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To aid thee?—Lo, this beaten head,

This bleeding bosom! These I spread

As gifts to thee. I can thus much.

Woe, woe for Troy, and woe for thee!

What fall yet lacketh, ere we touch

The last dead deep of misery?

In Salamis, filled with the foaming

Of billows and murmur of bees,

Old Telamon stayed from his roaming,

Long ago, on a throne of the seas;

Looking out on the hills olive-laden,

Enchanted, where first from the earth

The grey-gleaming fruit of the Maiden

Athena had birth;

A soft grey crown for a city

Belovèd, a City of Light:

Yet he rested not there, nor had pity,

But went forth in his might,

Where Heracles wandered, the lonely

Bow-bearer, and lent him his hands

For the wrecking of one land only,

Of Ilion, Ilion only,

Most hated of lands!