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Lo, yonder on the heapèd crest

Of a Greek wain, Andromachê,

As one that o'er an unknown sea

Tosseth; and on her wave-borne breast

Her loved one clingeth, Hector's child,

Astyanax O most forlorn

Of women, whither go'st thou, borne

'Mid Hector's bronzen arms, and piled

Spoils of the dead, and pageantry

Of them that hunted Ilion down?

Aye, richly thy new lord shall crown

The mountain shrines of Thessaly!

Forth to the Greek I go,

Driven as a beast is driven.

Woe, woe!

Nay, mine is woe:

Woe to none other given,

And the song and the crown therefor!

O Zeus!

He hates thee sore!

Children!

No more, no more

To aid thee: their strife is striven!

Troy, Troy is gone!

Yea, and her treasure parted.

Gone, gone, mine own

Children, the noble-hearted!