Of Hellas issued in a band, Sorrow, the heart must bear, Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there. Many a circumstance, at least, Touches the very breast. For those Whom any sent away, — he knows: And in the live man’s stead, Armour and ashes reach The house of each.
 For Ares, gold-exchanger for the dead, And balance-holder in the fight o’ the spear, Due-weight from Ilion sends — What moves the tear on tear — A charred scrap to the friends: Filling with well-packed ashes every urn, For man — that was — the sole return. And they groan — praising much, the while, Now this man as experienced in the strife, Now that, fallen nobly on a slaughtered pile, Because of — not his own — another’s wife. But things there be, one barks, When no man harks: A surreptitious grief that’s grudge Against the Atreidai who first sought the judge. But some there, round the rampart, have In Ilian earth, each one his grave: All fair-formed as at birth, It hid them — what they have and hold — the hostile earth.
 And big with anger goes the city’s word,