The Iliad

The sacred soil of Ilios is rent With shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow Through plains where Simois and Scamander went To war with gods and heroes long ago. Not yet to dark Cassandra lying low In rich Mycenae do the Fates relent; The bones of Agamemnon are a show, And ruined is his royal monument. The dust and awful treasures of the dead Hath learning scattered wide; but vainly thee, Homer, she meteth with her Lesbian lead, And strives to rend thy songs, too blind is she To know the crown on thine immortal head Of indivisible supremacy. A.L.

Athwart the sunrise of our western day The form of great Achilles, high and clear, Stands forth in arms, wielding the Pelian spear. The sanguine tides of that immortal fray, Swept on by gods, around him surge and sway, Wherethrough the helms of many a warrior peer, Strong men and swift, their tossing plumes uprear. But stronger, swifter, goodlier he than they, More awful, more divine. Yet mark anigh; Some fiery pang hath rent his soul within, Some hovering shade his brows encompasseth. What gifts hath Fate for all his chivalry? Even such as hearts heroic oftenest win; Honour, a friend, anguish, untimely death. E.M.