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What aids expect you in this utmost strait ?
What bulwarks rising between you and fate?
No aids, no bulwarks, your retreat attend;
No friends to help, no city to defend.
This spot is all you have, to lofe or keep;
There ftand the Trojans, and here rolls the deep.
'Tis hoftile ground you tread; your native lands 900
Far, far from hence: your fates are in your hands.
Raging he spoke; nor farther wastes his breath,
But turns his javelin to the work of death.
Whate'er bold Trojan arm'd his daring hands,
Against the fable ships, with flaming brands,
So well the chief his naval weapon sped,
The luckless warriour at his stern lay dead:
Full twelve, the boldeft, in a moment fell,
Sent by great Ajax to the shades of hell.

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THE

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THE

SIXTEENTH BOOK

VOL. II.

O F THE

L I A D.

ARGUMENT.

The fixth Battle: the Acts and Death of Patroclus.

PATROCLUS (in pursuance of the request of Neftor in the eleventh book) entreats Achilles to fuffer him to go to the affiftance of the Greeks with Achilles's troops and armour. He agrees to it; but at the fame time charges him to content himself with rescuing the fleet, without farther pursuit of the enemy. The armour, horfes, foldiers, and officers of Achilles are defcribed. Achilles offers a libation for the fuccefs of his friend, after which Patroclus leads the Myrmidons to battle. The Trojans, at the fight of Patroclus in Achilles's armour, taking him for that hero, are caft into the utmost confternation: he beats them off from the veffels. Hector himself flies. Sar pedon is killed, though Jupiter was averfe to his fate. Several other particulars of the battle are defcribed d; in the heat of which, Patroclus, neglecting the orders of Achilles, purfues the foe to the walls of Troy; where Apollo repulfes and difarms him, Euphorbus wounds him, and Hector kills him: which concludes the book.

H

THE

ILIA D.

BOOK XVI.

O warr'd both armies on th' enfanguin'd shore, While the black veffels fmok'd with human gore. Meantime Patroclus to Achilles flies;

The streaming tears fall copious from his eyes;
Not fafter trickling to the plains below,
From the tall rock the fable waters flow.
Divine Pelides, with compaffion mov'd,
Thus fpoke, indulgent to his best-belov'd:
Patroclus, fay, what grief thy bosom bears,
That flows fo faft in these unmanly tears?
No girl, no infant, whom the mother keeps
From her lov'd breast, with fonder paffion weeps ;
Not more the mother's foul that infant warms,
Clung to her knees, and reaching at her arms,
Than thou haft mine! Oh tell me, to what end
Thy melting forrows thus purfue thy friend?

Griev'st thou for me, or for my martial band ?
Or come fad tidings from our native land?
Our fathers live (our first, most tender care)
Thy good Menoetius breathes the vital air,
And hoary Peleus yet extends his days;
Pleas'd in their age to hear their children's praise.

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