When nightfall on the Dardan plain
Brings truce, and stilled are sounds of Mars,
And mournful, mournful moans the main,
And Simois’ ripples take the stars,—
When thoughts of home float o’er the sea
From fields afar, and heroes’ breasts,
At last from brazen corselet free,
Soft-heaving take those gentle guests,—
Ah then, who sinks to sleep away,
In tent, or galley scarlet-prowed,
Nor doubts some deed he did to-day?
That taunt was harsh, that boast was loud.
How failed his eyes to recognize
The god behind the foeman bold?
Why gave he, under friendship’s guise,
That mail of brass for mail of gold?
Oh, is there one, of either host,
Who never, sighing, weighs his cause
At this grave hour, nor feels a ghost,
Cool-handed, bid his courage pause?
Two: dog-like droops the dreaming head
Of mean Thersites evil-eyed;
And Paris on his broidered bed
Sleeps well at swan-white Helen’s side.
No scruple sharp the selfist finds;
The wrangler no remorses fret:
The loved of gods in lofty minds
Have room to house a high regret.