“Sperchius, in vain my father made a vow That I, returning to my native shore, Should bring my hair, an offering to thee, And slay a consecrated hecatomb, And burn a sacrifice of fifty rams, Beside the springs where in a sacred field Thy fragrant altar stands. Such was the vow Made by the aged man, yet hast thou not Fulfilled his wish. And now, since I no more Shall see my native land, the land I love, Let the slain hero bear these locks away.”

He spake, and in his dear companion’s hands He placed the hair, and all around were moved To deeper grief; the setting sun had left The host lamenting, had not Peleus’ son Addressed Atrides, standing at his side:⁠—

“Atrides, thou whose word the Greeks obey Most readily, all mourning has an end. Dismiss the people from the pyre to take Their evening meal, while we with whom it rests To pay these mournful duties to the dead Will close the rites; but let the chiefs remain.”