Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 328, February, 1843. Various

      And there the Trojan women, weeping,

      Sit ranged in many a length'ning row;

      Their heedless locks, dishevell'd, sweeping

      Adown the wan cheeks worn with woe.

      No festive sounds that peal along,

       Their mournful dirge can overwhelm;

      Through hymns of joy one sorrowing song

      Commingled, wails the ruin'd realm.

      "Farewell, beloved shores!" it said,

      "From home afar behold us torn,

      By foreign lords as captives borne—

      Ah, happy are the Dead!"

      And Calchas, while the altars blaze,

      Invokes the high gods to their feast!

      On Pallas, mighty or to raise

      Or shatter cities, call'd the Priest—

      And Him, who wreathes around the land

      The girdle of his watery world,

      And Zeus, from whose almighty hand

      The terror and the bolt are hurl'd.

      Success at last awards the crown—

      The long and weary war is past;

      Time's destined circle ends at last—

      And fall'n the Mighty Town!

      The Son of Atreus, king of men,

      The muster of the hosts survey'd,

      How dwindled from the thousands, when

      Along Scamander first array'd!

      With sorrow and the cloudy thought,

      The Great King's stately look grew dim—

      Of all the hosts to Ilion brought,

      How few to Greece return with him!

      Still let the song to gladness call,

      For those who yet their home shall greet!—

      For them the blooming life is sweet:

      Return is not for all!

      Nor all who reach their native land

      May long the joy of welcome feel—

      Beside the household gods may stand

      Grim Murther with awaiting steel;

      And they who 'scape the foe, may die

      Beneath the foul familiar glaive.

      Thus He2 to whose prophetic eye

      Her light the wise Minerva gave:—

      "Ah! blest whose hearth, to memory true,

      The goddess keeps unstain'd and pure—

      For woman's guile is deep and sure,

      And Falsehood loves the New!"

      The Spartan eyes his Helen's charms,

      By the best blood of Greece recaptured;

      Round that fair form his glowing arms—

      (A second bridal)—wreathe enraptured.

      "Woe waits the work of evil birth—

      Revenge to deeds unblest is given!

      For watchful o'er the things of earth,

      The eternal Council-Halls of Heaven.

      Yes, ill shall ever ill repay—

      Jove to the impious hands that stain

      The Altar of Man's Hearth, again

      The doomer's doom shall weigh!"

      "Well they, reserved for joy to day,"

      Cried out Oïleus' valiant son,

      "May laud the favouring gods who sway

      Our earth, their easy thrones upon;

      Without a choice they mete our doom,

      Our woe or welfare Hazard gives—

      Patroclus slumbers in the tomb,

      And all unharm'd Thersites lives.

      While luck and life to every one

      Blind Fate dispenses, well may they

      Enjoy the life and luck to day

      By whom the prize is won!

      "Yes, war will still devour the best!—

      Brother, remember'd in this hour!

      His shade should be in feasts a guest,

      Whose form was in the strife a tower!

      What time our ships the Trojan fired,

      Thine arm to Greece the safety gave—

      The prize to which thy soul aspired,

      The crafty wrested from the brave.3

      Peace to thine ever-holy rest—

      Not thine to fall before the foe!

      Ajax alone laid Ajax low:

      Ah—wrath destroys the best!"

      To his dead sire—(the Dorian king)—

      The bright-hair'd Pyrrhus4 pours the wine:—

      "Of every lot that life can bring,

      My soul, great Father, prizes thine.

      Whate'er the goods of earth, of all,

      The highest and the holiest—FAME!

      For when the Form in dust shall fall,

      O'er dust triumphant lives the Name!

      Brave Man, thy light of glory never

      Shall fade, while song to man shall