“If some dire oracle thy breast alarm, If aught from Jove, or Thetis, stop thy arm, Some beam of comfort yet on Greece may shine, If I but lead the Myrmidonian line: Clad in thy dreadful arms if I appear, Proud Troy shall tremble, and desert the war; Without thy person Greece shall win the day, And thy mere image chase her foes away. Press’d by fresh forces, her o’erlabour’d train Shall quit the ships, and Greece respire again.” Thus, blind to fate! with supplicating breath, Thou begg’st his arms, and in his arms thy death. Unfortunately good! a boding sigh Thy friend return’d; and with it, this reply: “Patroclus! thy Achilles knows no fears; Nor words from Jove nor oracles he hears; Nor aught a mother’s caution can suggest; The tyrant’s pride lies rooted in my breast. My wrongs, my wrongs, my constant thought engage, Those, my sole oracles, inspire my rage: I made him tyrant: gave him power to wrong Even me: I felt it; and shall feel it long. The maid, my black-eyed maid, he forced away, Due to the toils of many a well-fought day; Due to my conquest of her father’s reign; Due to the votes of all the Grecian train. From me he forced her; me, the bold and brave, Disgraced, dishonour’d, like the meanest slave. But bear we this—the wrongs I grieve are past; ’Tis time our fury should relent at last: I fix’d its date; the day I wish’d appears: How Hector to my ships his battle bears, The flames my eyes, the shouts invade my ears. Go then, Patroclus! court fair honour’s charms In Troy’s famed fields, and in Achilles’ arms: Lead forth my martial Myrmidons to fight, Go save the fleets, and conquer in my right. See the thin relics of their baffled band At the last edge of yon deserted land! Behold all Ilion on their ships descends; How the cloud blackens, how the storm impends! It was not thus, when, at my sight amazed, Troy saw and trembled, as this helmet blazed: Had not the injurious king our friendship lost, Yon ample trench had buried half her host.