"Ye cannot choose but crown with the life-blood streaming down

⁠Achilles' grave!" they clamoured—"and, for this Kassandra's bed,
Shall any dare prefer to Achilles' prowess her—⁠130
⁠A concubine, a bondslave?—It shall never be!" they said.

But the vehemence of speech, each contending against each,
⁠Was balanced, as it were, till the prater subtle-souled,
The man of honied tongue, the truckler to the throng,
⁠Laertes' spawn, 'gan fashion the host unto his mould:

"We may not thrust aside like an outcast wretch," he cried,
⁠"The bravest Danaan heart and the stoutest Danaan hand,
All to spare our hands the stain of the blood of bond-maid slain,
⁠Neither suffer that a voice from the ranks of them that stand

In the presence of Hell's Queen should with scoffing bitter-keen
⁠Cry, 'Thankless from the plains of Troy the Danaans have sped,⁠140
Thankless unto Danaan kin whose graves are thick therein,
⁠Who died to save their brethren—the soon -forgotten dead !'"

And Odysseus draweth near—even now shall he be here