Set the great orb of Hector’s shield to lie
Here on the ground.  ’Tis bitter that mine eye
Should see it....  O ye Argives, was your spear
Keen, and your hearts so low and cold, to fear
This babe?  ’Twas a strange murder for brave
  men! 
For fear this babe some day might raise again
His fallen land!  Had ye so little pride? 
While Hector fought, and thousands at his side,
Ye smote us, and we perished; and now, now,
When all are dead and Ilion lieth low,
Ye dread this innocent!  I deem it not
Wisdom, that rage of fear that hath no thought.... 
  Ah, what a death hath found thee, little one! 
Hadst thou but fallen fighting, hadst thou known
Strong youth and love and all the majesty
Of godlike kings, then had we spoken of thee
As of one blessed ... could in any wise
These days know blessedness.  But now thine eyes
Have seen, thy lips have tasted, but thy soul
No knowledge had nor usage of the whole
Rich life that lapt thee round....  Poor little child! 
Was it our ancient wall, the circuit piled
By loving Gods, so savagely hath rent
Thy curls, these little flowers innocent
That were thy mother’s garden, where she laid
Her kisses; here, just where the bone-edge frayed
Grins white above—­Ah heaven, I will not see! 
  Ye tender arms, the same dear mould have ye
As his; how from the shoulder loose ye drop
And weak!  And dear proud lips, so full of hope
And closed for ever!  What false words ye said
At daybreak, when he crept into my bed,
Called me kind names, and promised:  ’Grandmother,
When thou art dead, I will cut close my hair
And lead out all the captains to ride by
Thy tomb.’  Why didst thou cheat me so?  ’Tis I,
Old, homeless, childless, that for thee must shed
Cold tears, so young, so miserably dead. 
  Dear God, the pattering welcomes of thy feet,
The nursing in my lap; and O, the sweet
Falling asleep together!  All is gone. 
How should a poet carve the funeral stone
To tell thy story true?  ’There lieth here
A babe whom the Greeks feared, and in their fear
Slew him.’  Aye, Greece will bless the tale it
    tells! 
  Child, they have left thee beggared of all else
In Hector’s house; but one thing shalt thou keep,
This war-shield bronzen-barred, wherein to sleep. 
Alas, thou guardian true of Hector’s fair
Left arm, how art thou masterless!  And there
I see his handgrip printed on thy hold;
And deep stains of the precious sweat, that rolled
In battle from the brows and beard of him,
Drop after drop, are writ about thy rim. 
  Go, bring them—­such poor garments hazardous
As these days leave.  God hath not granted us
Wherewith to make much pride.  But all I can,
I give thee, Child of Troy.—­O vain is man,
Who glorieth in his joy and hath no fears: 
While to and fro the chances of the years
Dance like an idiot in the wind!  And none
By any strength hath his own fortune won.