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Hear me too, even me, O father, hear!

Not by one child alone these groans, these tears are shed

Upon thy sepulchre.

Each, each, where thou art lowly laid,

Stands, a suppliant, homeless made:

Ah, and all is full of ill,

Comfort is there none to say!

Strive and wrestle as we may,

Still stands doom invincible.

Nay, if so he will, the god

Still our tears to joy can turn.

He can bid a triumph-ode

Drown the dirge beside this urn;

He to kingly halls can greet

The child restored, the homeward-guided feet.

Ah my father! hadst thou lain

Under Ilion's wall,

By some Lycian spearman slain,

Thou hadst left in this thine hall

Honour; thou hadst wrought for us

Fame and life most glorious.

Over-seas if thou had'st died,

Heavily had stood thy tomb,

Heaped on high; but, quenched in pride,

Grief were light unto thy home.

Loved and honoured hadst thou lain

By the dead that nobly fell,