the Hellespontic strand, Starting on his journey now, Bound for Greece, his own fair land. Raise the glad exulting shout! Toward the land that gave them birth Turn they now the ships about, As they seek their native earth. And in rows, all mournfully, Sat the Trojan women there,—    Beat their breasts in agony, Pallid, with dishevelled hair. In the feast of joy so glad Mingled they the song of woe, Weeping o'er their fortunes sad, In their country's overthrow.    "Land beloved, oh, fare thee well! By our foreign masters led, Far from home we're doomed to dwell,—     Ah, how happy are the dead!"     Soon the blood by Calchas spilt On the altar heavenward smokes; Pallas, by whom towns are built And destroyed, the priest invokes; Neptune, too, who all the earth With his billowy girdle laves,—    Zeus, who gives to terror birth, Who the dreaded Aegis waves. Now the weary fight is done, Ne'er again to be renewed; Time's wide circuit now is run, And the mighty town subdued! Atreus' son, the army's head, Told the people's numbers o'er, Whom he, as their captain, led To Scamander's vale of yore. Sorrow's black and heavy clouds Passed across the monarch's brow:    Of those vast and valiant crowds, Oh, how few were left him now! Joyful songs let each one raise, Who will see his home again, In whose veins the life-blood plays, For, alas! not all remain!     "All who homeward wend their way, Will not there find peace of mind; On their household altars, they Murder foul perchance may find. Many fall by false friend's stroke, Who in fight immortal proved:"—    So Ulysses warning spoke, By Athene's spirit moved. Happy he, whose faithful spouse Guards his home with honor true! Woman ofttimes breaks her vows, Ever loves she what is new. And Atrides glories there In the prize he won in fight, And around her body fair Twines his arms with fond delight. Evil works must punished be. Vengeance follows after crime, For Kronion's just decree Rules the heavenly courts sublime. Evil must in evil end; Zeus will on the impious band Woe for broken guest-rights send, Weighing with impartial hand.     "It may well the glad befit,"     Cried Olleus' valiant son, 24    "To extol the Gods who sit On Olympus' lofty throne! Fortune all her gifts supplies, Blindly, and no justice knows, For Patroclus buried lies, And Thersites homeward goes! Since she blindly throws away Each lot in her wheel contained, Let him shout with joy to-day Who the prize of life has gained."     "Ay, the wars the best devour! Brother, we will think of thee, In the 

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