E’en I whose will aforetime was as iron

Steeled in the dipping, now have lost the edge

Of resolution, by this woman’s words

Unmanned, to pity melted at the thought

Of her a widow and my orphan son

Left amidst foemen. But I go my way

To the sea baths and meadows by the beach,

That I may there assoil me and assuage

The wrathful goddess, having purged my sin.

Then will I seek some solitary spot

And hide this sword, of weapons most accursed,

Deep under earth, consigned to Night and Hell,

Where never eye of man may see it more;

For since the day I hanselled it, a gift

From Hector, my arch-enemy, to this hour,

No favour from Achaeans have I won.

So true the word familiar in men’s mouths,

A foe’s gifts are no gifts and profit not.

Henceforward I shall know to yield to Heaven,

And school myself the Atridae to respect.

They are our rulers and obey we must;

How otherwise? Dread potencies and powers

Submit to law. Thus winter snow-bestrown

Gives place to opulent summer. Night’s dim orb

Is put to flight when Dawn with her white steeds

Kindles the day-beams; and the wind’s fierce breath

Can lay the storm and lull the moaning deep.

E’en thus all-conquering sleep holds not for ever

Whom he has bound, and must relax his grasp.

And we, shall we not likewise learn to yield?

I most of all; for I have learnt, though late,

This rule, to hate an enemy as one