Homère
L'iliade
Thus like the rage of fire the combat burns,
And now it rises, now it sinks, by turns.
Meanwhile, where Hellespont's broad waters flow,
Stood Nestor's son, the messenger of woe.
There sat Achilles, shaded by his sails,
On hoisted yards extended to the gales;
Pensive he sat; for all that fate designed
Rose in sad prospect to his boding mind.
Thus to his soul he said: "Ah what constrains
The Greeks, late victors, now to quit the plains?
Is this the day, which heaven so long ago
Ordained, to sink me with the weight of woe;
So Thetis warned, when, by a Trojan hand,
The bravest of the Myrmidonian band
Should lose the light? Fulfilled is that decree?
Fallen is the warrior, and Patroclus he?
In vain I charged him soon to quit the plain,
And warned to shun Hectorean force in vain!"
Thus while he thinks, Antilochus appears,
And tells the melancholy tale with tears:
"Sad tidings, son of Peleus! thou must hear;
And wretched I, the unwilling messenger!
Dead is Patroclus! for his corse they fight,
His naked corse: his arms are Hector's right."
A sudden horror shot through all the chief,
And wrapt his senses in the cloud of grief;
Cast on the ground, with furious hand he spread
The scorching ashes o'er his graceful head;
His purple garments, and his golden hairs,
Those he deforms with dust, and these he tears:
On the hard soil his groaning breast he threw,
And rolled and grovelled, as to earth he grew.
The virgin captives, with disordered charms,
Won by his own, or by Patroclus' arms,
Rushed from the tents with cries; and, gathering round,
Beat their white breasts, and fainted on the ground:
While Nestor's son sustains a manlier part,
And mourns the warrior with a warrior's heart;
Hangs on his arms, amidst his frantic woe,
And oft prevents the meditated blow.
Far in the deep abysses of the main,
With hoary Nereus, and the watery train,
The mother-goddess from her crystal throne
Heard his loud cries, and answered groan for groan.