“Sperchius! whose waves in mazy errors lost Delightful roll along my native coast! To whom we vainly vow’d, at our return, These locks to fall, and hecatombs to burn: Full fifty rams to bleed in sacrifice, Where to the day thy silver fountains rise, And where in shade of consecrated bowers Thy altars stand, perfumed with native flowers! So vow’d my father, but he vow’d in vain; No more Achilles sees his native plain; In that vain hope these hairs no longer grow, Patroclus bears them to the shades below.”