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Would that in ancient days,

Father, some Lycian lance

Had slain thee by Ilion's wall;

Then hadst thou left great praise

In thy House, and thy children's glance

In the streets were marked of all:

Men had upreared for thee

A high-piled burial hill

In a land beyond the sea;

And the House could have borne its ill.

And all they who nobly died

Would have loved him in that place,

And observed him in his pride

As he passed with royal pace

To a throne at the right hand

Of the Kings of the Dark Land:

For a king he was when living,

Above all who crownèd stand

With the sceptre of lawgiving.

Nay, would thou hadst died not ever!

Not by the Ilian Gate,

Not when the others fell

Spear-broken beside the river!

If they who wrought thee hate

Had died, it had all been well: