of ours, who comes back to us clad in the spoils of Achilles,
or from hurling Phrygian fire on Danaan vessels! with
stiffened beard and hair matted with blood, and those
wounds fresh about him, which fell on him so thickly 25
round his country’s walls. Methought I addressed him
first with tears like his own, fetching from my breast the
accents of sorrow—‘O light of Dardan land, surest hope
that Trojans ever had! What delay has kept you so long?
From what clime is the Hector of our longings returned 30
to us at last? O the eyes with which, after long months