O light of Troy, O prop of Trojan hopes,
What slow delays have held thee from our sight,
O long awaited one? Whence com’st thou here?
We see thee now, with hardships overborne,
But only after many of thy friends
Have met their doom, and after struggles vast
Of city and of men.—But what, alas,
Has so defiled thy features? Whence these wounds
And horrid scars I see?
Hector, with deep sighs and groans (289-295):