shed, Lies undistinguish'd from the vulgar dead. His long-disputed corse the chiefs enclose, On every side the busy combat grows; Thick as beneath some shepherd's thatch'd abode (The pails high foaming with a milky flood) The buzzing flies, a persevering train, Incessant swarm, and chased return again. Jove view'd the combat with a stern survey, And eyes that flash'd intolerable day. Fix'd on the field his sight, his breast debates The vengeance due, and meditates the fates: Whether to urge their prompt effect, and call The force of Hector to Patroclus' fall, This instant see his short-lived trophies won, And stretch him breathless on his slaughter'd son; Or yet, with many a soul's untimely flight, Augment the fame and horror of the fight. To crown Achilles' valiant friend with praise At length he dooms; and, that his last of days Shall set in glory, bids him drive the foe; Nor unattended see the shades below. Then Hector's mind he fills with dire dismay; He mounts his car, and calls his hosts away; Sunk with Troy's heavy fates, he sees decline The scales of Jove, and pants with awe divine. Then, nor before, the hardy Lycians fled, And left their monarch with the common dead: Around, in heaps on heaps, a dreadful wall Of carnage rises, as the heroes fall. (So Jove decreed!) At length the Greeks obtain The prize contested, and despoil the slain. The radiant arms are by Patroclus borne; Patroclus' ships the glorious spoils adorn. Then thus to Phoebus, in the realms above, Spoke from his throne the cloud-compelling Jove: "Descend, my Phoebus! on the Phrygian plain, And from the fight convey Sarpedon slain; Then bathe his body in the crystal flood, With dust dishonour'd, and deform'd with blood; O'er all his limbs ambrosial odours shed, And with celestial robes adorn the dead. Those rites discharged, his sacred corse bequeath To the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death. They to hi