Streams of Scamander, rills

That flow from Ida’s hills,

Streams to the Greeks so dear,

Ne’er shall ye look on Ajax more;

A paladin whose peer

(For I will utter a proud boast)

In all the Grecian host

That sailed from Hellas’ shore

Troy ne’er beheld. But now

Low in the dust, o’erthrown, his head doth bow.

How to restrain or how to let thee speak

I cannot tell, beset by endless woes.

Ay me! Whoe’er had thought how well my name

Would fit my misery? Ay me! Ay me!

Yea, twice and thrice may I repeat the wail

That syllables my woe-begone estate.

My sire, a peerless warrior, home returned

Back from the land of Ida, crowned with fame,

Proclaimed as champion bravest of the brave.

And I, his son, in might not less than he,

Sailed after him to this same land of Troy,

And served the host by deeds of no less worth,

And for reward I perish by the Greeks

Dishonoured. Yet one thing I know full well:

If to Achilles living it had fallen

His arms as meed of valour to award,

No man had grasped the prize, preferred to me.

But now the Atridae, scouting my just claim,

Have yielded to a miscreant’s base intrigue.