Such are the sights, the sorrows fell, About our hearth—and worse, whereof I may not tell. But, all the wide town o’er, Each home that sent its master far away From Hellas’ shore, Feels the keen thrill of heart, the pang of loss, to-day. For, truth to say, The touch of bitter death is manifold! Familiar was each face, and dear as life, That went unto the war, But thither, whence a warrior went of old, Doth nought return— Only a spear and sword, and ashes in an urn! For Ares, lord of strife, Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold, War’s money-changer, giving dust for gold, Sends back, to hearts that held them dear, Scant ash of warriors, wept with many a tear, Light to the hand, but heavy to the soul; Yea, fills the light urn full With what survived the flame— Death’s dusty measure of a hero’s frame! _Alas!_ one cries, _and yet alas again! Our chief is gone, the hero of the spear, And hath not left his peer! Ah woe!_ another moans—_my spouse is slain, The death of honour, rolled in dust and blood, Slain for a woman’s sin, a false wife’s shame!_ Such muttered words of bitter mood Rise against those who went forth to reclaim; Yea, jealous wrath creeps on against th’ Atrides’ name. And others, far beneath the Ilian wall, Sleep their last sleep—the goodly chiefs and tall, Couched in the foeman’s land, whereon they gave Their breath, and lords of Troy, each in his Trojan grave. Therefore for each and all the city’s breast Is heavy with a wrath supprest, As deep and deadly as a curse more loud Flung by the common crowd; And, brooding deeply, doth my soul await Tidings of coming fate, Buried as yet in darkness’ womb. For not forgetful is the high gods’ doom Against the sons of carnage: all too long Seems the unjust to prosper and be strong, Till the dark Furies come, And smite with stern reversal all his home, Down into dim obstruction—he is gone, And help and hope, among the lost, is none! O’er him who vaunteth an exceeding fame, Impends a woe condign; The vengeful bolt upon his eyes doth flame, Sped from the hand divine. This bliss be mine, ungrudged of God, to feel— To tread no city to the dust, Nor see my own life thrust Down to a slave’s estate beneath another’s heel! Behold, throughout the city wide Have the swift feet of Rumour hied, Roused by the joyful flame: But is the news they scatter, sooth? Or haply do they give for truth Some cheat which heaven doth frame? A child were he and all unwise, Who let his heart with joy be stirred, To see the beacon-fires arise, And then, beneath some thwarting word, Sicken anon with hope deferred. The edge of woman’s insight still Good news from true divideth ill; Light rumours leap within the bound That fences female credence round, But, lightly born, as lightly dies The tale that springs of her surmise.