivals, late so distant on the green ; So soon swift the her lost ground regain'd, One length, one moment, had the race obtain'd. Merion pursued, at greater distance still, With tardier coursers, and inferior ski!l. Last came, Admetus! thy unhappy son: Slow dragg'd the steeds his batter'd chariot on : Achilles saw, and pitying thus begun :

"Behold! the man whose matchless art surpast The sons of Greece! the ablest, yet the last! Fortune denies, but justice bids us pay (Since great Tydides bears the first away) To him the second honours of the day."

The Greeks consent with loud applauding cries; And then Eumelus had received the prize: But youthful Nestor, jealous of his fame, Th' award opposes, and asserts his claim. "Think not," he cries, "I tamely will resign, O Peleus' sou! the mare so justly mine. What if the gods, the skilful to confound, [ground?. Have thrown the horse and horseman to the Perhaps he sought not Heaven by sacrifice, And vows omitted forfeited the prize. If yet (distinction to thy friend to show, And please a soul desirous to bestow) Some gift must grace Eumelus; view thy store Of beauteous handmaids, steeds, and shining ore; An ample present let him thence receive, And Greece shall praise thy generous thirst to give. But this my prize I never shall forego: This, who but touches, warriors! is my


Thus spake the youth; nor did his words offend; Pleas'd with the well-turn'd flattery of a friend, Achilles smil'd: "The gift propos'd," he cry'd, "Antilochus! we shall ourself provide. With plates of brass the corselet cover'd o'er, (The same renown'd Asteropæus wore) Whose glittering margins rais'd with silver shine, (No vulgar gift) Eumelus, shall be thine."

He said: Automedon, at his command, The corselet brought, and gave it to his hand. Distinguish'd by his friend, his bosom glows With generous joy: then Menelaus rose; The herald plac'd the sceptre in h's hands, And still'd the clamour of the shouting bands. Not without cause incens'd at Nestor's son, And inly grieving, thus the king begin: "The praise of wisdom, in thy youth obtain'd, An act so rash, Antilochus, has stain'd.

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