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Rh Our Hector, who from day's long toil

Comes radiant in Achilles' spoil,

Or with that red right hand, which casts

The fires of Troy on Grecian masts!

Blood-clotted hung his beard and hair,

And all those many wounds were there,

Which on his gracious person fell

Around the walls he loved so well.

Methought I first the chief addressed,

With tears like his, and labouring breast:

'O daystar of Dardanian land!

O faithful heart, unconquered hand!

What means this lingering? from what shore

Comes Hector to his home once more?

Ah! since we saw you, many a woe

Has brought your friends, your country low;

And weary eyes and aching brow

Are ours that look upon you now!

What cause has marred that clear calm mien,

Or why those wounds, so ghastly green?'

He answers not, nor recks him aught

Of those the idle quests I sought;

But with a melancholy sigh,

'Ah, goddess-born,' he warns me, 'fly!

Escape these flames: Greece holds the walls;

Proud Ilium from her summit falls.

Think not of king's or country's claims:

Country and king, alas! are names:

Could Troy be saved by hands of men,

This hand had saved her then, e'en then.

The gods of her domestic shrines

That country to your care consigns:

Receive them now, to share your fate:

Provide them mansions strong and great.

The city's walls, which Heaven has willed

Beyond the seas you yet shall build.'