Oft from the prophets' lips Moaned out the warning and the wail-Ah woe!
Woe for the home, the home! and for the chieftains, woe!
Woe for the bride-bed, warm Yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of the form Of her who loved her lord, awhile ago And woe! for him who stands Shamed, silent, unreproachful, stretching hands That find her not, and sees, yet will not see, That she is far away!
And his sad fancy, yearning o'er the sea, Shall summon and recall Her wraith, once more to queen it in his hall.
And sad with many memories, The fair cold beauty of each sculptured face-And all to hatefulness is turned their grace, Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes!
antistrophe 2
And when the night is deep, Come visions, sweet and sad, and bearing pain Of hopings vain-Void, void and vain, for scarce the sleeping sight Has seen its old delight, When thro' the grasps of love that bid it stay It vanishes away On silent wings that roam adown the ways of sleep.
Such are the sights, the sorrows fell, About our hearth-and worse, whereof I may not tell.
But, all the wide town o'er, Each home that sent its master far away From Hellas' shore, Feels the keen thrill of heart, the pang of loss, to-day.
For, truth to say, The touch of bitter death is manifold!
Familiar was each face, and dear as life, That went unto the war, But thither, whence a warrior went of old, Doth nought return-Only a spear and sword, and ashes in an urn!
strophe 3
For Ares, lord of strife, Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold, War's money-changer, giving dust for gold, Sends back, to hearts that held them dear, Scant ash of warriors, wept with many a tear, Light to the band, but heavy to the soul;Yea, fills the light urn full With what survived the flame-Death's dusty measure of a hero's frame!
Alas! one cries, and yet alas again!
Our chief is gone, the hero of the spear, And hath not left his peer!