O PHOEBUS embattling the high wall of Ilium, And thou of ocean, guiding behind black horses Thy chariot on salt water, Why have ye, in what wrath, Given the work of your hands -- A fine work scorned, to the spear Of war, deserting unhappy Unhappy Troy? Many on Simois banks were the quick chariots Inspanned, and bloody the ungarlanded racing That ye for mortals made there: Dead and gone are the kings Of Ilium, and no fire On altar-hearth now burns, There is no more incense smoking In Troy for Gods. Gone is the son of Atreus, wifely hands Killed him, and she, requited by her children, Suffered God's anger, dying. The word of God prophetic turned on her, When, out of Argos, Agamemnon's son Trod the rich temple floors and went to be The killer of his mother. O God, can I trust thy word, O Phoebus? Troy's women all through the Grecian market places Sang lamentations for their unlucky children, And wives must home abandon To follow another man; it is not you Alone on whom fell difficult grief, it is not Your friends alone. A plague, a plague held Greece; And to deep fields in Phrygia Crossed over a storm, and rained down murder. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TEMPTRESS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BALLADE OF WENCHES by FRANCOIS VILLON ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL by JOHN BYROM THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER by GEORGE CANNING A MOTHER TO HER SICK CHILD by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP by HEINRICH HOFFMANN |