you were doomed to meet hard fate, which no one that is born avoids. Ah, would that, in the pride of your full power, there in the land of Troy you had met death and doom! Then would the whole Achaean host have made your grave, and for your son in after days a great name had been gained. Now you must be cut off by an inglorious death.”
Then said to him the spirit of the son of Atreus: “Fortunate son of Peleus, godlike Achilles, who died at Troy, afar from Argos! Around you others fell, the Trojans’ and Achaeans’ bravest sons, battling because of you; while in a cloud of dust you lay proudly, all your horsemanship forgotten. All through the day we battled, and never would have stopped our fighting had Zeus himself not stopped us with a storm. And after we had borne you to the ships out of the fight, we laid you on a bier and washed your comely body with warm water and with oil. The Danaaäns standing round you shed many burning tears, and cut their hair. Out of the sea came forth your mother, with the immortal sea nymphs, when she heard the tale, while over the water ran a wondrous wail, and secret trembling fell on all the Achaeans. Then all had hastened off and boarded the hollow ships, if one had not detained them who was wise in ancient lore, Nestor, whose counsel had before been proved the best. He with good will addressed them thus, and said: ‘Hold, Argives! Do not flee, you young Achaeans! It is his mother coming from the sea with the immortal nymphs to look on her dead son.’ By these his words the bold Achaeans were withheld from flight; while round you stood the daughters of the old man of the sea, lamenting bitterly, and with immortal robes they clad your body. Meantime the Muses, nine in all, with sweet responsive voices sang your dirge. Then not an Argive could you see but was in tears; the piercing song so moved them. For seventeen days, alike by night and day, we mortal men and deathless gods continued mourning. On the eighteenth we gave you to the flames. Many fat sheep we slew beside you, and many crook-horned cattle. In vesture of the gods you burned, with much anointing oil and much sweet honey. Many Achaean heroes moved in their armor round your blazing pyre, footmen and charioteers, and a loud din arose. And when at length Hephaestus’ flame had made an end, at dawn we gathered your white bones, Achilles, laid in pure wine and oil. Your mother gave the golden urn; a gift, she said, of Dionysus, and handiwork of famed Hephaestus. In this your white bones lie, illustrious Achilles, mingled with those of dead Patroclus, son of Menoetius, and parted from Antilochus, whom you regarded more than all your other comrades, excepting dead Patroclus. Over them all the powerful host of Argive spearmen built a great stately tomb at a projecting point on the broad Hellespont, so that it might be seen far off upon the sea by men who now are born or shall be born hereafter. Your mother, having entreated the gods for splendid prizes, offered them in the funeral games to the bravest of the Achaeans. In former days you have been present at the burial of many a hero, when at a king’s death young men steeled themselves and strove for prizes; but here you would have marveled in your heart far more to see the splendid prizes offered in your honor by silver-footed Thetis; for you were very dear to all the gods. Thus though you died, you did not lose your name; but ever among mankind, Achilles, your glory shall be great. While as for me, what gain had I in winding up the war? On my return Zeus purposed me a miserable end, at the hands of Aegisthus and my accursed wife.”
So they conversed together. And now the Guide approached, the killer of Argus, leading the spirits of the suitors whom Odysseus slew. Amazed, the two drew near to see; and the spirit of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, perceived the son of Melaneus, renowned Amphimedon; for Melaneus of Ithaca was once his entertainer. Then thus began the spirit of the son of Atreus:
“Amphimedon, what has happened that you come to this dreary land, all of you chosen men and all alike in years? One who