Swift as the word she vanish’d from their view; Swift as the word the winds tumultuous flew; Forth burst the stormy band with thundering roar, And heaps on heaps the clouds are toss’d before. To the wide main then stooping from the skies, The heaving deeps in watery mountains rise: Troy feels the blast along her shaking walls, Till on the pile the gather’d tempest falls. The structure crackles in the roaring fires, And all the night the plenteous flame aspires. All night Achilles hails Patroclus’ soul, With large libations from the golden bowl. As a poor father, helpless and undone, Mourns o’er the ashes of an only son, Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn, And pours in tears, ere yet they close the urn: So stay’d Achilles, circling round the shore, So watch’d the flames, till now they flame no more. ’Twas when, emerging through the shades of night, The morning planet told the approach of light; And, fast behind, Aurora’s warmer ray O’er the broad ocean pour’d the golden day: Then sank the blaze, the pile no longer burn’d, And to their caves the whistling winds return’d: Across the Thracian seas their course they bore; The ruffled seas beneath their passage roar.