“Hector⁠—O wretched me!⁠—we both were born To sorrow; thou at Troy, in Priam’s house, And I at Thebé in Eëtion’s halls, By woody Placos. From a little child He reared me there⁠—unhappy he, and I Unhappy! O that I had ne’er been born! Thou goest down to Hades and the depths Of earth, and leavest me in thine abode, Widowed, and never to be comforted. Thy son, a speechless babe, to whom we two Gave being⁠—hapless parents!⁠—cannot have Thy loving guardianship now thou art dead, Nor be a joy to thee. Though he survive The cruel warfare which the sons of Greece Are waging, hard and evil yet will be His lot hereafter; others will remove His landmarks and will make his fields their own. The day in which a boy is fatherless Makes him companionless; with downcast eyes He wanders, and his cheeks are stained with tears. Unfed he goes where sit his father’s friends, And plucks one by the cloak, and by the robe Another. One who pities him shall give A scanty draught, which only wets his lips,