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Rh Have rich encerëment. 'Tis we, 'tis we,

That dream, we living and our vanity!

Woe for the mother that bare thee, child,

Thread so frail of a hope so high,

That Time hath broken: and all men smiled

About thy cradle, and, passing by,

Spoke of thy father's majesty.

Low, low, thou liest!

Ha! Who be these on the crested rock?

Fiery hands in the dusk, and a shock

Or torches flung! What lingereth still

O wounded City, of unknown ill,

Ere yet thou diest?

Ye Captains that have charge to wreck this keep

Of Priam's City, let your torches sleep

No more! Up, fling the fire into her heart!

Then have we done with Ilion, and may part

In joy to Hellas from this evil land.

And ye—so hath one word two faces—stand,