Thou'rt still a wanderer. It was not mine
With stately train to lead thee to thy bride,505
With my own hand to deck the festal halls,
And with sacred fillets wreathe thy wedding torch.
The father of thy bride no wedding gifts,
No wealth of gold, has given, no fields, no towns;
Thy only gift is war. A foeman's son510
Hast thou become, far from thy native land,
An alien household's guest, driven from thine own,
Committed to another's interests,