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 thoseWhom any sent away, — he knows:And in the live man’s stead,Armour and ashes reachThe 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 grudgeAgainst the Atreidai who first sought the judge.But some there, round the rampart, haveIn 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,