Book XVIII - A flood of tears, at this, the goddess shed

A flood of tears, at this, the goddess shed:

"Ah then, I see thee dying, see thee dead!

When Hector falls, thou diest."—"Let Hector die,

And let me fall!" Achilles made reply.

"Far lies Patroclus from his native plain;

He fell, and, falling, wished my aid in vain.

Ah then, since from this miserable day

I cast all hope of my return away;

Since, unrevenged, a hundred ghosts demand

The fate of Hector from Achilles' hand;

Since here, for brutal courage far renowned,

I live an idle burden to the ground;

Others in council famed for nobler skill,

More useful to preserve than I to kill;

Let me—But oh! ye gracious Powers above,

Wrath and revenge from men and gods remove,

Far, far too dear to every mortal breast,

Sweet to the soul, as honey to the taste;

Gathering like vapours of a noxious kind

From fiery blood, and darkening all the mind.

Me Agamemnon urged to deadly hate;

'Tis past—I quell it; I resign to fate.

Yes—I will meet the murderer of my friend,

Or, if the gods ordain it, meet my end.

The stroke of fate the bravest cannot shun:

The great Alcides, Jove's unequalled son,

To Juno's hate at length resigned his breath,

And sunk the victim of all-conquering death.

So shall Achilles fall! stretched pale and dead,

No more the Grecian hope, or Trojan dread!

Let me, this instant, rush into the fields,

And reap what glory life's short harvest yields.

Shall I not force some widowed dame to tear,

With frantic hands, her long dishevelled hair?

Shall I not force her breast to heave with sighs,

And the soft tears to trickle from her eyes?

Yes, I shall give the fair those mournful charms:

In vain you hold me—Hence! my arms, my arms!"