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vv. 522–542. For Agamemnon cometh! A great light

Cometh to men and gods out of the night.

Grand greeting give him—aye, it need be grand—

Who, God's avenging mattock in his hand,

Hath wrecked Troy's towers and digged her soil beneath,

Till her gods' houses, they are things of death;

Her altars waste, and blasted every seed

Whence life might rise! So perfect is his deed,

So dire the yoke on Ilion he hath cast,

The first Atreides, King of Kings at last,

And happy among men! To whom we give

Honour most high above all things that live.

For Paris nor his guilty land can score

The deed they wrought above the pain they bore.

"Spoiler and thief," he heard God's judgement pass;

Whereby he lost his plunder, and like grass

Mowed down his father's house and all his land;

And Troy pays twofold for the sin she planned.

Be glad, thou Herald of the Greek from Troy!

So glad, I am ready, if God will, to die!

Did love of this land work thee such distress?

The tears stand in mine eyes for happiness.

Sweet sorrow was it, then, that on you fell.