Classic Poem

'Tis the tenth year since adversaries dread
To Priam, they who from high Jove obtain
Twin-sceptred and twin-throned to reign,
Great Sons of Atreus, famed for hardyhead,
A military force for vengeance led,
Freight of a thousand vessels, from this shore
Pouring from their bold breasts a mighty shout of war;
Like Vultures that around their nest on high
Smit by the loss of young with sharpest pain
In agitated circles fly,
And, whilst they ply aloft the plumy oar,
With their shrill sorrows pierce the quiet sky
For long long brooding cares and labour spent in vain.
But from his high domain
Some retributive Pow'r that dwells above,
Apollo, Pan, or all perfecting Jove
Struck by the clamorous lament
Of these wild wanderers from a plundered home,
'Gainst the transgressors, wheresoe'er they roam,
Sends an avenging Fury, sure though late.

Thus against Paris in his ire
Jove, God of hospitable rites, hath sent
Th'Atridae to be ministers of Fate: —
Wrestlings many and dire
All for a double-mated woman,
Both on Greek and Trojan foeman
Imposing — ah! how many a knee
Propped on the dust! what snapping, shivering
Of spears in the crash of onset! — what a quivering
Of limbs o'erlaboured in death's agony!

But come what may, beneath the sun
All that on high is destined shall be done:
For not by streams of sacrifice
Nor tears that gush from downcast eyes,
Nor hands upraised, mid supplicating cries,
A mortal man's impiety
The wrath of righteous Heaven may ever hope to shun.

But we, from that great armament omitted,
Alas! unfitted
For battle deeds, must here abide
To second childhood grown
Leaning upon a staff our weary gait to guide.
For when glad youth is flown,
Its fires extinct, its vigorous juices dried,
Ah! then how perishes the pride
Of our green summer foliage! — then we feebly stray
On three feet weeping, and with waste of years
Frail as a child the man appears —
A pale and fleeting dream by the sun's light espied.

But say, O child of Tyndarus, our Queen,
What may this sudden splendour mean?
What message coming to thine ears this day
Has stirred thy spirit with a glad surprise
That thus in joy's triumphant way
Thou sendest all about to sacrifice?
What, Clytemnestra, hast thou heard, what fame
Has caused thee to light up this general flame?

See all around
Of every guardian Deity
That rules within the city's bound,
Earthly or heavenly, which soe'er he be,
Yea and of each bright company
O'er the Forum here presiding,
Or in realms above residing,
With gifts the hallowed altars blaze.

On this side and on that a torch of fire,
A glittering torch the sacred hearths upraise;
Behold what unctuous fomentations,
With fragrant incense fraught,
What masses from the inner chambers brought
Of clotted oil, rich royal preparations,
Feed those keen flames that to the skies aspire!

Speak and of these things tell us whatsoe'er
Thou canst and mayst declare:
O be the healer of solicitude,
Which now o'erclouds our hearts with sadness
Now, while those fires, around us shining,
Betoken gladness
Gives place to Hope that hastes in joyous mood
To banish soul-consuming Care,
Of grief insatiate, with her blest divining.