The generous Xanthus, as the words he said, Seem’d sensible of woe, and droop’d his head: Trembling he stood before the golden wain, And bow’d to dust the honours of his mane. When, strange to tell! (so Juno will’d) he broke Eternal silence, and portentous spoke. “Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear Thy rage in safety through the files of war: But come it will, the fatal time must come, Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom. Not through our crime, or slowness in the course, Fell thy Patroclus, but by heavenly force; The bright far-shooting god who gilds the day (Confess’d we saw him) tore his arms away. No—could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail, Or beat the pinions of the western gale, All were in vain—the Fates thy death demand, Due to a mortal and immortal hand.”