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Rh And Crathis of the burning tresses

Makes red the happy vale, and blesses

With gold of fountains spirit-haunted

Homes of true men and brave!

But lo, who cometh: and his lips

Grave with the weight of dooms unknown:

A Herald from the Grecian ships.

Swift comes he, hot-foot to be done

And finished. Ah, what bringeth he

Of news or judgment? Slaves are we,

Spoils that the Greek hath won!

Thou know'st me, Hecuba. Often have I crossed

Thy plain with tidings from the Hellene host.

'Tis I, Talthybius Nay, of ancient use

Thou know'st me. And I come to bear thee news.

Ah me, 'tis here, 'tis here,

Women of Troy, our long embosomed fear!

The lots are cast, if that it was ye feared.

What lord, what land Ah me,

Phthia or Thebes, or sea-worn Thessaly?

Each hath her own. Ye go not in one herd.