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have I To hold me? Take this slave that once trod high In Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass away Wasted with tears. And whatso man they call Happy, believe not ere the last day fall! * * * * * CHORUS[28]. [_Strophe._ O Muse, be near me now, and make A strange song for Ilion's sake, Till a tone of tears be about mine ears And out of my lips a music break For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years: When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed, And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast; And all around were the Argive spears A towering Steed of golden rein-- O gold without, dark steel within!-- Ramped in our gates; and all the plain Lay silent where the Greeks had been. And a cry broke from all the folk Gathered above on Ilion's rock: "Up, up, O fear is over now! To Pallas, who hath saved us living, To Pallas bear this victory-vow!" Then rose the old man from his room, The merry damsel left her loom, And each bound death about his brow With minstrelsy and high thanksgiving! [_Antistrophe._ O, swift were all in Troy that day, And girt them to the portal-way, Marvelling at that mountain Thing Smooth-carven, where the Argives lay, And wrath, and Ilion's vanquishing: Meet gift for her that spareth not[29], Heaven's yokeless Rider. Up they brought Through the steep gates her offering: Like some dark ship that climbs the shore On straining cables, up, where stood Her marble throne, her hallowed floor, Who lusted for her people's blood. A very weariness of joy Fell with the evening over Troy: And lutes of Afric mingled there With Phrygian songs: and many a maiden, With white feet glancing light as air, Made happy music through the gloom: And fires on many an inward room All night broad-flashing, flung their glare On laughing eyes and slumber-laden. A MAIDEN. I was among the dancers there To Artemis[30], and glorying sang Her of the Hills, the Maid most fair, Daughter of Zeus: and, lo, there rang A shout out of the dark, and fell Deathlike from street to street, and made A silence in the citadel: And a child cried, as if afraid, And hid him in his mother's veil. Then stalked the Slayer from his den, The hand of Pallas served her well! O blood, blood of Troy was deep About the streets and altars then: And in the wedded r
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