Classic Poem

I

— — They hurried to the feast,
— — The warrior and the priest,
And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;
— — The minstrel's harp and voice
— — Said " Triumph and rejoice!" —
One only mourned! — many are mourning now!

II

— — " Peace! startle not the light
— — With the wild dreams of night!" —
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,
— — When I in their dull ears
— — Shrieked forth my tale of tears,
" Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!" —

III

— — Ye watch the dun smoke rise
— — Up to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;
— — Ye listen to the fall
— — Of gate and tower and wall;
Sisters, the time is come! — alas, it is no dream!

IV

— — Through hall and court and porch
— — Glides on the pitiless torch;
The swift avengers faint not in their toil:
— — Vain now the matron's sighs,
— — Vain now the infant's cries; —
Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?

V

— — Not Pyrrhus, though his hand
— — Is on his father's brand;
Not the fell framer of the accursed steed;
— — Not Nestor's hoary head,
— — Nor Teucer's rapid tread,
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

VI

— — Visions of deeper fear
— — To-night are warring here; —
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:
— — Minerva's lightning frown,
— — And Juno's golden crown,
And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!

VII

— — Through wailing and through woe
— — Silent and stern they go;
So have I ever seen them in my trance:
— — Exultingly they guide
— — Destruction's fiery tide,
And lift the dazzling shield, and poise the deadly lance.

VIII

— — Lo, where the old man stands,
— — Folding his palsied hands,
And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:
— — " Where is my noble son,
— — My best, my bravest one —
Troy's hope and Priam's — where is Hector, where?"

IX

— — Why is thy falchion grasped?
— — Why is thy helmet clasped?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!
— — The altar reeks with gore;
— — O sisters, look no more!
It is our father's blood upon the shrine!

X

— — And ye, alas! must roam
— — Far from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o'er the joyless wave;
— — Ye may not from these bowers
— — Gather the trampled flowers
To wreathe sad garlands for your brethren's grave.


XI

— — Away, away! the gale
— — Stirs the white-bosomed sail;
Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame;
— — Labour must be your doom,
— — Night-watchings, days of gloom,
The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

XII

— — Even now some Grecian dame
— — Beholds the signal flame,
And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;
— — " Why lingers yet my lord?
— — Hath he not sheathed his sword?
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?"

XIII

— — Me, too, the dark Fates call:
— — Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne: —
— — I tell of others' lot;
— — They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phoebus, hide from me mine own