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Lo these, who bear thee raiment harvested

From Ilion's slain, to fold upon the dead.

O not in pride for speeding of the car

Beyond thy peers, not for the shaft of war

True aimed, as Phrygians use; not any prize

Of joy for thee, nor splendour in men's eyes,

Thy father's mother lays these offerings

About thee, from the many fragrant things

That were all thine of old. But now no more.

One woman, loathed of God, hath broke the door

And robbed thy treasure-house, and thy warm breath

Made cold, and trod thy people down to death!

Deep in the heart of me

I feel thine hand,

Mother: and is it he

Dead here, our prince to be,

And lord of the land?

Glory of Phrygian raiment, which my thought

Kept for thy bridal day with some far-sought

Queen of the East, folds thee for evermore.

And thou, grey Mother, Mother-Shield that bore