The ruthless king, should want of me be felt
To save the host from havoc[25]--Oh, his thoughts
Are madness all; intelligence or skill, 430
Forecast or retrospect, how best the camp
May be secured from inroad, none hath he.
He ended, nor Patroclus disobey'd,
But leading beautiful Brisëis forth
Into their guidance gave her; loth she went 435
From whom she loved, and looking oft behind.
Then wept Achilles, and apart from all,
With eyes directed to the gloomy Deep
And arms outstretch'd, his mother suppliant sought.
Since, mother, though ordain'd so soon to die, 440
I am thy son, I might with cause expect
Some honor at the Thunderer's hands, but none
To me he shows, whom Agamemnon, Chief
Of the Achaians, hath himself disgraced,
Seizing by violence my just reward. 445
So prayed he weeping, whom his mother heard
Within the gulfs of Ocean where she sat
Beside her ancient sire. From the gray flood
Ascending sudden, like a mist she came,
Sat down before him, stroked his face, and said. 450
Why weeps my son? and what is thy distress?
Hide not a sorrow that I wish to share.
To whom Achilles, sighing deep, replied.
Why tell thee woes to thee already known?
At Thebes, Eëtion's city we arrived, 455
Smote, sack'd it, and brought all the spoil away.
Just distribution made among the Greeks,