Upon Argive lawn unto Hera dancing
Shall stand, but here shall the corpse of him slain
Lie, by the Thracians' doom of bane,
To cumber the soil of its load full fain.[1]
Enter Rhesus in his chariot, with Thracian guard.
Hail, great King, hail!—O Thrace, of thy scions 380
The glory is this—true prince to behold!
Mark ye the strong limbs lapped in gold:
Heard ye the bells clash proud defiance,
As their tongues from his buckler-handles tolled?
'Tis a God, Troy! Ares' self is there,
This Strymon's son, whom the Song-queen bare!
Bringing times of refreshing to thee doth he fare.
Rhesus.
Brave son of brave sire, prince of this land, hail,
Hector! I greet thee after many days.
I joy in thy good speed, who see thee camped 390
Nigh the foes' towers. I come to help thee raze
Their ramparts, and to fire their galleys' hulls.
Hector.
Son of the Songful Mother, of the Muse,
And Thracian Strymon's flood, I love to speak
The truth: no man am I of double tongue. 395
Long, long since shouldest thou have come to aid
This land, nor suffered, for all help of thine,
That Troy should stoop 'neath spears of Argive foes.
Thou canst not say thou cam'st not to thy friends,
Nor visitedst for their help, for lack of bidding. 400
- ↑ Since the corpse of an enemy is a welcome burden to the soil of our country.
