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Nor Athena's bronzen Dwelling,

Nor the towers of Pitanê;

For her face was a dark desire

Upon Greece, and shame like fire,

And her dead are welling, welling,

From red Simoïs to the sea!

Ah, change on change! Yet each one racks

This land with evil manifold;

Unhappy wives of Troy, behold,

They bear the dead Astyanax,

Our prince, whom bitter Greeks this hour

Have hurled to death from Ilion's tower.

One galley, Hecuba, there lingereth yet,

Lapping the wave, to gather the last freight

Of Pyrrhus' spoils for Thessaly. The chief

Himself long since hath parted, much in grief

For Pêleus' sake, his grandsire, whom, men say,

Acastus, Pelias' son, in war array

Hath driven to exile. Loath enough before

Was he to linger, and now goes the more

In haste, bearing Andromache, his prize.

'Tis she hath charmed these tears into mine eyes,

Weeping her fatherland, as o'er the wave

She gazed, and speaking words to Hector's grave.