Patroclus takes down with him to the shades.
He said, and filling with his hair the hand
Of his dead friend, the sorrows of his train
Waken'd afresh. And now the lamp of day
Westering[6] apace, had left them still in tears, 195
Had not Achilles suddenly address'd
King Agamemnon, standing at his side.
Atrides! (for Achaia's sons thy word
Will readiest execute) we may with grief
Satiate ourselves hereafter; but, the host 200
Dispersing from the pile, now give command
That they prepare repast; ourselves,[7] to whom
These labors in peculiar appertain
Will finish them; but bid the Chiefs abide.
Which when imperial Agamemnon heard, 205
He scatter'd instant to their several ships
The people; but the burial-dressers thence
Went not; they, still abiding, heap'd the pile.
A hundred feet of breadth from side to side
They gave to it, and on the summit placed 210
With sorrowing hearts the body of the dead.
Many a fat sheep, with many an ox full-horn'd
They flay'd before the pile, busy their task
Administering, and Peleus' son the fat
Taking from every victim, overspread 215
Complete the body with it of his friend[8]
Patroclus, and the flay'd beasts heap'd around.
Then, placing flagons on the pile, replete
With oil and honey, he inclined their mouths
Toward the bier, and slew and added next, 220
Deep-groaning and in haste, four martial steeds.
Nine dogs the hero at his table fed,
Of which beheading two, their carcases
He added also. Last, twelve gallant sons
Of noble Trojans slaying (for his heart 225
Teem'd with great vengeance) he applied the force
Of hungry flames that should devour the whole,
Then, mourning loud, by name his friend invoked.
Rejoice, Patroclus! even in the shades,
Behold my promise to thee all fulfill'd! 230
Twelve gallant sons of Trojans famed in arms,
Together with thyself, are all become
Food for these fires: but fire shall never feed
On Hector; him I destine to the dogs.
So threaten'd he; but him no dogs devour'd; 235
Them, day and night, Jove's daughter Venus chased
Afar, and smooth'd the hero o'er with oils
Of rosy scent ambrosial, lest his corse,
Behind Achilles' chariot dragg'd along
So rudely, should be