He faints: the soul unwilling wings her way,
(The beauteous body left a load of clay)
Flits to the lone, uncomfortable coast;
A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!
Then Hector pausing, as his eyes he fed
On the pale carcase, thus address’d the dead:
“From whence this boding speech, the stern decree
Of death denounced, or why denounced to me?
Why not as well Achilles’ fate be given
To Hector’s lance? Who knows the will of
heaven?”
Pensive he said; then pressing as he lay
His breathless bosom, tore the lance away;
And upwards cast the corse: the reeking spear
He shakes, and charges the bold charioteer.
But swift Automedon with loosen’d reins
Rapt in the chariot o’er the distant plains,
Far from his rage the immortal coursers drove;
The immortal coursers were the gift of Jove.
{Illustration: AESCULAPIUS.}
ARGUMENT.
THE SEVENTH BATTLE, FOR THE BODY OF PATROCLUS.—THE
ACTS OF MENELAUS.
Menelaus, upon the death of Patroclus, defends his
body from the enemy: Euphorbus, who attempts
it, is slain. Hector advancing, Menelaus retires;
but soon returns with Ajax, and drives him off.
This, Glaucus objects to Hector as a flight, who thereupon
puts on the armour he had won from Patroclus, and
renews the battle. The Greeks give way, till
Ajax rallies them: Aeneas sustains the Trojans.
Aeneas and Hector Attempt the chariot of Achilles,
which is borne off by Automedon. The horses of
Achilles deplore the loss of Patroclus: Jupiter
covers his body with a thick darkness: the noble
prayer of Ajax on that occasion. Menelaus sends
Antilochus to Achilles, with the news of Patroclus’
death: then returns to the fight, where, though
attacked with the utmost fury, he and Meriones, assisted
by the Ajaces, bear off the body to the ships.
The time is the evening of the eight-and-twentieth
day. The scene lies in the fields before Troy.
On the cold earth divine Patroclus spread,
Lies pierced with wounds among the vulgar dead.
Great Menelaus, touch’d with generous woe,
Springs to the front, and guards him from the foe.
Thus round her new-fallen young the heifer moves,
Fruit of her throes, and first-born of her loves;
And anxious (helpless as he lies, and bare)
Turns, and re-turns her, with a mother’s care,
Opposed to each that near the carcase came,
His broad shield glimmers, and his lances flame.
The son of Panthus, skill’d the dart to send,
Eyes the dead hero, and insults the friend.
“This hand, Atrides, laid Patroclus low;
Warrior! desist, nor tempt an equal blow:
To me the spoils my prowess won, resign:
Depart with life, and leave the glory mine”
