Classic Poem

(From the Iliad.)

And thou hast died, O husband young in years,
And thou hast left me widowed and in tears.
The son to whom thy hapless wife gave birth
Shall ne'er touch manhood's prime upon the earth;
For ere that hour this city shall be thrust
From its proud summit prone unto the dust.
Ay! thou art dead, Protector of its wives,
And all its prattling throng of infant lives;
And these shall soon be held in sad array
In hollow barks, and with me borne away.
But thou, my son, wilt either with me go,
Where thou shalt labour for the heartless foe
At basest tasks, or some enraged Greek
Will grasp thy wrists, and with fierce hurlings wreak
A sad destruction from a turret's height;
To him, thy father, Hector, hath in fight
A brother slain, a parent, or a son;
For many Greeks have faced him, and, undone,
Have bitten the enormous earth.
'Twas he
Who sought the conflict with the fiercest glee;
Wherefore the people mourn him through the streets.
Hector! Ah me, what sorrowful death-beats
Sound at thy parents' hearts of joy bereft; —
While still to me the bitterest griefs are left.
For thou didst not, when dying, stretch thy palms
Forth from the couch to me, nor any calms
Fell from thine ashen lips in prudent speech.
Nor through my future journeyings shall reach
One word to be remembered far away
While fall my silent tears by night and day.