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Rh Of shame in Hellas, over bitter seas!

What knoweth she of evils like to these,

That dead Polyxena, thou weepest for?

There liveth not in my life any more

The hope that others have. Nor will I tell

The lie to mine own heart, that aught is well

Or shall be well. Yet, O, to dream were sweet!

Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet,

And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.

Lo, yonder ships: I ne'er set foot on one,

But tales and pictures tell, when over them

Breaketh a storm not all too strong to stem,

Each man strives hard, the tiller gripped, the mast

Manned, the hull baled, to face it: till at last

Too strong breaks the o'erwhelming sea: lo, then

They cease, and yield them up as broken men

To fate and the wild waters. Even so

I in my many sorrows bear me low,

Nor curse, nor strive that other things may be.

The great wave rolled from God hath conquered me.

But, O, let Hector and the fates that fell

On Hector, sleep. Weep for him ne'er so well,

Thy weeping shall not wake him. Honour thou

The new lord that is set above thee now,

And make of thine own gentle piety

A prize to lure his heart. So shalt thou be

A strength to them that love us, and—God knows,

It may be—rear this babe among his foes,