Comes he, or has he failed to hear thy call?

I see one just approaching with the boy.

Lift him, O lift him to my arms; no dread,

If he be mine, his father’s true-born son,

He’ll feel in gazing on this fresh spilt blood.

He must be early trained and broken in

To the stern rule of life his father held,

And moulded to the likeness of his sire.

My boy, mayst thou prove happier than thy sire,

But like him in all else, and thou wilt prove

No weakling; nay, e’en now, in this at least

I envy thee: of woes thou wottest naught,

For ignorance is life’s extremest bliss⁠—

The years when joy and sorrow are both unknown.

But when thou reachest manhood, then’s the time

To prove the inbred virtue of thy race,

And show thy father’s foes whose son thou art.

Meanwhile let light airs feed thee; cherish thou

Thy tender years to glad thy mother’s heart.

Thou need’st not fear that any of the Greeks

Will tease or vex thee, e’en when I am gone.

So stout a guardian will I leave in charge,

Whose watchful eye will slumber not, though now

A foray ’gainst his enemies keeps him hence.

And ye, my seamen, comrades in the fight,

(On you no less than him I lay this charge

Of love) to him convey my last behest.

Bid him from me take home this son of mine