In sleep diffused; these toils have run their hour.
The dead care not to rise; their roll our grief
Would muster o’er in vain; and we who live
Vainly shall fret at the cross strokes of fate.
Henceforth to each harsh memory of the past
Farewell! we who survive this long-drawn war
Have gains to count that far outweigh the loss.
Well may we boast in the face of the shining sun,
O’er land and sea our winged tidings wafting,
The Achæan host hath captured Troy; and now