And weave them to a song, like one more tear
In the heart of misery....  All kings we were;
And I must wed a king.  And sons I brought
My lord King, many sons ... nay, that were naught;
But high strong princes, of all Troy the best. 
Hellas nor Troaes nor the garnered East
Held such a mother!  And all these things beneath
The Argive spear I saw cast down in death,
And shore these tresses at the dead men’s feet. 
  Yea, and the gardener of my garden great,
It was not any noise of him nor tale
I wept for; these eyes saw him, when the pale
Was broke, and there at the altar Priam fell
Murdered, and round him all his citadel
Sacked.  And my daughters, virgins of the fold,
Meet to be brides of mighty kings, behold,
’Twas for the Greek I bred them!  All are gone;
And no hope left, that I shall look upon
Their faces any more, nor they on mine. 
  And now my feet tread on the utmost line: 
An old, old slave-woman, I pass below
Mine enemies’ gates; and whatso task they know
For this age basest, shall be mine; the door,
Bowing, to shut and open....  I that bore
Hector!... and meal to grind, and this racked head
Bend to the stones after a royal bed;
Tom rags about me, aye, and under them
Tom flesh; ’twill make a woman sick for shame! 
Woe’s me; and all that one man’s arms might hold
One woman, what long seas have o’er me rolled
And roll for ever!...  O my child, whose white
Soul laughed amid the laughter of God’s light,
Cassandra, what hands and how strange a day
Have loosed thy zone!  And thou, Polyxena,
Where art thou?  And my sons?  Not any seed
Of man nor woman now shall help my need. 
  Why raise me any more?  What hope have I
To hold me?  Take this slave that once trod high
In Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay
Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass away
Wasted with tears.  And whatso man they call
Happy, believe not ere the last day fall!

* * * * *

CHORUS[28]. [Strophe.

  O Muse, be near me now, and make
  A strange song for Ilion’s sake,
Till a tone of tears be about mine ears
  And out of my lips a music break
  For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years: 
    When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed,
    And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast;
  And all around were the Argive spears
A towering Steed of golden rein—­
  O gold without, dark steel within!—­
Ramped in our gates; and all the plain
  Lay silent where the Greeks had been. 
And a cry broke from all the folk
Gathered above on Ilion’s rock: 
“Up, up, O fear is over now! 
  To Pallas, who hath saved us living,
To Pallas bear this victory-vow!”
Then rose the old man from his room,
The merry damsel left her loom,
And each bound death about his brow
  With minstrelsy and high thanksgiving!