he dismiss’d
  Impatient, but the sons of Atreus both,
  Ulysses, Nestor and Idomeneus,
  With Phoenix, hoary warrior, in his tent 380
  Abiding still, with cheerful converse kind
  Essay’d to soothe him, whose afflicted soul
  All soothing scorn’d till he should once again
  Rush on the ravening edge of bloody war. 
  Then, mindful of his friend, groaning he said 385
    Time was, unhappiest, dearest of my friends! 
  When even thou, with diligent dispatch,
  Thyself, hast spread a table in my tent,
  The hour of battle drawing nigh between
  The Greeks and warlike Trojans.  But there lies 390
  Thy body now, gored by the ruthless steel,
  And for thy sake I neither eat nor drink,
  Though dearth be none, conscious that other wo
  Surpassing this I can have none to fear. 
  No, not if tidings of my father’s death 395
  Should reach me, who, this moment, weeps, perhaps,
  In Phthia tears of tenderest regret
  For such a son; while I, remote from home
  Fight for detested Helen under Troy. 
  Nor even were he dead, whom, if he live, 400
  I rear in Scyros, my own darling son,
  My Neoptolemus of form divine.[10]
  For still this hope I cherish’d in my breast
  Till now, that, of us two, myself alone
  Should fall at Ilium, and that thou, restored 405
  To Phthia, should’st have wafted o’er the waves
  My son from Scyros to his native home,
  That thou might’st show him all his heritage,
  My train of menials, and my fair abode. 
  For either dead already I account 410
  Peleus, or doubt not that his residue
  Of miserable life shall soon be spent,
  Through stress of age and expectation sad
  That tidings of my death shall, next, arrive. 
    So spake Achilles weeping, around whom 415
  The Chiefs all sigh’d, each with remembrance pain’d
  Of some loved object left at home.  Meantime
  Jove, with compassion moved, their sorrow saw,
  And in wing’d accents thus to Pallas spake. 
    Daughter! thou hast abandon’d, as it seems, 420
  Yon virtuous Chief for ever; shall no care
  Thy mind engage of brave Achilles more? 
  Before his gallant fleet mourning he sits
  His friend, disconsolate; the other Greeks
  Sat and are satisfied; he only fasts. 425
  Go then—­instil nectar into his breast,
  And sweets ambrosial, that he hunger not. 
    So saying, he urged Minerva prompt before. 
  In form a shrill-voiced Harpy of long wing
  Through ether down she darted, while the Greeks 430
  In all their camp for instant battle arm’d. 
  Ambrosial sweets and nectar she instill’d
  Into his breast, lest he should suffer