of Jove; 'Twas voted, Hermes from his godlike foe By stealth should bear him, but we will'd not so: We will, thy son himself the corse restore, And to his conquest add this glory more. Then hie thee to him, and our mandate bear: Tell him he tempts the wrath of heaven too far; Nor let him more (our anger if he dread) Vent his mad vengeance on the sacred dead; But yield to ransom and the father's prayer; The mournful father, Iris shall prepare With gifts to sue; and offer to his hands Whate'er his honour asks, or heart demands." His word the silver-footed queen attends, And from Olympus' snowy tops descends. Arrived, she heard the voice of loud lament, And echoing groans that shook the lofty tent: His friends prepare the victim, and dispose Repast unheeded, while he vents his woes; The goddess seats her by her pensive son, She press'd his hand, and tender thus begun: "How long, unhappy! shall thy sorrows flow, And thy heart waste with life-consuming woe: Mindless of food, or love, whose pleasing reign Soothes weary life, and softens human pain? O snatch the moments yet within thy power; Not long to live, indulge the amorous hour! Lo! Jove himself (for Jove's command I bear) Forbids to tempt the wrath of heaven too far. No longer then (his fury if thou dread) Detain the relics of great Hector dead; Nor vent on senseless earth thy vengeance vain, But yield to ransom, and restore the slain." To whom Achilles: "Be the ransom given, And we submit, since such the will of heaven." While thus they communed, from the Olympian bowers Jove orders Iris to the Trojan towers: "Haste, winged goddess! to the sacred town, And urge her monarch to redeem his son. Alone the Ilian ramparts let him leave, And bear what stern Achilles may receive: Alone, for so we will; no Trojan near Except, to place the dead with decent care, Some aged herald, who with gentle hand May the slow mules and funeral ca