Page:Poems Stoddard.djvu/122

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108
ACHILLES IN ORCUS
Would I could tarry in the timbered tent,
As when I wept Patroclus, when, by night,
Old Priam crept, kissing my knees with tears
For Hector's corse, the hero I laid low.
My panoply was like the gleam of fire
When in the dust I dragged him at my wheels,
My heart was iron,—he despoiled my friend.
Cast on these borders of eternal gloom,
Now comes Odysseus with his wandering crew;
He pours libations in the deep-dug trench,
While airy forms in multitudes press near,
And listen to the echoes of my praise.
His consolation vain, he hails me, "Prince!"
Vain is his speech: "No man before thy time,
Achilles, lived more honored; here thou art
Supreme, the ruler in these dread abodes."
Speak not so easily to me of death,
Great Odysseus! Rather would I be