So spake he, grieved to the inmost heart. The folk Woefully wafted all round. O'er Hellespont Echoes of mourning rolled: the sighing air Darkened around, a wide-spread sorrow-pall.
Yea, grief laid hold on wise Odysseus' self For the great dead, and with remorseful soul To anguish-stricken Argives thus he spake:
"O friends, there is no greater curse to men Than wrath, which groweth till its bitter fruit Is strife. Now wrath hath goaded Aias on To this dire issue of the rage that filled His soul against me. Would to God that ne'er Yon Trojans in the strife for Achilles' arms Had crowned me with that victory, for which Strong Telamon's brave son, in agony Of soul, thus perished by his own right hand!
Yet blame not me, I pray you, for his wrath:
Blame the dark dolorous Fate that struck him down.
For, had mine heart foreboded aught of this, This desperation of a soul distraught, Never for victory had I striven with him, Nor had I suffered any Danaan else, Though ne'er so eager, to contend with him.
Nay, I had taken up those arms divine With mine own hands, and gladly given them To him, ay, though himself desired it not.
But for such mighty grief and wrath in him I had not looked, since not for a woman's sake Nor for a city, nor possessions wide, I then contended, but for Honour's meed, Which alway is for all right-hearted men The happy goal of all their rivalry.
But that great-hearted man was led astray By Fate, the hateful fiend; for surely it is Unworthy a man to be made passion's fool.
The wise man's part is, steadfast-souled to endure All ills, and not to rage against his lot."
So spake Laertes' son, the far-renowned.
But when they all were weary of grief and groan, Then to those sorrowing ones spake Neleus' son:
"O friends, the pitiless-hearted Fates have laid Stroke after stroke of sorrow upon us, Sorrow for Aias dead, for mighty Achilles, For many an Argive, and for mine own son Antilochus. Yet all unmeet it is Day after day with passion of grief to wail Men slain in battle: nay, we must forget Laments, and turn us to the better task Of rendering dues beseeming to the dead, The dues of pyre, of tomb, of bones inurned.
No lamentations will awake the dead;
No note thereof he taketh, when the Fates, The ruthless ones, have swallowed him in night."
So spake he words of cheer: the godlike kings Gathered with heavy hearts around the dead, And many hands upheaved the giant corpse, And swiftly bare him to the ships, and there Washed they away the blood that clotted lay Dust-flecked on mighty limbs and armour: then In linen swathed him round. From Ida's heights Wood without measure did the young men bring, And piled it round the corpse. Billets and logs Yet more in a wide circle heaped they round;
And sheep they laid thereon, fair-woven vests, And goodly kine, and speed-triumphant steeds, And gleaming gold, and armour without stint, From slain foes by that glorious hero stripped.
And lucent amber-drops they laid thereon, Years, say they, which the Daughters of the Sun, The Lord of Omens, shed for Phaethon slain, When by Eridanus' flood they mourned for him.
These, for undying honour to his son, The God made amber, precious in men's eyes.
Even this the Argives on that broad-based pyre Cast freely, honouring the mighty dead.
And round him, groaning heavily, they laid Silver most fair and precious ivory, And jars of oil, and whatsoe'er beside They have who heap up goodly and glorious wealth.
Then thrust they in the strength of ravening flame, And from the sea there breathed a wind, sent forth By Thetis, to consume the giant frame Of Aias. All the night and all the morn Burned 'neath the urgent stress of that great wind Beside the ships that giant form, as when Enceladus by Zeus' levin was consumed Beneath Thrinacia, when from all the isle Smoke of his burning rose -- or like as when Hercules, trapped by Nessus' deadly guile, Gave to devouring fire his living limbs, What time he dared that awful deed, when groaned All Oeta as he burned alive, and passed His soul into the air, leaving the man Far-famous, to be numbered with the Gods, When earth closed o'er his toil-tried mortal part.
So huge amid the flames, all-armour clad, Lay Aias, all the joy of fight forgot, While a great multitude watching thronged the sands.
Glad were the Trojans, but the Achaeans grieved.
But when that goodly frame by ravening fire Was all consumed, they quenched the pyre with wine;
They gathered up the bones, and reverently Laid in a golden casket. Hard beside Rhoeteium's headland heaped they up a mound Measureless-high. Then scattered they amidst The long ships, heavy-hearted for the man Whom they had honoured even as Achilles.
Then black night, bearing unto all men sleep, Upfloated: so they brake bread, and lay down Waiting the Child of the Mist. Short was sleep, Broken by fitful staring through the dark, Haunted by dread lest in the night the foe Should fall on them, now Telamon's son was dead.
