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Rh Odysseus that she come. She was his lot

Chosen from all and portioned. Lose her not!

Woe, woe, woe!

Thou of the Ages, O wherefore fleëst thou,

Lord of the Phrygian, Father that made us?

'Tis we, thy children; shall no man aid us?

'Tis we, thy children! Seëst thou, seëst thou?

He seëth, only his heart is pitiless;

And the land dies: yea, she,

She of the Mighty Cities perisheth citiless!

Troy shall no more be!

Woe, woe, woe!

Ilion shineth afar!

Fire in the deeps thereof,

Fire in the heights above,

And crested walls of War!

As smoke on the wing of heaven

Climbeth and scattereth,

Torn of the spear and driven,

The land crieth for death:

O stormy battlements that red fire hath riven,

And the sword's angry breath!