round the tomb Of his young friend, Patroclus, whom thy hand Had slain, yet raised he not by this the dead; And now thou liest in the palace here, Fresh and besprinkled as with early dew, Like one just slain with silent arrows aimed By Phoebus, bearer of the silver bow.”
Weeping she spake, and woke in all who heard Grief without measure. Helen, last of all, Took up the lamentation, and began:—
“O Hector, who wert dearest to my heart Of all my husband’s brothers—for the wife Am I of godlike Paris, him whose fleet Brought me to Troy—would I had sooner died! And now the twentieth year is past since first I came a stranger from my native shore, Yet have I never heard from thee a word Of anger or reproach. And when the sons Of Priam, and his daughters, and the wives Of Priam’s sons, in all their fair array, Taunted me grievously, or Hecuba Herself—for Priam ever was to me A gracious father—thou didst take my part With kindly admonitions, and restrain Their tongues with soft address and gentle words. Therefore my heart is grieved, and I bewail Thee and myself at once—unhappy me! For now I have no friend in all wide Troy— None to be kind to me: they hate me all.”