Then, when he saw that burg beloved destroyed, Xanthus, scarce drawing breath from bloody war, Mourned with his Nymphs for ruin fallen on Troy, Mourned for the city of Priam blotted out. As when hail lashes a field of ripened wheat, And beats it small, and smites off all the ears With merciless scourge, and levelled with the ground Are stalks, and on the earth is all the grain Woefully wasted, and the harvest's lord Is stricken with deadly grief; so Xanthus' soul Was utterly whelmed in grief for Ilium made A desolation; grief undying was his, Immortal though he was. Mourned Simois And long-ridged Ida: all who on Ida dwelt Wailed from afar the ruin of Priam's town. But with loud laughter of glee the Argives sought Their galleys, chanting the triumphant might Of victory, chanting now the Blessed Gods, Now their own valour, and Epeius' work Ever renowned. Their song soared up to heaven, Like multitudinous cries of daws, when breaks A day of sunny calm and windless air After a ruining storm: from their glad hearts So rose the joyful clamour, till the Gods Heard and rejoiced in heaven, all who had helped With willing hands the war-fain Argive men. But chafed those others which had aided Troy, Beholding Priam's city wrapped in flame, Yet powerless for her help to override Fate; for not Cronos' Son can stay the hand Of Destiny, whose might transcendeth all The Immortals, and Zeus sanctioneth all her deeds. The Argives on the flaming altar-wood Laid many thighs of oxen, and made haste To spill sweet wine on their burnt offerings, Thanking the Gods for that great work achieved. And loudly at the feast they sang the praise Of all the mailed men whom the Horse of Tree Had ambushed. Far-famed Sinon they extolled For that dire torment he endured of foes; Yea, song and honour-guerdons without end All rendered him: and that resolved soul Glad-hearted joyed for the Argives victory, And for his own misfeaturing sorrowed not. For to the wise and prudent man renown Is better far than gold, than goodlihead, Than all good things men have or hope to win. So, feasting by the ships all void of fear, Cried one to another ever and anon: "We have touched the goal of this long war, have won Glory, have smitten our foes and their great town! Now grant, O Zeus, to our prayers safe home-return!" But not to all the Sire vouchsafed return.