That unjust man, the god in grapple throws.Such an one, Paris goesWithin the Atreidai’s house —Shamed the guest’s board by robbery of the spouse. And, leaving to her townsmen throngs a-spreadWith shields, and spear-thrusts of sea-armament,And bringing Ilion, in a dowry’s stead,Destruction — swiftly through the gates she went,Daring the undareable. But many a groan outbrokeFrom prophets of the House as thus they spoke.Woe, woe the House, the House and Rulers, — woeThe marriage-bed and dintsA husband’s love imprints!There she stands silent! meets no honour — noShame — sweetest still to see of things gone long ago!And, through desire of one across the main,A ghost will seem within the house to reign.And hateful to the husband is the graceOf well-shaped statues: from — in place of eyesThose blanks — all Aphrodite dies.But dream-appearing mournful fantasies —There they stand, bringing grace that’s vain.For vain ’t is, when brave things one seems to view;The fantasy has floated off, hands through;Gone, that appearance, — nowise left to creep, —On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep!Woes, then, in household and on hearth, are suchAs these—and woes surpassing these by much.But not these only: everywhere —For those who from the land