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Of Pallas, and vultures croak

And flap for joy:

So Love hath laid his yoke

On the neck of Troy!

O mine own land, my home,

(I weep for thee, left forlorn,)

See'st thou what end is come?

(And the house where my babes were born.)

A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a

City of scorn:

Even as the sound of a song

Left by the way, but long

Remembered, a tune of tears

Falling where no man hears,

In the old house, as rain,

For things loved of yore:

But the dead hath lost his pain

And weeps no more.

How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress,

And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness.

Mother of him of old, whose mighty spear

Smote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here?

I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crown

For littleness, and hath cast the mighty down.