Classic Poem

These Words, attended with a Show'r of Tears,
The Youth addrest to unrelenting Ears:
Talk not of Life, or Ransom, (he replies)
Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies:
In vain a single Trojan sues for Grace;
But least, the Sons of Priam 's hateful Race.
Die then, my Friend! what boots it to deplore?
The great, the good Patroclus is no more!
He, far thy Better, was fore-doom'd to die,
And thou, dost thou, bewail Mortality?
See'st thou not me, whom Nature's Gifts adorn,
Sprung from a Hero, from a Goddess born;
The Day shall come (which nothing can avert)
When by the Spear, the Arrow, or the Dart,
By Night, or Day, by Force or by Design,
Impending Death and certain Fate are mine.
Die then — He said; and as the Word he spoke
The fainting Stripling sunk, before the Stroke;
His Hand forgot its Grasp, and left the Spear;
While all his trembling Frame confest his Fear.
Sudden, Achilles his broad Sword display'd,
And buried in his Neck the reeking Blade.
Prone fell the Youth; and panting on the Land,
The gushing Purple dy'd the thirsty Sand:
The Victor to the Stream the Carcass gave,
And thus insults him, floating on the Wave
Lie there, Lycaon ! let the Fish surround
Thy bloated Corse, and suck thy goary Wound:
There no sad Mother shall thy Fun'rals weep,
But swift Scamander roll thee to the Deep,
Whose ev'ry Wave some wat'ry Monster brings,
To feast unpunish'd on the Fat of Kings.
So perish Troy , and all the Trojan Line!
Such Ruin theirs, and such Compassion mine.