With a dirge of the Thracian mountains, I mourn for thee, O my son. For a mother's weeping, for a galley's launching, for the way to Troy; A sad going, and watched by spirits of evil. His mother chid him to stay, but he rose and went. His father besought him to stay, but he went in anger. Ah, woe is me for thee, thou dear face, My belovèd and my son! LEADER. Goddess, if tears for such as thee may run In our low eyes, I weep for thy dead son. MUSE. I say to thee: Curse Odysseus, And cursèd be Diomede! For they made me childless, and forlorn for ever, of the flower of sons. Yea, curse Helen, who left the houses of Hellas. She knew her lover, she feared not the ships and sea. She called thee, called thee, to die for the sake of Paris, Belovèd, and a thousand cities She made empty of good men. O conquered Thamyris, is this thy bane [vv. 915-941] Returned from death to pierce my heart again? Thy pride it was, and bitter challenge cast 'Gainst all the Muses, did my flesh abase To bearing of this Child, what time I passed Through the deep stream and looked on Strymon's face, And felt his great arms clasp me, when to old Pangaion and the earth of hoarded gold We Sisters came with lutes and psalteries, Provoked to meet in bitter strife of song That mountain wizard, and made dark the eyes Of Thamyris, who wrought sweet music wrong. I bore thee, Child; and then, in shame before My sisterhood, my dear virginity, I stood again upon thy Father's shore And cast thee to the deeps of him; and he Received and to no mortal nursing gave His child, but to the Maidens of the Wave. And well they nursed thee, and a king thou wast And first of Thrace in war; yea, far and near Through thine own hills thy bloody chariot passed, Thy battered helm flashed, and I had no fear; Only to Troy I charged thee not to go: I knew the fated end: but Hector's cry, Borne overseas by embassies of woe, Called thee to battle for thy friends and die. And thou, Athena--nothing was the deed Odysseus wrought this night nor Diomede-- 'Tis thine, all thine; dream not thy cruel hand Is hid from me! Yet ever on thy land The Muse hath smiled; we gave it praise above All cities, yea, fulfilled it with our love. [vv. 942-963] The light of thy great Mysteries was shed By Orpheus, very cousin of this dead Whom thou hast slain; and thine high citizen Musaeus, wisest of the tribes of men, We and Apollo guided all his way: For which long love behold the gift ye pay! I wreathe him in my arms; I wail his wrong Alone, and ask no other mourner's song. [_She weeps over_ RHESUS. LEADER. Hector, thou hearest. We were guiltless here, And falsely spake that Thracian charioteer. HECTOR.