O Mothers of the Brazen Spear, And maidens, maidens, brides of shame, Troy is a smoke, a dying flame; Together we will weep for her: I call ye as a wide-wing'd bird Calleth the children of her fold, To cry, ah, not the cry men heard In Ilion, not the songs of old, That echoed when my hand was true On Priam's sceptre, and my feet Touched on the stone one signal beat, And out the dardan music rolled; And Troy's great Gods gave ear thereto.
"The Trojan Women of Euripides"
Euripides
Yea, twice hath the Sire Uplifted his hand and downcast it On the wall of the dardan, downcast it As a sword and as fire.
"The Trojan Women of Euripides"
Euripides
Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her store, And giving thousands, offer thousands more; Should dardan Priam, and his weeping dame, Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame: Their Hector on the pile they should not see.
"Journeys Through Bookland Volume Four"
Charles H. Sylvester
