Not — whosoever was the great of yore,Bursting to bloom with bravery all round —Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more.And who it was that after came to be,Met the thrice-throwing wrestler, — heIs also gone to ground.But Zeus — if any, heart and soul, that name —Shouting the triumph-praise — proclaim,Complete in judgment shall that man be found. Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise,Appoints that suffering masterfully teach.In sleep, before the heart of each,A woe-remembering travail sheds in dewDiscretion, — ay, and melts the unwilling tooBy what, perchance, may be a graciousnessOf gods, enforced no less, —As they, commanders of the crew,Assume the awful seat. And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet,Disparaging no seer —With bated breath to suit misfortune’s inrush here— (What time it laboured, that Achaian host,By stay from sailing, — every pulse at lengthEmptied of vital strength, —Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crostIn Aulis station, — while the winds which post From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught,Tempters of man to sail where harbourage is naught,Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning timeTo twice the length, — these carded, by delay,