Now prone, then starting from his couch he roam'd 15
Forlorn the beach, nor did the rising morn
On seas and shores escape his watchful eye,
But joining to his chariot his swift steeds,
He fasten'd Hector to be dragg'd behind.
Around the tomb of Menoetiades 20
Him thrice he dragg'd; then rested in his tent,
Leaving him at his length stretch'd in the dust.
Meantime Apollo with compassion touch'd
Even of the lifeless Hector, from all taint
Saved him, and with the golden aegis broad 25
Covering, preserved him, although dragg'd, untorn.
While he, indulging thus his wrath, disgraced
Brave Hector, the immortals at that sight
With pity moved, exhorted Mercury
The watchful Argicide, to steal him thence. 30
That counsel pleased the rest, but neither pleased
Juno, nor Neptune, nor the blue-eyed maid.
They still, as at the first, held fast their hate
Of sacred Troy, detested Priam still,
And still his people, mindful of the crime 35
Of Paris, who when to his rural hut
They came, those Goddesses affronting,[1] praise
And admiration gave to her alone
Who with vile lusts his preference repaid.
But when the twelfth ensuing morn arose, 40
Apollo, then, the immortals thus address'd.
Ye Gods, your dealings now injurious seem
And cruel. Was not Hector wont to burn
Thighs of fat goats and bullocks at your shrines?
Whom now, though dead, ye cannot yet endure 45
To rescue, that Andromache once more
Might view him, his own mother, his own son,
His father and the people, who would soon
Yield him his just demand, a funeral fire.
But, oh ye Gods! your pleasure is alone 50
To please Achilles, that pernicious chief,
Who neither right regards, nor owns a mind
That can relent, but as the lion, urged
By his own dauntless heart and savage force,
Invades without remorse the rights of man, 55
That he may banquet on his herds and flocks,
So Peleus' son all pity from his breast
Hath driven, and shame, man's blessing or his curse.[2]
For whosoever hath a loss sustain'd
Still dearer, whether of his brother born 60
From the same womb, or even of his son,
When he hath once bewail'd him, weeps no more,
For fate itself gives man a patien