O my Ilion, once we named thee City of unconquered men; But the Grecian spear has tamed thee, Thou canst never rise again. Grecian clouds thy causeways darken;-- Ah! they cannot hide thy glory! Ages hence shall heroes hearken To the wonders of thy story. II. O my Ilion, they have shorn thee Of thy lofty crown of towers! Thy poor daughter can but mourn thee In her lonely, captive hours. They have robbed thee of thy beauty, Made thee foul with smoke and gore; Tears are now my only duty, I shall tread thy streets no more. III. O my Ilion, I remember-- ’Twas the hour of sweet repose, And my husband in our chamber Slept, nor dreamt of Grecian foes. For the song and feast were over, And the spear was hung to rest-- Never more, my hero-lover, Aimed by thee at foeman’s breast. IV. O my Ilion, at the mirror I was binding up my hair, When my face grew pale with terror At the cry that rent the air. Hark! amid the din, the Grecian Shout of triumph “Troy is taken; Ten years’ work have now completion-- Ilion’s haughty towers are shaken!” V. O my Ilion, forth I hied me From his happy home and mine; Hapless, soon the Greeks descried me, As I knelt at Phœbe’s shrine. Then, my husband slain before me, To the shore they hurried me, And from all I loved they tore me Fainting o’er the cruel sea. BELLEROPHON. (_Iliad_ vi. 152-195.) In a far nook of steed-famed Argos, stand The city Ephyra. Here Sisyphus, The wily son of Æolus, was king. His son was Glaucus, and to him was born Bellerophon of honour without stain, Gifted with every grace the gods bestow, And manly spirit that won all men’s love. Him Prœtus, who by Jove’s supreme consent Held a harsh sceptre over Argolis, Hated and doomed to exile or to death. For fair Antea loved Bellerophon With a mad passion, and, her royal spouse Deceiving, told her longing to his guest. But brave Bellerophon, as good as brave, Set a pure heart against her evil words. Then with false tongue she stood before the king: “O Prœtus, die or slay Bellerophon, Who sought her love, who only loveth thee.” And anger seized the king at what he heard, Yet was he loath to kill him, for the laws That make the stranger sacred he revered. But unto Lycia, bearing fatal signs, And folded in a tablet, words of death, He sent him, and enjoined him these to give Unto Antea’s sire--his step-father, Thinking that he would perish.