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Of the bravest of Hellas he made him

A ship-folk, in wrath for the Steeds,

And sailed the wide waters, and stayed him

At last amid Simoïs' reeds;

And the oars beat slow in the river,

And the long ropes held in the strand,

And he felt for his bow and his quiver,

The wrath of his hand.

And the old king died; and the towers

That Phoebus had builded did fall,

And his wrath, as a flame that devours,

Ran red over all;

And the fields and the woodlands lay blasted,

Long ago. Yea, twice hath the Sire

Uplifted his hand and downcast it

On the wall of the Dardan, downcast it

As a sword and as fire.

In vain, all in vain,

O thou 'mid the wine-jars golden

That movest in delicate joy,

Ganymêdês, child of Troy,

The lips of the Highest drain

The cup in thine hand upholden:

And thy mother, thy mother that bore thee,

Is wasted with fire and torn;

And the voice of her shores is heard,

Wild, as the voice of a bird,

For lovers and children before thee

Crying, and mothers outworn.

And the pools of thy bathing are perished,

And the wind-strewn ways of thy feet: